When I was a columnist at the New York Post I stood around Ground Zero, waiting for the beginning of the anniversary memorial service. Just as the ritual started, a strong wind picked up that one TV commentator called “biblical”. Although it was an Atlantic hurricane’s outer fringe, its intensity and timing felt strange, especially since the winds didn’t die down until the end.
A journalist friend, who had called me the morning before, called me and demanded that I come over immediately. My friend showed me her home office when I arrived. She pointed out a small, Revolutionary War-era American flag that was framed under glass and hanging on the wall. It was torn right to the bottom.
