Sandy Hook School

I hear the constant drone of helicopters overhead. Twenty-six hours after the madman stormed into Sandy Hook Elementary School and brought grief to the face of our sleepy town, helicopters loom over our normally peaceful woods, news trucks and satellite dishes from every network and many foreign countries line our roads. Reporters and producers and cameramen cram into our cafes and restaurants. Director's chairs line the sidewalk, waiting to make their next report. Traffic, normally nonexistent in Sandy Hook Center, is backed up the hill and past the I.84 intersection. Those of us who know the back roads can avoid these intersections but the back roads pose other situations. One of the two town parks, normally deserted once the pool closes or unless there is a soccer game, is also filled to overflowing with news trucks and people. There are too many houses in mourning, notable because of the number of cars on driveways and parked along the sides of roads that really have no place for them. All this death has gripped a single neighborhood. Our friends are planning a funeral for their six year old son. He was not sick. There was no warning, no preparation. There is only shock. I would normally be annoyed by any impediment to my being able to scoot around town but I am grateful for the crowds. I am grateful for the international attention and the equipment and the strangers blasting out story after story. This is important. To have less than this would belittle this loss, this crime, this crime against humanity. Police now say they have begun to piece together a motive, as if any of this will ever make sense.

I was just folding some laundry; a t-shirt I acquired on April 9th, 1996, opening day at Yankee Stadium. I will always remember that day. I gave my nine-year old son a rare day-off. He wasn't usually good with rapid change so we made an adventure of it: a morning tour of what would be his new school when we moved to Newtown in May, followed by tickets to the home opener in the Bronx. It was cold for April with snow in the forecast.  We turned into the long driveway and watched as the single-story school appeared before us. Red brick, a welcoming entrance... my skeptical son looked around and said, "Okay, I'll go here." We were taken to what would be his classroom where he was welcomed by his teacher and future classmates. He was the flavor of the month. Bolstered by the warmth and enthusiasm with which he had been greeted, we left for the Bronx where we huddled in sleeping bags for the snowy opener and watched another newcomer warmly welcomed, for that was the day Tino Martinez took over at first base for Don Mattingly. My son was happy. The fear and apprehension about moving to a new place and starting in a new school had seemingly been dissipated. He would be welcomed. He would be safe.