The Ancestral Record
Uncle J crossed over about a week ago, during a big storm that knocked out the power. He’d spent the week prior tangled up in the veil, same as Uncle C had, and to save Aunt L the tiresome chore of reading texts out loud, I sent voice notes instead.
“It’s one of your favorite nieces,” I said one day, “the one who doesn’t want to claim lone-favorite status because the other candidate will put a foot up my ass for doing so, so: Sarah,” and I talked about nothing much and told Uncle J to rest.
“It’s your favorite niece,” I said the next day, and explained that Cousin D had ceded the title to me in exchange for my formally entering into the record the superiority of the Uncle C team in familial wiffleball contests. “This is me, doing that, because I still fear The Foot Of D.” I knew he’d be relieved we’d settled that, I said, and I talked about the weather and told him to rest.
“No need to respond,” I said the day after that, “but you know that sign on the factory floor of this family’s history, the Days Since A Lost-Time ‘Embittered Reference To Grandma Throwing Out The Baseball Cards’ Incident one? Well, I would say that I regret to inform you it was reset to zero earlier today, but I do not regret it one bit and neither does Dave Sr. What kind of super-villain gives a Robin Roberts rookie card to Goodwill, honestly. When you see Louise tell her that was bullshit. Love you, write if you get work.” Uncle J opened his eyes when Aunt L played that one. The next day, the rains rolled through, and when they left they took J along.
Moments later, we cousins believe, the roasting of my grandmother began on the other side – excuse me: “resumed,” not began; I can’t imagine Uncle C waited eight years to tease her about the baseball cards, the lima beans, watering the Cutty, “there are too many pillows nowadays, please eliminate three” crackpot ideas about sleep hygiene.
Of course it never stopped on our side, either; this is why I brought up the cards. Nobody actually cares about the actual cards. (Mostly.) We care about the story of the cards. Performative outrage about dishonoring the Whiz Kids is a family tradition, a reading of names, “A Visit from St. Nicholas.” It is a story we know and share, one we can all live in together as long as it’s still told. It can go on because we do.
Last winter, when Dave Sr. fell ill, when we thought he would pass through first, Uncle J and I told each other these stories and tried to laugh, about the cards and the Cutty, and of course The Ice-Skate Incident. And we told each other that Uncle C and C Sr. and Louise would watch over Dad.
At least one of us believed this; at least one of us, driving the same 30 snow-blasted miles from Brooklyn to Jersey every day, had to believe this, asked the ancestors to assemble, to protect Dave Sr., to give us strength and grace. To come back into the story with some sipping whiskey and keep the pipes from freezing until Dave Sr. got back to the house. Just one more baseball season, get him to spring training, give us another summer of exchanging Mets bloopers and “bunting: why the hell would you do that” headlines. Give me that. Give me more story.
I spend a lot of time thinking about narrative and grief, if a story aims to reflect the world or perfect it, and specifically in true crime – is this story a whodunnit or a whydunnit, a “what happened here” or a “why is ‘here’ the way it is, and how might we never return.” A lot of the genre is straightforward accounting, a chronological report of a case.
And a lot of it is mourning, which has no answer or uncomplicated end. A lot of books, crimoirs, with a murder at their “centers” have at their hearts something else – simple sorrow. “This is the story of my friend, that ended too soon”; “once upon a time, I had a brother, but now, I only have all the funny/dumb stuff he said.”
So, we tell all the stories we have, to fill the space left by the ones we didn’t get. We repeat them to each other, because they create the “we”s and sustain the “each other”s. We believe the ancestors remember how the stories go, know their parts, hear that anecdote about the Shibe Park bleacher bums inducting three gleefully scandalized Bryn Mawr boys into the Creative Curse Words Society, and fold their hands of cards and come out from the horizon to see what’s needed.
We wait for them, and we go on, with and without them.
And we assemble the candles for Don once more. That cake’s getting crowded, friend.
Tags: September 11th
You are still here, and so are we. I started reading you when I was a college kid, and now I’m middle-aged. How did that happen?
Thank you for this, and condolences on Uncle J. Happy birthday, Don.
I’m so sorry for your loss. My husband crossed three months ago; 25 years ago, we were just starting our life together. Your messages to your uncle reminded me, beautifully, of the conversations Tom and I had in the weeks prior to his passing, reminding each other of the joys and highlights of our years together. Those memories are precious, and get even more so as time passes.
