Shanksville, remembering

In September 2019, I visited the Flight 93 memorial near Shanksville for the first time. I wasn’t prepared for the rush of emotions. I wasn’t prepared for the tears. I wasn’t prepared for the hush, the almost-reverent nature of that place.

The memorial sits out in the middle of Pennsylvania farmland. Shanksville is nearby, but the plane crashed well outside the town’s borders.

If you visit—and I hope you do, preferably not on September 11, but rather in the week or two following—when you visit, prepare for the following.

The quiet. The hush. In 2019, one group of noisy tourists passed through. Someone let them know in no uncertain terms that that was inappropriate. Most people understand what happened in this place, and silence follows.
The love and sweetness of the gifts small children leave in the low wall around the crash site. Made me tear up. They get it, even though they only know what happened from parents and grandparents.
The utter, sheer realization of the last few seconds on Flight 93. One part of the memorial signifies the angle of descent. The memorial wall itself continues their trajectory. With a boulder marking the spot in the open field where the plane’s nose tunneled into the ground at 10:03:10.

The thoughtfulness of the memorial wall. Names are listed in simple alphabetical order, not by rank or nationality or other arbitrary standards. Christian Adams is the first name. If you look him up, you’ll find that he was a German Fulbright alum, having studied at the University of California in Davis. Son of a German wine official, he worked for the German Wine Institute. On 9/11, he was headed to San Francisco for a wine tasting event. He was thirty-seven. If you go in the week or two following the 9/11 commemoration, you will likely see the wreath the German consulate or embassy places in front of his name every year. (See photo above, (c) 2019 Denise Elaine Heap.)
The beacon of hope and light we used to be. The German tribute won’t be the only international wreath, candle, photograph, poem, or other form of remembrance present. People all over the world cared, genuinely cared. And they came. And continue to come.

In January 2025 in the middle of a short break in that bitter, snowy winter, I took German visitors to the site. My little Tiguan with her summer tires bravely broke through icy snow. A van with Florida plates followed us, making me nervous. The driver, a middle-aged man, exited and trailed a few steps behind us as we walked as far into the memorial grounds as we could, snow up to our knees.

I explained everything in German to my visitors. The man inched closer. Making me even more nervous. As we returned to our cars, I asked if he were from Florida. He explained in halting English that he was on vacation from Italy, northern Italy specifically, so he could understand enough German to follow our conversation.

He said he was happy he’d found us, because he’d really wanted to see this particular memorial, but his English……

People. Really. And. Truly. Cared.

Details about hours and events can be found on the National Park Service app. The museum isn’t open all the time, but the site itself rarely is off limits. If it’s blizzarding, it will be open. Just not shoveled.

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Our wintry conditions, January 2025. Photo © 2025 Denise Elaine Heap.

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