9/11 memories: The Valley looks back on terror attacks

You didn’t have to be in New York City, Washington, D.C, or rural Pennsylvania on Sept. 11, 2001, to be profoundly impacted by the terror attacks that killed nearly 3,000 people and changed both America and the world forever. Here are memories shared by 14 current and former Valley residents.

Navy mom’s classroom became a haven
for military kids who needed to connect

Cynthia L. Enfinger | Mesa

Navy Corpsman Will Enfinger was stationed in Maryland in 2001 and was one of the many troops who lined the streets of Washington, D.C., that January for President George W. Bush’s inauguration. On 9/11, he was part of the search, recovery and triage team at the Pentagon. He’s now a veteran living in the West Valley.

Submitted photo/Enfinger family

As Southern California residents near a large Marine Corps base, 9-11 remains vivid in my memory. Having gone to my classroom a couple hours early, I was unaware of world news that day.

Around 0700, I headed to the office and was stopped by twin brothers I knew well, frantically asking if I’d heard? “About what?” They responded, obviously concerned, especially because their Marine father was away at the time; I still found it difficult to believe them.

Moments later, I entered the office to find my colleagues staring at a TV as the second tower fell! Stunned is an understatement. I moved through the day rather surreally, trying to teach, but despite the request that we keep televisions off, as a veteran teacher, as the wife of a retired Marine and mother of a Navy corpsman, I knew how important “knowing” was to so many of my students.

When each class was over, I turned on my television. Students would hang out to watch; they came back during lunch … to talk, cry or hug one another. Some had relatives in NYC, others had parents away from home. Yearly, on 9/11 many of those same students still thank me for that.

Personally, the hardest part was that two of our children lived on the East Coast at the time. Our youngest had celebrated his 21st birthday just days before and was safe near us. We reached our daughter in Florida fairly easily, but it took over six hours to reach our son, Will, stationed at Bethesda Naval Hospital. He spent the next 24 hours as part of the search, recovery and triage team at the Pentagon. 

September 2001 was a blur, but I do remember my husband checking his uniforms: still in the Reserves era of his retirement, he could easily be called up. Our church, as others, became a haven; our tight-knit community became even closer.

Morning radio show jokesters
weren’t joking that morning

Abbie S. Fink, president, HMA Public Relations | Scottsdale

Abbie S. Fink

Submitted photo/HMAPR

I woke up that morning around 6:15 a.m. to KNIX’s morning show. I heard then-morning team Tim & Willy talking about a plane that crashed into the World Trade Center in NYC.

As they often were jokesters on the air, I didn’t give much thought to it. It wasn’t long before I realized this was no joke. I flipped on the TV to see Katie Couric sharing the awful news.

My sister in California was scheduled to fly out to a meeting that morning; I called her and she was already aware and knew she wouldn’t be traveling that day.

Not knowing exactly what was happening but I knew this was not going to be an ordinary day. I wanted to be around people so I headed into the office.

We spent the rest of the day watching the news coverage on my small 12-inch color television I kept in my office.

A canceled meeting at the Pentagon
saved his and others' lives

Steve Grogan | Sun City

I was scheduled to visit the Pentagon on the morning of Sept. 11, 2001. I learned the day before that my meeting was canceled. I decided to remain in Colorado Springs.

If I had visited the Pentagon that morning, I likely would have accompanied a Navy captain to the entrance of the Navy Command Center. A meeting was planned in the Command Center. Tragically, that is roughly where the terrorist attack on the Pentagon occurred.

Fortunately, a glitch came up in scheduling and the Navy captain did not visit the Navy Command Center that day. To this day, I am unsure if that meeting ever occurred.

Petroleum engineer on assignment
watched the attacks from another country

David Hunter | Sun City West

David Hunter in Brazil, 2001.

Submitted photo/Hunter family

On the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, I was in Natal, Brazil, on a work assignment, preparing for a technical meeting with Petrobras later that day. I had the television tuned to a local news station, and suddenly the screen showed the twin towers in New York engulfed in smoke and flames.

Because I spoke very little Portuguese at the time, it took several moments to understand that this was not a movie or dramatic broadcast — it was a real and unfolding disaster.

I felt profound sadness that such a horrific act could occur in my country. I was able to reach my family and my Houston office and learned that my loved ones and colleagues were safe. Still, the grief for the innocent victims — including many from Brazil — weighed heavily.