Your family are in my thoughts. Happy Birthday, Don.
I come here every year on this day and every year I cry. Thank you, as always, for the lovely remembrance, Sarah. I’m so very sorry for everything your family has gone through in the last year and am sending strength and love to you and Dave Sr.
I also love that this community comes together again each year. This is the only place I go for commemoration. It is too hard to watch the specials, but here I just feel everyone’s love for each other, those who were lost and how our lives have all changed since that day. I can’t believe it has been 25 years.
Happy Birthday Don.
And I’m sorry for yours. May the stories remain in light. <3
Stopping in at this place once again and seeing your familiar names is a comfort when comfort is sorely needed. I’m a little older, a little sadder, and not any wiser. Still here, though, and grateful for that.
My condolences, Sarah, and love to you always. Happy birthday, Don.
Thank you, once more, as ever good soul Ms. Sars.
Condolences to you and yours – such chaotic times.
That you also share such gifts – such hope, kindness, love. All of my gratitude, dear stranger.
Cheers good soul Don – you both have helped so many, so much.
ciao, from durhamtown
Scott
Thank you, Sars. This is my quiet place every year, where I remember “before” and wonder about “now.” Twenty-five years…
Thinking of you and your family and wishing you comfort. Thinking of Don and wishing him a happy birthday.
Thank you so much Sarah. a tip o’whiskey for Uncle J, Don, you for doing this, and the version of our country we lost that day.
Thank you, Sars. I always think of you on September 11. I remember reading your account of the day itself all those years ago. You have my condolences on your recent family losses.
Happy Birthday, Don.
As someone else mentioned, it’s also been half of my life since these events, which seems impossible… though here we are. Knowing how everything changed that day, in ways we could feel but not yet comprehend, was so frightening. But through that fear, and the subsequent realities that came from it, coming back to this space over all these years continues to be a great source of comfort. Thank you, Sars, for keeping the window open, and for continuing to share your grief and triumph with us – and as always, Happy Birthday Don.
Heather
Thank you, Sars. Poignant and precious as always.
Happy birthday, Don.
(Replace the family baseball references for soccer and are you SURE we’re not related?)
Beautiful, as ever. Happy Birthday, Don.
When we married 30 years ago, it was the start of a series of 5 years containing 4 funerals and wedding each year. That cycle of more deaths than beginnings comes around every decade or so, reminding us to find comfort in sharing.
I’m sorry to hear about your uncles – cliche but heartfelt.
My social feed is full of stories I didn’t recall – the immense boat lift, the guys that clean the memorial pool at night, Lucky and Sass, Betty Ong, CeeCee Lyles – that I hope the too young can hear and see and feel empathy for those whose life is before and after that day.
Happy birthday Don.
Every year, I make my way back. To read what you’ve written, to share in our collective grief, and to wish Don a happy birthday.
My family and I were just talking about how among the various grandchildren, only one was born before 9/11. And he was only about a year old when it happened. His younger siblings and cousins were all born in a post-9/11 world (ages 23 to baby). And it’s sometimes hard for all of us to articulate to them just how different a pre-9/11 world was, especially since us “oldesters” all have different perspectives. I was about 18 when 9/11 happened whereas my older siblings were either finishing grad school and getting engaged, or married and raising an infant. My parents were in their 50s. My younger sibling was a pre-teen. So we all have a different POV about “the way things were” and I can’t imagine how disjointing that would be for anyone born after 2001. My nieces and nephews have no concept of a world *before* the Patriot Act, TSA regulations about the volume of liquid toiletries in your carry-on, etc.
I can’t remember exactly when I first discovered these annual essays but I started reading Tomato Nation itself way back in 2004 or so. I go back and forth on whether Don might have been some type of guardian angel or just a regular guy.
I feel like this has gotten too rambly so I’ll shut up now. Thank you for keeping up this tradition. Who knows what the world will be like when the 50th anniversary rolls around?
Hello Sarah,
Thinking of you and Don (happy birthday!) today.
?
