THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, April 28, 1995 TAG: 9504270120
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 07 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Over Easy
SOURCE: Jo-Ann Clegg
LENGTH: Medium: 86 lines
I had just put my bedroom television on mute so I could answer the telephone when the picture on the screen switched from game-show contestants to stunned, frightened people clutching each other in front of a bombed out building.
With no sound coming from the set and a persistent telemarketer attempting to get my attention on the phone I had no idea as to what disaster I was watching.
My first thought was that the horrendous scene I was witnessing was taking place in some foreign country.
My second thought was that, no, those were distinctly American faces on a very American sidewalk.
My third thought was a prayer that it not be one of the cities in which my sons live.
With a curt ``not interested'' I hung up on the salesperson and returned the sound to the TV picture.
In the minute or so until the building and city were identified, I mouthed a silent prayer that none of our loved ones were part of the terrifying scene unfolding on the screen.
At the mention of the words ``Oklahoma City'' my prayer turned to one of thanks.
When I learned it was a federal building that bore the brunt of the blast, my heart went out to the workers who must have been inside and to their families.
But then other sounds caught my attention. The screams of a woman in the background calling, ``My baby, my baby,'' and the authoritative voice of a man, probably a law enforcement officer or rescue worker, saying, ``Leave her alone, she has a child in there.''
And finally the voice of the announcer, a reporter with the network's Oklahoma City affiliate saying flatly, ``We understand there was a day-care center located on the second floor, just above the center of the explosion.''
At that moment, my relief at knowing that my own family was safe changed to disbelief that something so awful could happen to tiny, innocent children in the safety of a well-run child-care center.
Before my mind could comprehend the magnitude of what I was watching, another chilling announcement turned my mood to one of fury.
``There is no smell of natural gas in the area,'' the reporter was saying. ``It is now believed that the explosion was caused by a bomb.''
A bomb? An enormous bomb? Killing babies and adults alike in the very heart of our country?
Along with others of my generation I have seen enough of wars, assassinations and disasters - both natural and otherwise - to make me think that there is little left that can shock me.
And then, something like the senseless carnage in Oklahoma City occurs and I am reminded, once again, that some things are beyond the ability of any human mind to grasp.
The mass death of small children is one of those things. Quickly the tragedy in the country's heartland became the focal point of the nation. In our individual homes, we watched and waited just as we did when the lives of John Kennedy, Martin Luther King Jr. and Bobby Kennedy were cut short.
And we asked the same questions last week as we did three decades ago. Who did it, we asked ourselves and each other. And why? And, even more important, when and where will it happen next?
We had seen the scenes before, at an embassy in Beirut and at a skyscraper in New York. But this time it was different. This time, above all, there were the dead and dying children.
But there was something else, too. Throughout everything, the character and innate dignity of the fine, sturdy, caring people who represent the spirit of Middle America shone through. The people of Oklahoma City have been gallant in their respect for those in authority, gracious in their acceptance of those who have come to help them and generous beyond words in expressing their love for those who suffered the most horrible losses.
I learned a lot about spirit and caring this past week. Seeing the outpouring of money and blood and watching rescue workers from all over the country as they worked their way into the building one 5-gallon bucket of debris after the other, I realized that the Spirit of Middle America is not a geographic thing.
Despite the reports of doom and gloom, the vast majority of Americans from every geographic area and every walk of life do still care.
Unfortunately, a sense of caring is not enough to bring dead babies back to life. But it does hold hope for a future in which those who survive may grow up in a land in which life is still very much worth living. by CNB