survivor, but I have no idea how to find her.
The headlines following the accident give me only a tiny glimpse into what went on for my family in the aftermath of the crash. In the article “Hospital Treats Survivors,” from The Elizabeth Daily Journal, there is a photo of my mother lying in a hospital bed a day after the accident. Her vacant eyes, the knit of her brow, the rigid set of her mouth reflect the lost child, the near-death baby. I search her face for a hint of the woman I knew as my mother, but I cannot recognize her through the protective shell, the steely facade that may have germinated here in the flash of a camera. A photo next to this one shows little Linda in an oxygen tent. Mostly a bundle of bandages, with only a glimpse of her eyes. It’s a cartoon of tragedy. I wish I could put my hand over the photographer’s lens and push him away.
A glamour shot of my mother takes a quarter page under the headline: “Condition Improves,” from The Newark Evening News . It is an old photo—her “before” face. Her beautiful eyes sparkle even in grainy black and white. She glances over her shoulder playfully, like a starlet. The relaxed smile beckons the photographer. She is a different woman from the one in the other article, where her features were remarkably transformed.
In the article “Separated in Death” from The Elizabeth Star-Ledger , my two sisters are in a formal shot taken just weeks before the accident. Linda’s unmarred face fixates me, and I realize how much her life changed in an instant. Donna is the confident big sister, lording over Linda protectively. Her maternal instincts, overly developed for her seven years, would be put to a definitive test very soon.
chapter twenty-six
JANUARY 22, 1952 (DAY OF THE CRASH)
2:00 PM
T HEIR AFTERNOON RAN late, but my mother knew that Donna and her friend Sheila planned to stay after school to work on a project, so she still had some time to clean up and bake some cookies. They weren’t expected home until four thirty.
“Let’s go upstairs and tell Grandma we’re home, sweetie,” she told Linda. “Then I’ll make those cookies I promised. You were such a good girl at the doctor. The girls from Temple will be here in a little while to practice the skit for the B’nai B’rith show tonight, and Donna will be home soon.”
My mother could hear the Pagoulatos upstairs bringing in some bags from the market.
When Captain Reid landed in Syracuse, he went into the American Airlines office to check the weather. He saw no problem with landing in Newark, he told them. The plane was fueled with 340 gallons, bringing the total amount of fuel to 900 gallons. Flight 6780 was carrying twenty passengers, 85 pounds of mail, 112 pounds of air express, and 400 pounds of ballast. It took off from Syracuse at 2:01 PM .
chapter twenty-seven
1963
“T HEY LOOK LIKE ragamuffins,” my father said, frowning, halfway through “I Want to Hold Your Hand” when we watched the new band from England on The Ed Sullivan Show. I was nine.
“Dad, what are beetles anyway?” I asked.
“They’re like roaches. Pests! Fits ’em. These meshuganas are just a flash in the pan. They’ll never last. They can’t even comb their hair!”
But I was entranced. First by Paul McCartney, then by the sound. It started my love affair with music, the silken thread to connect me to something my father also loved. I begged him to buy me a guitar.
Months later, he brought one home—the one I’d pointed out each time we went to Woolworth’s that was packaged in a cardboard box with a cellophane window and was marked $15.98. It had a mottled amber wood front with a black back and came with a red plastic pick, a black guitar strap, and a songbook.
“If I Had a Hammer” was the first song I could play all the way through. I learned songs by Bob Dylan; Peter, Paul andMary; and, of course, the Beatles. My mother found a small music store nearby where I had lessons once a week,
The headlines following the accident give me only a tiny glimpse into what went on for my family in the aftermath of the crash. In the article “Hospital Treats Survivors,” from The Elizabeth Daily Journal, there is a photo of my mother lying in a hospital bed a day after the accident. Her vacant eyes, the knit of her brow, the rigid set of her mouth reflect the lost child, the near-death baby. I search her face for a hint of the woman I knew as my mother, but I cannot recognize her through the protective shell, the steely facade that may have germinated here in the flash of a camera. A photo next to this one shows little Linda in an oxygen tent. Mostly a bundle of bandages, with only a glimpse of her eyes. It’s a cartoon of tragedy. I wish I could put my hand over the photographer’s lens and push him away.
A glamour shot of my mother takes a quarter page under the headline: “Condition Improves,” from The Newark Evening News . It is an old photo—her “before” face. Her beautiful eyes sparkle even in grainy black and white. She glances over her shoulder playfully, like a starlet. The relaxed smile beckons the photographer. She is a different woman from the one in the other article, where her features were remarkably transformed.
In the article “Separated in Death” from The Elizabeth Star-Ledger , my two sisters are in a formal shot taken just weeks before the accident. Linda’s unmarred face fixates me, and I realize how much her life changed in an instant. Donna is the confident big sister, lording over Linda protectively. Her maternal instincts, overly developed for her seven years, would be put to a definitive test very soon.
chapter twenty-six
JANUARY 22, 1952 (DAY OF THE CRASH)
2:00 PM
T HEIR AFTERNOON RAN late, but my mother knew that Donna and her friend Sheila planned to stay after school to work on a project, so she still had some time to clean up and bake some cookies. They weren’t expected home until four thirty.
“Let’s go upstairs and tell Grandma we’re home, sweetie,” she told Linda. “Then I’ll make those cookies I promised. You were such a good girl at the doctor. The girls from Temple will be here in a little while to practice the skit for the B’nai B’rith show tonight, and Donna will be home soon.”
My mother could hear the Pagoulatos upstairs bringing in some bags from the market.
When Captain Reid landed in Syracuse, he went into the American Airlines office to check the weather. He saw no problem with landing in Newark, he told them. The plane was fueled with 340 gallons, bringing the total amount of fuel to 900 gallons. Flight 6780 was carrying twenty passengers, 85 pounds of mail, 112 pounds of air express, and 400 pounds of ballast. It took off from Syracuse at 2:01 PM .
chapter twenty-seven
1963
“T HEY LOOK LIKE ragamuffins,” my father said, frowning, halfway through “I Want to Hold Your Hand” when we watched the new band from England on The Ed Sullivan Show. I was nine.
“Dad, what are beetles anyway?” I asked.
“They’re like roaches. Pests! Fits ’em. These meshuganas are just a flash in the pan. They’ll never last. They can’t even comb their hair!”
But I was entranced. First by Paul McCartney, then by the sound. It started my love affair with music, the silken thread to connect me to something my father also loved. I begged him to buy me a guitar.
Months later, he brought one home—the one I’d pointed out each time we went to Woolworth’s that was packaged in a cardboard box with a cellophane window and was marked $15.98. It had a mottled amber wood front with a black back and came with a red plastic pick, a black guitar strap, and a songbook.
“If I Had a Hammer” was the first song I could play all the way through. I learned songs by Bob Dylan; Peter, Paul andMary; and, of course, the Beatles. My mother found a small music store nearby where I had lessons once a week,
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