What a day!

This trip took us to Northern Illinois, not far from the Wisconsin border. The 1962 Chris-Craft Holiday we were chasing turned out to be in worse condition than expected. A complete trailer overhaul was necessary preparation for the high-speed 1,400 mile return to South Florida. That meant an extra day added to the journey, which Lee and I could ill afford. Just the same, our safety and the safety of every car we passed was at stake.

Wednesday morning broke cool and clear. The breeze was brisk as we hopped into the big Ford dually and headed for the trailer shop. Running on precious little sleep and our minds filled with “what ifs,” there was no idle chatter as we made our way through the little village.

The shop owner understood the importance of a first rate job. He definitely didn’t want an afternoon distress call from Mid-Kentucky. They were finishing up as we arrived. Bearings were repacked. Wiring was replaced. Assorted and sundry connectors were tested, repaired, or replaced. We were ready to go. If there was any question about the extent of his effort, the invoice put it to rest. Everything was precisely recorded along with the time it took to install. Time would confirm without a doubt that the money was well spent.

We rode the wave of rush hour traffic that was making its way into Chicago but broke away just before the city limits as we turned south toward Indianapolis. I-65 traces a nearly straight path through fields of grain. The wide-open expanses are broken only by the occasional overpass.

Overpasses. Dozens of them. We see them all the time, but these were different. They were crowded with people, people who were jumping up and down and waving to the motorists speeding by below. They had flags. American Flags. They were waving American Flags, waving, and cheering. They were cheering, and we could hear them. The first thought we had was a question. What made this Wednesday so special for so many people?

When we turned on the radio, the stations were playing patriotic music: Lee Greenwood, Toby Keith, Neil Diamond, and the list went on. When the reality finally sunk in, Lee and I were both deeply humbled. It wasn’t the day of the week. It was the day of the month. The American heartland had risen on September 11, 2002, with only one thought: to vigorously profess its love for our country. That was the only way to honor the memory of those who had lost their lives one year earlier.

Throughout the countryside of Indiana, Kentucky, and Tennessee, we were greeted by equally moving expressions of patriotism. Our country shared a fervor that was beautiful to behold. May we never forget the terrible tragedy, but may we also remember the emotions that were stirred in our souls.