I can’t cry right now because I’m a 47-year-old lady in the student lounge of a college music department, having newly gone back to school in an effort to do something I don’t hate with my life, but this is beautiful and so welcome, today and all the other anniversaries. The students around me, almost to a person, have never lived in a world where this hadn’t happened yet; they have no before, it’s just their normal, and I want to cry about that too. I wonder what it’s like for them to go to the campus commemoration today, what it’s like for the memory to be purely about other people instead of where you were, and whose stories of that day and of loss are closest to you, and how much the world was shattered before 10:30 on a sunny morning. I still wish we’d found Don. And I’m so sorry for your loss and your dad’s illness.
Happy birthday, Don. Hope you’re well wherever you are. Thank you again for walking Sarah home.
Thank you, Sarah.
I’m so sorry for your loss Sarah.
Happy Birthday wherever you are Don.
I’m grateful I’m still here and you are too. Happy Birthday Don.
We carry on, and on, and on somehow. There was something about this being 25 years that hit me particularly hard year, maybe the reality of the passing of time, the anger at the state of the world we live in now, all of it? How is it possible I read the first of these sitting in a college dorm room? How am I now the mom of a 13 year old, who was a literal fetus when you chatted with me about the Tigers? Why did it hit me this year specifically that I haven’t even asked her how much she’s learned about 9/11 in school, because in my brain how could anyone NOT know everything about it, when I have such vivid memories from that day?
A growing crowd of birthday candles on Don’s cake, indeed! And let’s just not talk about the Tigers this year.
Much love to you, Bunting.
Happy birthday, Don.
Thank you, Sars and Tomato Nation family, for being here every year. There are so many beautiful words in Sarah’s post and all the comments.
Sarah, I’m so sorry for your family’s recent loss.
Happy Birthday, Don.
25 years. So many “befores’ and “afters’ have come since then, but this is the hub the entire wheel pivots around.
Happy Birthday, Don, and thank you Sars.
I’ve been reading these columns for 25 years (and TN before that), and we still have old TN magnets on our refrigerator that are probably over 20 years old. It’s been a long time, is what I’m saying.
I come back every year and whisper a happy birthday to Don and a grateful thought for you making it out of there (along with my friends who were nearby), I tear up a little, and I move on until the next year.
I don’t know why, but this was the one that made me sob.
Condolences to your family on the loss of Uncle J. Thank you for reminding me of the importance of the stories.
Happy birthday, Don.
Until next year.
Thank you Sarah.
Every year.
Happy Birthday Don
My 25th year checking in, too. Happy birthday, Don.
The friend I was with on 9/11 and I had a falling out sometime back in our late 20’s and picked back up when Facebook became popular.
Every year I read Sars’ yearly tribute, re-read her original post, and message Melanie about our memories of the day.
Melanie died from breast cancer in 2023, and I think of her more today than on her actual birthday.
Please never stop writing these. Thanks, Sars.
Here, always, with a nod and a raised glass to this community you’ve made, Sarah. How can it be half our lives, give or take, that we’ve spent on the other side of this? It’s a minute; it’s a thousand years; it’s right over there, let me go get it.
My condolences to you on your uncle’s passing, Sarah. I’m glad your dad rallied; we coaxed my mom out of some grim health drama this January with similar exhortations about the Mariners…and, well, you can see how that’s going. Entirely as expected, for Mariners, really.
Love to everyone here, as ever, and happy birthday, Don.
This is my only ritual on 9/11; come read the new words. Revisit some past words. Cry a little. Remember, remember, remember.
So sorry for your loss. Thank you for the words, once again. And as always, happy birthday, Don.
25 years feels unreal. I always make sure to visit each year to read your latest post, reread your memory of that day, and say hi.
This essay brought back memories of those I’ve lost recently, our old inside jokes, and how I still find myself cracking wise to my folks currently residing on the mantle.
Thank you for continuing to hold this space for us, Sarah. Condolences on the loss of your Uncle J.
Happy Birthday, Don.
Oh, “cracking wise to the black-and-whites” is a practice of some standing in our family. xo
Many condolences on your loss, Sars. Beautiful and evocative piece of writing as always.
Checking in as I do every year as I have done for the past (how has it been so many?) 25.
All my best to you and yours and to every commenter and lurker here.
Happy birthday, Don.
Happy Birthday Don. Thank you Sars.
I’m not crying, you’re crying.
I’m sorry for your loss, Sars. Thanks for this, as always.
Happy Birthday, Don.
Happy birthday, Don.