Ten days later, I flew home through Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. The trip carried its own unease, as reports had suggested the Sears Tower might be another potential target.

As we mark another year since that tragic day, we must remember that hatred still exists in the world — and even within our own country. We cannot afford complacency. Protecting our nation, the greatest in the world, requires vigilance, unity and an unwavering commitment to preventing future acts of terror.

Feeling helpless brought clarity
to Navy veteran's life purpose

Cassandra N. Johnson, West Valley Women Veterans Group | El Mirage

Cassandra N. Johnson’s Navy boot camp photo.

Submitted photo/Johnson family

In September 2001, I had just begun my U.S. Navy sailor journey and was celebrating my one-year active-duty anniversary with Fighter Squadron VFA-37 at NAS Oceana in Virginia Beach.

I had just received temporary orders to the base galley — a welcome break from my usual plane captain duties. After recovering from a brief illness, I was scheduled to check in on the morning of Sept. 11. I arrived early, but realized I had forgotten my medical paperwork. My supervisor sent me back to the barracks to retrieve it.

During that short walk, everything changed. I entered the lobby of my barracks to the sound of sailors yelling. Upstairs, the chaos intensified as people poured into the hallways. I rushed into my room and turned on the television just as the world shifted. Time stopped. Watching the aftermath in shock and disbelief, my eyes searched the screen for police officers, firefighters and survivors. I desperately wanted to hear sirens and help with the rescues, like I was physically in New York City.

Instead, my supervisor called with a directive that broke my heart: “Stay in your room and fully recover. You can help from the sidelines.” As I sat there helpless, I thought of the D.A.R.E. officers, firefighters and neighbors who shaped my youth. I realized then that sometimes you must take care of yourself so you can effectively care for others.

That tragic day deeply affected me physically, mentally and emotionally, but it also brought absolute clarity to my life’s purpose. Twenty-five years later, now living in Arizona as a veteran, that purpose remains unchanged.

Ironically, my post-military life has come full circle: I continue to serve my community every day as a leader, working directly alongside the very same types of heroic first responders who inspired me on 9/11.

A cloud of fear settled over New York City

Dan Kellams | Sun City

Dan Kellams

Submitted photo/Robyn Aaron

As I neared my office building, I saw a group of men watching an enormous plume of smoke billow up from what I thought was a building in flames a few blocks away. When I reached the office, I learned that two airplanes had hit the twin towers of the World Trade Center, five miles south of us.

We stayed inside all day — my wife, her 10 employees and I — watching developments on our computers and a small television set. I fielded some messages from friends asking if we were safe. The great cloud of smoke and ash continued to fill the sky and began to drift over Brooklyn.

Bridges were closed; public transportation shut down. In the streets below us, thousands of people silently marched north, hoping to reach home or get out of the city. I don’t remember our conversations as we sat trapped in the office. Maybe we felt lucky: my wife had an appointment that morning not far from the twin towers but had stopped in her office before heading down there. That’s when the first plane struck.

When public transportation resumed, we all felt safe to go home. It was a two-mile walk to our apartment. It was growing dark. Cars filled the streets, barely crawling bumper-to-bumper. Yet no horns blared. No drivers screamed at one another. The city, normally roaring, was eerily silent.

That night I was awakened by an explosion. Then another. I squirmed out of bed and listened. Another boom. I called, “Wake up, Elaine, they’re bombing the bridge!”

Then I realized it was thunder. Only thunder.

All over New York, people woke up that night realizing they had a new thing to fear.

Surgery wasn’t the most frightening part
of that day; gallows humor helped

Stacy Mantle, Independent Newsmedia education solutions reporter | Payson

Stacy Mantle

Submitted photo/Mantle family

When 9/11 happened, I was asleep. I had surgery scheduled that afternoon. I’ve always been a terrible sleeper, so I had intentionally stayed up all night, hoping to remain asleep until my mom arrived to take me to the hospital. I just wanted to stop thinking about coffee and food.

I had expected surgery to be the most frightening part of that day. Then my phone rang.

“Turn on the TV!” my sister yelled. “We’re under attack!”

“What?” I snapped, half asleep and annoyed at being disturbed. “Wait … what?”

I turned on the news as the second plane hit. That was the moment confusion became fear. America was under attack. People were dying, buildings were collapsing and no one knew if it was over or just beginning.

My mom arrived right on time, neither of us knowing whether I would even be admitted. She chatted about nothing, doing her best to keep me calm. It worked. Mostly.

