“I woke up that morning and looked out my window. It was unreal. My backyard was filled with pink elephants and polka dotted alligators. It was Carnival time.”
–Fr. Ashley Harrington, O.Carm.
Fr. Ashley Harrington, O.Carm.
The carnies had set up all the rides and booths and we were ready to begin that night, Tuesday, September 11, 2001. The deliveries were beginning to arrive– sausages, hamburgers, onions and peppers, and rolls–food enough to feed five nights of hungry and happy carnival goers. The weather was gorgeous. It was going to be a successful night. Pray the whole week would be as good.
After Mass the phone rang. It was one of the parishioners calling from New York. She said the strangest thing – “A plane crashed into one of the Twin Towers. I’m sitting in my office just down the street.” I understood each word she said, but collectively the words didn’t make any sense. I recalled an old picture of a small propeller plane crashing into the Empire State Building in the ’40s. I simply said, “Get out of there. Get your pocketbook and head for the East River.”
I immediately turned on the television and there it was. A huge hole burnt into the Tower. I remember thinking, ‘How will they ever repair that?’ Then I heard “possible attack!” Was that possible? Then the second plane hit and I knew with absolute certainty that we were under attack. And what more could happen? Next Washington, the Pentagon, Pennsylvania . . . What would this day bring?
I suddenly realized that school was a concern. How many of the children would have parents over in the city? How many would be affected by this crisis? Shouldn’t they be with their parents? What if our side of the River was also going to be attacked? I rushed over to Fran Orefice’s office. She was trying to set up a television in her office. But with cable, the old-fashion means of getting a picture no longer worked. A radio had to do. Fran and I talked. Would we tell the children? Would they panic? Better, we decided, if parents came and took the children home. The teachers were all informed and they were heroic. They calmly conducted classes. As parents arrived we called the children down to go home. Soon the other children realized something awful had happened. The classes were slowly emptying. One mother was crying in the corridor. I was stern. “Please—the children will see you. Come in the office and cry.” She apologized and came in. I later found out that her husband was over in the city.
Each mother was worried about someone—a husband, sister, father, uncle, neighbor or cousin. Some were at the Trade Center and some in the area. Few could be contacted because of the telephone tie-up.
More news, more pictures of horror.
I waited in the office, greeting the parents. I noticed as they left only two mothers brought their children into church for a prayer. How strange.
By noon the school was empty. The phone kept ringing. “Pray for so and so.” “We can’t contact him.” “Is the church open?” “Are we going to have the carnival tonight?” “What about tomorrow?”
I knew one thing. There would be no carnival that night. As time went on I doubted whether the pink elephants would fly at all that week. People came to pray. Shocked, we waited and watched.
It was a long day, as were Wednesday and Thursday. Little by little the news came. “My nephew got home.” “Bob was at a friend’s house.” “Alice walked all the way up to the GW Bridge and crossed over on foot.” “Julie ended up in Connecticut.” “We still hadn’t heard from Robert.” Tension, stress, fear.
I made the decision—no carnival this year. Some people thought it would be better for the children to get their minds off of all the tragedies. I just thought of the children who were still waiting to hear from their fathers. What would we be saying to them by having a carnival?
Parishioners came to me asking, “If we’re not having a carnival, could we cook the food and send it over to the rescue workers at Ground Zero?” And that’s what happened to all the carnival food. Our parishioners showed up, cooked and wrapped the food and loaded the vans. A police escort led them through the tunnel and down the streets of lower Manhattan. People along the roads cheered and applauded them. The workers embraced their gifts. I knew that this carnival had become the most meaningful one we ever didn’t have.
Friday was a national day of mourning. We decided to have a Mass that evening. There was no time for announcing the service except by word of mouth. The church was packed. The mood was the most solemn I had ever experienced. One could feel the depth of emotion among the people. The music and prayers, and unity of community, was just what everyone needed. At the prayer of the faithful we remembered all those who were still missing. I invited anyone who wished to stand up and call out the name of someone they knew who was missing. Ten names, then twenty, thirty, forty, fifty. The shear number of names was stunning. Some people called out one name, some two or three. One man spoke the ten or fifteen names of his coworkers who were missing. He had them memorized and his voice quivered with each new name. From the chair I could see the congregation’s faces. Sorrow and pain was etched deeply into each one.
At the Our Father everyone prayed as one family. All held hands and, stepping into the aisles, linked row after row. Two young women with their children came to the front of the altar with me, and all of us held hands. Their husbands were still missing. One man was at his first day of work at the Trade Center. Hugging each other we all prayed to our Father in Heaven. We prayed to be delivered from all harm and to be granted peace. The oft-said words took on profound meaning that night. One by one the congregation received the Eucharist. When all is said and done we can do nothing but surrender to the Lord and let Him protect us.
After Communion we sang a prayer. The lights were turned off, each person held a lit candle. We sang
God Bless America. Someone raised his candle. It was like the torch of liberty in New York harbor. One by one each person raised his or her candle. America the Beautiful was sung. I have never felt such oneness in a church. That night we knew who we were. We were believing, American Catholics. And we were one.
—Fr. Ashley Harrington
Source: We Remember September 11, 2001: Remembrances from Parishioners of Our Lady of Mt. Carmel, Tenafly, N.J. December, 2003