The Wilcox Family Blog

My yaar Pankaj Verma sent me a link to this article this morning, which predicts that by 2015, 348,028 U.S. computer jobs will move “offshore.” This is a rather frightening prospect for those of us who have been burned by the dot-bomb crises of the past few years, although this report includes the comforting statistic that approximately 1,761,000 new jobs will open up in these areas by 2010.

While I’m on it, I still have two former co-workers who are looking for work after the big corporate “treatment” a year ago by [fomer employer’s name deleted]. These are both hard-working, highly-skilled, dedicated people, who, frankly, don’t deserve to have been unemployed as long as they have. Grrrrrrrrr.

When did supercede become a nonstandard word? I use Microsoft Word’s grammar checking, set to very strict use (I’m something of a purist), and it flagged supercede as being nonstandard. Have people really become that uneducated? The answer—obvious as it is—frightens me.

This is due to be posted on the Official Lord of the Rings site sometime today, but I managed to snag this one of many mirrors that is up. The Return of the King trailer (to download it, right-click on the link and choose Save Target As …).

Subject to change without notice: After a week of haggling, some interested buyers have made what is a reasonable offer on our house. This was unexpected, as the original offer was very low.

Now, of course, we face the home inspection, and, even more important, we need to find suitable housing in Nashua or Hudson. Keep praying.

[doug]It took me 2 hours and 15 minutes to get to work today. I didn't get past second gear until I had already passed Needham. Yesterday it was an hour and 45 minutes. Last week as another 1:45 trip. I guess I should be glad the ride home is only taking 1:15 to 1:30, typically, but even there the traffic has been unusually heavy. :: sigh :: It will be nice to live closer to work.

Personal background: Michael Frenchman is my “not-father” (an interesting title that I coined with a history of accusation, assumption, adoption, and eventual DNA test), a dear-but-distant friend to our family, and a videographer/producer/diver/etc. He and his wife, Karen, reside on West 27th Street, in New York City. Coincidence brought him very close to the tragedy, and his well-written perspective goes well beyond the sound bites we (especially today) are accustomed to hearing from NYC residents.

From: Michael Frenchman
Sent: Thursday, September 13, 2001 13:23
Subject: Where were you…

Sorry to have been out of touch in the last few days. We still can’t get long distance service and even email is sporadic.

Karen and I arose early on Tuesday morning, preparing to drive to the Staten Island car-ferry and another day working on our rental apartments there. We were running late and began to think we would miss the 8:45 boat. Our best route was straight down 7th Ave. to Vesey St. and then right a block to take the West Side Highway a few blocks further downtown to the ferry entrance at South Ferry. I suppose we turned onto Vesey Street at about 8:44 and onto the West Side Hwy at about 8:45. That corner is the northern base of the World Trade Center. We had the radio on. As we pulled into the ferry area, I heard one brief report that there had been an explosion at the WTC. Looking nearly straight up, we saw smoke and clouds of paper flying towards the east, to Brooklyn.

As soon as our car was loaded on board the ferry, we scrambled to the rear upper deck and watched in amazement as nasty gray-white smoke poured from the northwestern tower looming above us. Someone said they’d just heard that a twin-engine plane had hit the tower. Karen thought it might have been an accident—a small-plane pilot having a heart attack or some such and losing control. But I was convinced it was a deliberate act, by whom, I could only begin to guess.

A few other passengers joined us on that rear deck as the ferry pulled away from the terminal. The skies were crystal clear and blue. A foreign couple gazed in shocked amazement and tried to get a better look through the 25-cent binoculars. They offered us a peek. But the unaided view was clear enough from our close south side vantagepoint. We could see numerous plumes of smoke and tongues of flame pouring from broken out windows. We could not, of course, see the huge and gaping diagonal slash on the opposite north side of the building where the first plane had hit.

The ferry was perhaps a half-mile from the towers when we saw a silver and blue two-engine jetliner flying unusually low and slow up the harbor in-between us and the Statue of Liberty, passing less than a thousand feet to the west of our boat. People who often land at LaGuardia Airport know that the pilots frequently treat the passengers to a run up the Hudson River for a spectacular view of the city. The sentence was only half formed in my mind that the pilot of this jet must have been trying to see and show what was going on at the Trade Center when the actual trajectory of his course became frighteningly clear. As the plane banked slightly to its right, I said aloud “He’s going to hit it!” We stood fixed in horror for the 5 to 10 seconds it took for my prediction to be realized. Set against a perfectly clear and blue sky, our reality transformed into a wide screen movie as each frame presented a new millisecond of action: the jet angling for its final alignment, the glide of the now-irrevocable projectile, the counterclockwise-tilted plane disappearing into the building, a fractional moment of black gashed wall instantanously billowing out one-two-three conjoined black and orange balls of fire and debris, the slap of thunder three or four seconds after the impact.

