I've mentioned before that September isn't my favorite month. It should be, because my birthday is in the middle of it, and it is a beautiful month weather-wise. Plus, there are a lot of other happy events in September. But for some reason, I've experienced a lot of bad things in September, and as a result, my birthday makes me apprehensive. It isn't aging. That's a minor concern.

There was a time when I could list off a bunch of reasons why September has been terrible, but over they years the minor irritations have been outnumbered by, and pale in comparison to, the really, really bad things that have happened. Then there are the good things in the month that have now changed to melancholy memories, including Mimmie's birthday, Aunt Jean's birthday, Rudy's birthday.

So I won't bother with the mundane and trivial September annoyances. And this isn't a comprehensive list, just some random thoughts. In 1982 a friend, Don, died the day before my birthday. Well, that's true to a point, but it wasn't an accident or an illness; he committed suicide. It took about five years for that to sink in and make any kind of sense. Now five years have passed since "the" 9/11. I still clearly remember that day; I suppose almost everyone does. At the time I was commuting to work and sometimes I worked from home. I was at home that day and still asleep when the planes hit. My mother called me after the second plane and said "terrorists have attacked New York City." I tried to get more information from her, but she said, "turn on your TV" and hung up.

I never watch daytime television, but I did turn it on, sat down on my coffee table directly in front of the TV and stayed there for hours, watching in shock. I think the TV was on CBS, and I didn't channel surf. I don't remember going downstairs to make coffee, go to the bathroom or let the dogs out. I know I did, but I came right back upstairs and sat down - again on the coffee table. I didn't move to a chair or couch for hours. I mention that because I never sit on the coffee table, we don't use it that way. Bob was in DC and I was unable to get though to him on the phone. He eventually called, much later in the day. It took him several days to get home because he couldn't find transportation back. I also remember my mother-in-law calling at some point that day to say that someone we knew who worked high up in one of the towers was missing. I thought at the time that of course he would be fine. That wound up not being true.

A week later was my 40th birthday. We went to Villa Valente for dinner and the place was like a morgue. It wasn't busy at all (usually it is packed, regardless of the day of the week) and everyone who was there was talking in whispers. Later, I asked my parents how long it would take to feel normal again?

I didn't have this ejournal at the time (I started it in March 2002) but I was writing in a notebook, and I did write something; true to form, it was a tribute to Sirius, the only dog to die in the WTC. It is posted here and I still get quite a few hits from the Port Authority Memorial Site.

Yesterday, I was thinking of another dog. My Howie. He died eleven years ago, September 10, 1995. He was 15. He died between 8 and 9 pm and that year it was a Sunday, just like in 2006. Murder, She Wrote was on television. Funny the things you remember. Here is the tribute I wrote about him, and there is a picture of Howie (and Penny, "his" poodle) there. He was Howzerdo, if you are wondering.

Next Sunday, Rudy would have been eleven years old. Rudy's birth date - at least the month and day - were the same as Don's death date. The following Monday, it will be a year since Mr. Wuj has been gone. I miss him terribly. In his honor, I have a tribute written to post on the main website. It will be my first update to the main GBP site in a long time.

And now for something unrelated and trite...tomorrow is primary day and the phone has been ringing nonstop with recorded pitches!!