SHANKSVILLE, Pennsylvania — Within moments after Flight 93 hit the ground here 21 years ago, locals, some on foot, others on tractors, and some on ATVs, dropped everything they were doing and hurried to the scene to see how they could help.
To their great horror, all they found was a crater in the field near the edge of the trees spanning 30 feet in both directions still smoldering from the impact.
Within six days, bales of hay were laid down at the reclaimed coal mine to create a base for a makeshift memorial for the family members who were brought here to honor the bravery of the 44 lives who were cut short when terrorists hijacked their plane, ultimately crashing into the rolling hills here in Somerset County.
There were over 200 family members transported from nearby Seven Springs Resort who piled into six coach buses. Most of the town of 200 or so stopped and lined the streets in respect for their loss as they arrived.
Someone, perhaps it was one of the state troopers, had placed an American flag on a poll at the site. It billowed at half-staff as they exited the buses.
When they left the site, they did not leave empty-handed. A local church had made each family angels to take with them.
Yet it was what those family members left behind on that unassuming bed of dirt and hay along the slopped hill overlooking the crash site that opened the door for people across the country, as well as people from across the country, to mourn along with them.
And for a moment in time, this place became profound, a symbol, really, of the heart and caring of a country at odds with the horror that happened here as well as at the World Trade Centers in New York and the Pentagon in Washington.
As each family stood at the makeshift memorial, they left a part of their loved ones at the spot where they were taken so horridly. There were family photos, flowers, someone’s favorite teddy bear, a bag of M&Ms, and the flight jacket of one of the crew members.
People watching this moment still grappling with the tragedy found themselves wanting to do something, anything, not just to honor them, not just to thank them for likely saving the U.S. Capitol, but also to connect with them in a way they thought was meaningful, so they started coming here as well.
Within days, people came. They left heartfelt notes, cards, flowers, American flags, pennies, crosses, soccer shirts, prayer books, rosary beads, and leather jackets. If it was meaningful to them, they wanted to share it. Soon, locals started a volunteer system that cared for the site.
And they too left part of themselves here.
The hay memorial soon became a chain-link fence memorial as well as a white-washed plywood memorial; each bracket of the fence was showered with trinkets of thanks. Each inch of the plywood held the grief and gratitude of people who had traveled there and wanted to express something, anything to make sense of what happened here.
I remember distinctly the “SEA YA” license plate from Hawaii, the homemade “Let’s Roll” signs, the high school football teams who would leave the jerseys from the entire team hanging on a fence already draped in American flags, and the Amish who would pull up in their buggies to offer a quiet prayer.
Some would come and sing a hymn. Scout groups came and said the Pledge of Allegiance. On more than several occasions, a bagpiper would stand off in the distance and the melodies of the lonely pipes would bring people to their knees.
They came in the thousands here to this old mountain. They came in the heavy heat of Appalachian summers. They braved the deep snows and gusting winds of Somerset County’s notorious winters. They just kept coming, and they always followed the lead of the families and left a part of them with the mountain to thank them, to pray for them, to pray for our country.
Before they built the Flight 93 National Park here, the locals would open up their homes with glasses of water and the use of their bathrooms.
It was and remains the best of America here.
It is hard to imagine that I’ve been coming here for 21 years. It is equally hard to imagine that God-willing, I won’t continue to come here for the next 21 years. There has never been a time I have not been brought to my knees in prayers and grief. I doubt there never will be.
For many of us, the thunder on this mountain that day is forever etched into part of who I am. I’m not sure what happened to the keepsake my children and I left here the day we came in 2001. It doesn’t matter, really. It was what we needed to do.
Despite the divisional and hateful tone of our national politics, people far from the walls of Washington still need to be part of something bigger than ourselves. Terrorists didn’t break that in us 21 years ago. Politics won’t either.
