I was in Chicago the week of 9/11 for the Print '01 worldwide commercial printing convention, staying at the Conrad Hilton on Michigan Avenue. My magazine, Graphic Arts Monthly, where I was one of its two Associate Editors, was responsible for the "Print '01 Daily" newspaper read each morning by anyone attending the event. I was in charge of covering "big news" from the show and writing it up on-the-spot inside our newsroom set up at McCormick Place.
When I found out that a plane had hit one of the towers at the World Trade Center, I was in my bathing suit on the elevator going up to the glorious old gigantic indoor pool at this luxurious high-rise hotel overlooking Lake Michigan, where the Hilton empire began.
The elevator door opened and a man, sweaty from using the gym, a towel wrapped around his neck, said in a somber tone, and I remember it like it was yesterday, "Have you seen this?" He pointed to the TV monitor inside the elevator that I hadn't been paying any attention to (I was so looking forward to getting up early enough to use this pool--before showering, putting on a dress, high heels, pantyhose, makeup, etc., for my day at McCormick--that I even skipped a huge party the night before, put on by a major worldwide printing equipment manufacturer at the House of Blues on Dearborn Street, where everything was free, including a Cajun/Creole buffet).
I thought, "I better go right back to my room and call people I know who are at my office," which was on Hudson Street only blocks from the World Trade Center; in fact, our conference room overlooked the towers from the Hudson River if you were near its windows.
All I remember from then on was sitting glued to the TV on the edge of my hotel-room bed, having been unsuccessful in getting any calls out on my room phone.
I remember like it was yesterday, praying to God at the bottom of this king-sized luxury bed, "I get it now. I'm going to get on with it. I want to dedicate my life to you and giving out the truth to others."
To jump forward, my dad died the next month from an undetected aneurism after he fell and broke his hip inside my childhood home where he had been "bacheloring it" for several years after my mom divorced him.
I remember praying to God upon learning of his sudden death (I had just spoken to him on the phone in his hospital room the night before, knowing he was scheduled for hip surgery at 8 a.m., even saying as my last words to him, "I'll pray for you, Daddy," to which he responded, "Do that"), "Okay, I get it! I'm ready. I will give you my life."
My dad died in October and in January I was on the verge of taking a business trip to London for the magazine. I got ready for the trip by looking up stuff about what places to visit, including pubs and fish and chips shops, etc.
But, get this, I went jogging on a Sunday morning, only a few days before my upcoming flight, and slipped on black ice from an unsalted sidewalk outside a chain grocery store on Eighth Avenue. I severely broke my wrist and was scheduled for surgery the same day I was to leave for London!
I quit my job in November of 2002, telling my bosses that I was going to write about the Bible!!! I can only imagine the inner thoughts they had, but they were as understanding as you would want and even kept up with me after I'd been gone over a year.
In fact, one of my top bosses, and the longtime editor-in-chief of my magazine, Roger Ynostroza, stayed with me overnight, by necessity, in my little Hell's Kitchen studio apartment (48th and 10th) when, on a sizzling hot afternoon in 2003 (August 14 to be exact) New York City had a full-blown BLACKOUT (lasting up to 24 hours for some parts of Manhattan) and he had no way to get to his home in New Jersey and called me!!!
Here we are in 2024, and, well, now, just today, I have decided to quit my job with the intention of finishing my book about the Bible--the same exact book I have been talking about writing almost to the day of quitting my job in Manhattan.
And what's the reason? I believe we are going to have another 9/11 very soon and it will be far worse than the first one.
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