My father recalls watching the North Tower burning from the 100th floor up and thinking to himself, “How would they put this out?” I grew up in Rockland County, New York, and Dad used to work in the city, styling himself as an “architectural carpenter.” What that means is that he worked with his hands — and on his knees — installing cabinetry, wood flooring, and the heavy, polished oak doors that decorate the high-end offices of Manhattan with his union brothers in NYC District Council of Carpenters Union Local 157. It was hard work, and it took its toll on my father, who is now retired and living comfortably in Pennsylvania.
Fifteen years ago today, on September 11, 2001, at 8:46 a.m, American Airlines Flight 11 flew south over Manhattan and crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center.
On that particular day, my dad, Peter Pandolfo, was working on the 20th floor of the Ritz-Carlton, staring in shock at the World Trade Center three blocks away.
“We had a clear view of the debris and smoke coming out the North Tower. Then a terrifying vibration with a loud screaming engine noise was directly over our building and startled us.”
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