We’re not getting any younger, both my folks have gone since last year. Bless you, Sars, and all of us with our losses and remembrance. Be safe, be well! Xo
Happy birthday, Don.
Before and after, and community and time and reflection, growth and birth and passages beyond the veil…marking the birthdays, especially Don’s, with your words and this group gives the unruliness of everything a grounding that I value in ways I can’t express. Hi, all. Thanks, Sarah. Happy birthday, Don.
I had to come back to report that I got to see several failed bunts tonight (including one on a 3-1 count), but one of the erstwhile Bunting-ers would up swinging away and getting an RBI single. I don’t know what that Means, but I thought of you every time someone squared up.
I struggled reading the memorials and watching footage today. How can it be so long ago and still so very present?
Thankful for this space and for the community we’ve all shared here.
Happy birthday, Don.
I used to think that maybe Don really was a real guy trapped in the same crazy hell as everyone else that day. Perhaps he was. Probably, he was.
But a few years ago, my husband had a very serious bicycle accident on a random NJ back road. As we waited on the phone with 911 for the ambulance to arrive, an SUV with NY plates pulled up and a nurse hopped out with her go-bag and helped keep my husband stable while I dissociated or whatever I ended up doing for those endless minutes.
She said her name was Jen and as a nurse, she always traveled with a go-bag and she wouldn’t give me any contact information aside from her first name, because I’d asked her address so I could open an Edible Arrangements franchise on her front lawn as a thank-you. We found out later that she did give a statement to the police who arrived shortly thereafter but I’ve never asked them about it.
My bestie – who, along with her husband – was with us that day and asked me later: what are the chances that an honest-to-God nurse just *happened* to be driving down this New Jersey back road during Labor Day weekend at the exact time we needed a medical professional? What are the chances of that?
I’m not “spiritual” and I don’t really believe in things I can’t see/touch/taste/whathaveyou, but I’m 100% convinced Nurse Jen was *sent* to us.
And maybe Don was, too.
Happy Birthday, Don.
I vividly remember watching the 2nd plane hit on TV. Standing in my living room with my mouth literally agape.
I remember reading “For Thou Art With Us” for the first time. I’ve always remembered the shirt cuff that floated down.
I come back here every year, like so many of us do. Thank you, Sars, for giving us all you have, including each other. My condolences on your recent losses.
Happy Birthday, Don.
Love to all.
Thank you as always Sars. Your writing is so beautiful and it’s my tradition first thing every year. I can’t believe it’s been 25 years of reading them.
My condolences to you and your family at this time.
Happy Birthday Don.
Every year I come here to walk with you on whatever journey you have crafted for us. This year feels particularly poignant. A quarter century gone by. Every year I wonder how Don has never found his way here, and wonder whether he is still with us. This year I wish a peaceful passage on to the next adventure for your uncle, and still wonder where Don might be. Thank you for always holding this space for Don and for all of us.
Happy Birthday Don.
Thank you Sars, I remember reading this the day you published it 25 years ago. I reread it every year because that day is still in me. And because I still hope you and Don find each other again on a September day.
So mad at myself for not taking a few minutes yesterday. But hey, 25 years is a long time and sometimes you mess up. Just beautiful as always, and HBD Don.
As usual, I was up until “the wee sma’s” Friday night, and although I had managed to avoid any TV “news,” I did reminisce a bit about where I was 25 years ago. I finally got to sleep yesterday around 6:30 am but felt frazzled and uneasy most of the day.
And only 20 minutes ago I figured out why: I had neglected to come HERE, wave to all of you, and wish Don a happy birthday. Sars, thank you for keeping this place for us to just be with each other, and to remember what we wish we could forget. My condolences to you and your family, and my love to all who know that Sarah D. Bunting will have written something that will bring us back again next year, and the next, and the next. God bless us, every one.
The power we’ve enacted in this ritual of yearly gathering amazes me every time. There are names of folks I’ll never meet, but that I recognize from 25 years of being here together. I’m glad to see you all still.
Condolences, Sars. My heart is with your family.
Happy birthday Don, wherever you are.
Happy birthday, Don. I read this on the 11th and my own whirlwind of life swept me away before I left a comment. I’m at the age where I have an even split of life before that day and life after that day, and I am comforted to know that we’re still here reading Sarah’s site and hopefully we’ll do the same thing together again as our collective years click on.
It’s nice to see us all here again.