The Day We Came to Town - A Love Letter to the People of Gander, Newfoundland

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The Day We Came to Town:
A Love Letter to the People of Gander, Newfoundland
by Lisa Woerly, Columnist

"Occam's Razor"

September 11, 2003

TAP EXCLUSIVE!!

Lisa Woerly The taxi dropped me off at Charles de Gaulle airport on September 11, 2001.

My driver, a talkative grandfatherly type with lively blue eyes and short gray hair, had chattered to me during the entire drive out of Paris that cool September morning. He told me about his family and how his daughter had lived in America for several years. I did my best to keep up with his rapid-fire French while I watched the city blur into the suburbs as we headed to the airport.

He placed my luggage on the curb and grasped both of my hands in his. “Au revoir, Madam. Vous avez un bon voyage!”

All things considered, it did turn out to be a good trip.

My TWA flight to St Louis was only half full. Three older gentlemen took their seats across the isle from me. We taxied down the runway, lifted off, and climbed higher and higher. France was disappearing before my eyes; I wanted the plane to return. I wasn’t ready to leave yet. I resigned myself to going home and settled in for some much-needed sleep.

About four hours into the flight the captain came on the intercom. “There’s been a major accident in New York City. U.S. airspace is closed. I’ll update you as soon as I know more.” The intercom clicked off. No crackling static. Just silence.

We looked around at each other, confused. An “accident” would not cause U.S. airspace to close. We knew it was something far more serious.

The captain came back on a few minutes later. “We have been instructed to land in Gander. We should be there in about an hour.” I had never heard of Gander. The three older gentlemen sitting near me had to tell me where it was.

Before landing in Gander, we were informed two planes had flown into both towers of the World Trade Center. We didn’t know yet about the Pentagon or the field in Pennsylvania.

The jet touched down a little over an hour later and rolled to a stop. All I could see out of my window was a field and trees in the distance. Looking out the other side didn’t give me much better of a view—all I saw was the terminal. Over a dozen planes had already landed, but I didn’t even know they were there and that more were coming. We didn’t know when we would be allowed off the plane, but we guessed it would be a couple of hours. A couple of hours eventually turned into eighteen. Several of us walked up and down the isles, too nervous and uncertain to sit. Throughout that day and night, a small group of us would gather in the galley to drink coffee. Sometimes we mumbled questions or comments to each other, but mostly we collectively hung our heads and stared silently at the floor.

We obsessively watched CNN on Wednesday morning, September 12th—the morning we were finally allowed off the plane and driven to the Masonic Lodge
in Gander. Watching the second plane hit the tower over and over again became a Surrealist nightmare. I finally stopped watching it after it dawned on me that the five-hundredth viewing was no longer affecting me—that emotional numbness is something I don’t want to experience again. It felt like a slap in the face to everyone who had just died hours earlier.

I found myself wandering the streets, not sure what I was looking for but knowing it felt better to walk. The three older gentlemen on my flight walked too, and we soon found ourselves together. They watched over me, and we began taking meals together as a foursome. In the evenings, we’d sit together, talking over cocktails. Sometimes I’d go off by myself, and I’d look in the eyes of the other passengers I passed on the streets. Most of us had dazed faces; our eyes were heavy and tired, and our faces were drained of color.

Sometimes I’d sit outside the Masonic Lodge with my fellow passengers, and we’d talk to the men and women who took care of us. They told us stories of their history and their lives, and the one thing that kept coming through to me as I listened to old-timers recall Gander’s international military history and young mothers inform us that they saw no need to lock their doors at night was their collective strength. When one was down, all stepped forward to lend a helping hand. It shocked me a little. That strong sense of community has disappeared for many Americans, so it was somewhat foreign to me to experience what it felt like to have strangers gather to help without asking for anything in return.

The city of Gander stopped everything to take care of the thousands of us who showed up at their collective front door without calling first. The bus drivers came off strike to drive us to our temporary shelters, grandmothers baked hundreds of cakes and pies, and the schools shut down temporarily so even the children could pitch in and help where they could. The great people at the Masonic Lodge fed everyone on my flight three meals a day, and they even opened their homes for us so we could take showers. Toiletries, towels, and clothing were collected for us. It was an outpouring of love and caring on such a massive scale I had never witnessed before. It was solidarity of the human spirit and selfless acts. These people thought only of our comfort and well being. The American spirit had been temporarily trampled on, but Gander proved that the human spirit flew as strong as ever. We offered them all the money we could collect as a “thank you” and told them to do something nice for the children of Gander with it. The collection basket looked like the United Nations—every currency imaginable was in it. It was the least we could do.

We finally said good-bye the morning of Friday, September 14, 2001. Boarding our plane felt like sweet heaven, because I knew I was one step closer to reaching home. I turned my head to look out the window as we taxied down the Gander runway, and I began to cry. I thought of all the people who had lost their lives, but I also thought of all the people who had just stopped their lives to care for us. We all need to search for beauty in the face of tragedy. I found my beauty in the faces of Gander’s citizens.

I love you, Gander. I apologize for dropping in unannounced two years ago. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about each and every one of you. We are strangers no more. I wish you peace, safety, and happiness. Life is good, and you reaffirmed that for me. When the chips are down, there are people in this world ready and willing to step forward. I am proud to call you my neighbors, and I am even more proud to call you my friends. ***

Photo of Lisa Woerly courtesy of staff files