Moments after the heroes of Flight 93 had saved thousands of lives in Washington, D.C. by steering their aircraft into a sleepy farm in Somerset County, I found myself alone in my car at the intersection of routes 19 and 228 in Cranberry Township.

Our editor had ordered all reporters to drive to the areas they covered and get gut-level reactions from regular folks on the sickening and unbelievable events that had just taken place.

I'll never forget sitting at that busy intersection, because every single driver and passenger in every car peered anxiously into one another's vehicles in complete disbelief that the United States of America was under terrorist attack.

I was no different. I looked left and right, meeting the frantic gazes of the others on the road under a sunny, planeless sky.

What were we searching for in one another's eyes, I've asked myself for two decades. I still don't know.

I arrived at the Adams Township condo of my best friend's mother, who was in the latter stages of recovering from a heart attack. I knocked and knocked on her door, but got no answer.

Dread took over, as Shirley had a son who was a pilot for American Airlines and a daughter-in-law who was a flight attendant.

My friend had no information on them that morning, and I was afraid Shirley had succumbed inside her perfectly decorated home to the terror of not knowing if her loved ones were involved in the morning's tragic hijackings.

Finally, she arrived home from a dog grooming appointment, and I sat with her as she tearfully poured out her fear regarding Mark and Laura. I tried to calm her down, but I was at work.

I scribbled down her thoughts, which ended up on the front page of the Sept. 12 Butler Eagle.

I later learned that her loved ones were safe, thank God.

Next, I drove to the Cranberry Township Municipal Center in the hopes that the usual trickle of residents in and out of the building would allow me a few quick sources.

After stoically interviewing a few people who were as traumatized as me, I made my way down the hallway in the front of the building that housed the offices of township and state officials.

One township official, I can't remember his name, was watching a tiny cube-shaped TV perched on top of his file cabinet. His eyes were as big as saucers.

I ducked in and silently joined him, which marked the first footage I had seen of the twin towers, the Pentagon, and a smoking field just an hour and a half's drive from where I stood.

My thoughts immediately turned to my two children, who were students at the former Penn Township Elementary School and Knoch Middle School.

I raced back to the Cranberry office and discovered that reporters in the Butler bureau were frantically trying to reach then-U.S. Rep. Melissa Hart, the popular Republican who represented Pennsylvania's 4th Congressional District.

No one said it out loud, but everyone was worried that she was in or near the Pentagon.

As I collected my thoughts for my reaction story, Hart called me to say she heard the Eagle was trying to reach her.

I interviewed her about her dramatic experiences that morning in D.C., then called the South Butler County School District to ask if dismissal would be early.

The school officials' decision to keep students until the normal dismissal allowed me time to take a few deep breaths and give full attention to my two important articles. Maybe the most important ones I would ever write, I realized.

The instant I was satisfied with my work, I hopped into my car for the 20-minute drive home through the beautiful scenery of Adams, Forward and Penn townships.

But I was too busy fretting over what I would tell my kids, who were especially at their impressionable ages, about the attacks to enjoy the placid landscape.

I wondered if, as adults, they would remember the period of innocence and safety in their lives before the attacks.

When the big yellow bus pulled up, my normally tired, plodding kids ran full speed the 150 feet from the street to the side door they had entered a thousand times after school.

“Mum! Mum! Do you know what happened? Do you?” they shouted over one another.

I said yes, and we turned on the TV.

I stood with my arm wrapped tightly around the shoulders of those two wide-eyed young people as we watched the planes hit the buildings over and over.

I figured they were going to see it eventually, so they might as well watch it with me.

When the footage turned to the desperate employees leaping from the windows of the burning twin towers, I switched off the television.

I then discovered my son, age 11, had silently slipped from my grasp and disappeared.

My daughter and I searched the house for him before he came in the front door.

My little boy, without saying a word, had crept outside to our front yard and quietly lowered our American flag to half mast on the flagpole.

Well that was it. I cried like a baby for my country and the families whose loved ones were victims of the cowardly and evil terrorists.

Today, I work with reporters who were toddlers when the attacks that shook America occurred.

I'm glad they don't have my memories of that terrible day, and I hope and pray they never have an assignment similar to mine on Sept. 11, 2001.