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EDITOR'S NOTE: Doug Smith is retiring June 5. This is the 17th in a series of his most requested columns. This encore column first ran in the Observer on Saturday, September 15, 2001. Numerous readers said it reminded them of what's precious in their lives.
This is Saturday, the first day of my weekend off, the fourth day after the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center ripped apart our world.
My work, thankfully, has kept the adrenaline flowing and my mind occupied.
Now what do I do? I've made a plan. Perhaps you have, too. Here's mine: I'm not going to let the terrorists win. I'm going to live this day as I would any other Saturday.
Around 7 a.m. the sun will peek through my bedroom blinds, and I'll try, to no avail, to ignore it. I'll get up, turn on the coffee pot, bring in the newspaper, put on my workout clothes, climb on the treadmill, turn on the TV and try to do four things at once: walk fast, read the paper, watch the news and drink coffee.
Sometimes I get the coffee; sometimes the coffee gets me. Fresh T-shirts are on standby. After the workout, I'll eat a bowl of cereal with a sliced banana, shave and shower and rush out the kitchen door for an appointment with my barber, Patrick Carosa.
The attack is certain to be the chief topic of conversation. Patrick and I will remember how it was with our generation, when Americans were eager to serve their country and willing to die for freedom.
And then we'll hash out our ideas for retaliation. President Bush would do well to have an envoy present. I'll drive home, help my wife, Linda, with the grocery shopping, eat a sandwich, grab a 20-minute nap if I'm lucky and check the chore list.
Top priority today: replanting the back-yard grass destroyed by the summer dry spell. I'll rake the leaves, spread the seed and get some dirt under my fingernails.
I won't mind a bit. It will be my yard, my grass, my dirt, my little piece of my country, America. This could be the toughest thing I do all day. My hands will be occupied but not my mind. I'll be grieving for the thousands who perished, the poor unfortunate people who will never go home, will never again have this opportunity.
Those thoughts will vanish - quickly - when Amber, my 2 1/2-year-old granddaughter, arrives late in the afternoon to spend the night.
She'll scatter blocks, toys and baby dolls all over the house. She and Linda will drag out her toy tea set and have a party at Amber's little table in the kitchen. (Uh-oh, there go my gingersnaps.)
Before the evening is over we'll watch a Barney video, probably more than once. I'll avoid turning on any TV news shows. Amber is very alert. I won't be the one who destroys her innocence.
Pretty soon, bath time will arrive, and Amber will call me to the tub to see how she ducks her head under water. She will put on her pajamas and find Bobbie, her stuffed doll. I'll hook up the baby monitor, and we'll tuck her in. She's lucky. When she closes her eyes, she won't see crying people and burning buildings. As soon as she's asleep, Linda and I will collapse into bed. But my ears will stay tuned to the baby monitor. And my head will pop up every time I hear a whimper.
Just another dull Saturday in Charlotte. Thank God I had the chance to live it.