“We’re under attack,” I said twice.

We watched as long as we could from the open deck until two police officers on board ushered everyone inside, I don’t know why except for some irrational and false sense of control in the midst of the surreal. We watched through the windows as all the other passengers gathered, some crying, some staring in disbelief, some talking excitedly on cell phones, many still all but oblivious to the event and unwitting as to it’s meaning. Karen and I touched the arm of a nearly frantic woman crying on her cell phone as if she were in communication with someone in the doomed buildings. There was nothing for us to say or comprehend.

Once off the ferry, we drove half wild to our apartments and sat with one of our tenants to watch the terrible drama unfold on TV just like the rest of the world. We are now somewhat like those hundreds of people who were in Daley Plaza in Dallas and had a glimpse of the Kennedy motorcade and those awful moments and who then watched that eternal frame replayed and replayed for the past forty years. Our actual memory: the sights, the unwarned, unformed reactions, the smells of the harbor, the brush of the breeze, the heat of the early morning sun, the murmur of the other passengers, the rumble of the ferry engines, the hand of Karen in mine, the raw surprise as the world tipped on a new and unexpected pathway. All this will now blend and merge into the TV images of others’ amateur video, of traffic-helicopter cameras and sky cams on network TV buildings uptown.

I remember that in the plaza in front of where the towers stood was/is a sculpture depicting two pyramids—an allusion to the notion that these structures would last as long as their antecedents at Giza. Like you, we watched them melt to the ground and blow like so much desert dust.

So that is where I was and what I saw on one of those days which we will all always remember. “Where were you when ….?”

Karen and I spent the rest of Tuesday alternating between the TV and our chores at the apartment. What else could we do? We spent the night with friends on Staten Island, obviously unable to return to a besieged and cut-off Manhattan.

By late afternoon yesterday (Weds.), enough access had opened into the City that we were able to wend our way across the Verrazano Bridge, up the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, past the prohibited Brooklyn, Manhattan and Williamsburg bridge entrances, onto the Long Island Expressway, past the “show your driver’s license” check point at the Midtown Tunnel and back into a quiet and subdued city. We have traveled a lot this summer. No time away has seemed as long as these 36 hours.

Thanks to everyone who called to see how we were. We were never in any real danger except during the moments we were driving below the base of the now-disappeared twin towers. We’ll never know what flaming debris may have fallen to the street yards behind our passing car. But our personal story is so many orders of magnitude less significant than that of the thousands dead and injured and directly traumatized and so picayune compared to the onrushing and unpredictable consequences of this ugly act that I even hesitate to retell it.

We hope you are all well and that some good ultimately comes out of this tragedy.

Love and peace,
Michael and Karen

This Is a bit dated, but yesterday’s post about David brought this to mind:

[david]From July 2002: All our children are big fans of J.R.R. Tolkien's works, but we hadn't realized what a large impact the recent DVD release of The Fellowship of the Ring had on our youngest son David, who is 3½ years old.

While supervising a group of children, one of our fellow church members asked him, “Are you thankful for the Lord?” He stopped what he was doing, looked up in careful contemplation, and then asked her, “The Lord of the Rings?”

[david]We have a policy of 1 hour of computer or video game time per day on weekdays for the kids (they get 2 hours on weekends), but they can earn extra time, which they sometimes do, by working on educational software or activities, such as typing for Isaac, writing for David, and Web design for John). One of David’s time-earning activities is to run the Virtual Fish Tank, an online version of the full-size exhibit (once part of the Computer Museum) at the Museum of Science in Boston. Last night he was watching me work (well, play Star Trek Voyager Elite Force II) on one machine, and asked me to call up the Virtual Fish Tank for him. He then said, “I can earn game time just by leaving this running—I don’t actually have to play it, right?” For a 4-year-old, he’s getting much too good at trying to “work the angles.”