Good Morning.

Well, we have reached that point in the Earth's orbit that we choose to call September 12. I am loathe to add to the navel-gazing that always happens at this time of year, but I cannot avoid it this time.


Two trolleys were hired yesterday to carry family members of 9-11 from a ceremony at the Massachusetts State House to a luncheon reception at the ritzy One Newbury hotel. In retrospect, I probably should have refused it, as you know I no longer choose to commemorate those events long ago.

As they boarded, I did make sure to salute each and every one as they came aboard. I talked to a few of them, and noted that I too have a connection. Two of my friends were there - one is a witness, and the other is a survivor. We paused and nodded in shared sorrow.

But one of my riders struck me. A very polished young gentleman - he looked to be in his early 20s. His mother noted that it was her husband and his father that was there - on the 99th floor, and did not come home that night. The young man was calm and reserved, but I would suppose that he never actually knew his father. He must have been very young at the time.

Nevertheless, we drove on, and immediately after I dropped them off, had to go and drive a tour. What a very strange thing. Somber and respectful one minute, and then less than five minutes later, I had to be on my tourist game. Rather jarring, to say the least.

I did a full tour today, which is themed as a "Time-Travel excursion through the history of Boston". At the end of the tour, I play a time-travel sound effect, and note that we have now returned to where we started, right here on SEPTEMBER 11. It felt odd, rolling off my tongue when I said it. I apologized to everyone and noted that I hope that today was not too traumatic for everyone.

After all of that, I suppose it is merely a stronger indication of the passage of time. Yesterday, Raine alluded to Pearl Harbor. Yes, this is our Pearl Harbor. But curiously - I look at my own father. Still alive and well, nearing the age of 90. Pops was a mere boy of 7 on December 7th 1941. He still remembers.

So shall we all until we draw our last breath.