The nurses hurried to admit the scheduled patients. The anesthesiologist moved from bed to bed, reassuring us as he injected medication into our IVs, easing us into a sleep where terrorists didn’t exist. 

But how could anyone promise we would be OK when the country we loved was holding its breath?

Every television showed the same horrifying images until the nurses finally turned them off. In the uneasy silence, I asked, “Does anyone know if they waive the copay for terrorist attacks?” We laughed harder than the joke deserved. We desperately needed to laugh at something and gallows humor has its place.

I never got an answer. I felt myself surrendering to the anesthesia as the world outside descended into chaos. None of us knew what we would wake up to — or whether we would wake up at all.

Connecting Phoenix first responders
who deployed to Ground Zero with local youth

City Councilwoman Ann O’Brien | Phoenix

Councilwoman Ann O'Brien

Submitted photo/City of Phoenix

Twenty-five years later, I still remember exactly where I was when I heard the news on Sept. 11, 2001. I remember the shock and the heartbreak of knowing so many innocent lives had been lost. I also remember what came next: Americans coming together.

Phoenix has a special connection to that moment in our nation’s history. Arizona Task Force 1, managed by the Phoenix Fire Department, deployed 62 firefighters, police officers, doctors and dog handlers to New York City. They left Arizona to help people they had never met, carrying with them the courage, compassion and commitment that define our first responders.

I remember how our country came together in the days, weeks and months that followed. Strangers lined up for hours to donate blood. Flags appeared on homes across Phoenix and the country. People checked on neighbors they had only nodded to in passing. Out of tragedy came extraordinary moments of humanity. We were truly the United States of America.

As the generation that remembers 9/11 firsthand grows smaller, we have a responsibility to make sure its lessons are not lost. Younger generations must hear from those who lived it, understand what that moment meant to our country, and take up the responsibility to honor and remember.

That is why the City of Phoenix brought together young people who were not yet born on 9/11 and firefighters who deployed to Ground Zero. On Sept. 10, 2026, we held an intergenerational discussion so youth could ask questions and learn, and so that perspectives across generations were shared. Because remembrance is something we must pass on.

The conversation was recorded and will be available on the City of Phoenix’s YouTube channel. Learn more at www.phoenix.gov/PHXRemembers.

In a mountain of devastating images, two stood out

Kelly O’Sullivan, Independent Newsmedia opinions coordinator | Sun City

The north tower antenna mast and newspaper front pages were part of the now-closed Newseum’s 9/11 exhibit. Submitted photo/Kelly O'Sullivan

The Sept. 12, 2001, edition of the Victor Valley Daily Press featured an eight-page wrap headlined Cowardly Acts. Submitted photo/Kelly O'Sullivan

Previous Next

My shift as assistant city editor at a Southern California daily was 2-11 p.m., but I headed in around 8:30 that Tuesday after hearing my best friend frantically yelling over my answering machine, “Wake up, Kelly! Wake up! Planes are crashing and buildings are falling!”

Confused, I ran to the TV to find the twin towers were gone, the Pentagon was in flames, and Todd Beamer had already uttered those iconic words, “Let’s roll,” before he and other passengers stormed United Flight 93’s cockpit, saving countless lives as they ended their own in a desolate field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

The newsroom was humming. My city editor asked me to print and tape wire images to a wall so we could choose what to use in an 8-page wrap for the Sept. 12 edition.

The images from New York, Pennsylvania and Washington, D.C., were overwhelming, and more kept coming as the nation and the world reacted to the attacks. They’re mostly a blur now, except for White House photographer Eric Draper’s shot of the moment Pres. Bush, sitting in a classroom full of Florida second-graders, learned a second plane hit the World Trade Center, and “The Falling Man” by AP’s Richard Drew.

Both are sharp in my mind, and it still bothers me we don’t know the Falling Man’s identity. We didn’t use either image that day, but they’re in a Sept. 16 special section we produced, which also included a selection of front pages from across the country.

In 2011, I visited the Newseum in Washington, D.C., and felt immense sadness as I stood in front of the north tower’s mangled antenna mast displayed against a backdrop of 127 front pages from around the world.

I hope we never forget who and what we lost that day.

United Airlines supervisor lost colleagues,
consoled crews and families, then lost her job

Adelia Ritchie, former Mesa-based flight attendant supervisor | Costa Rica

Former United Airlines flight attendant supervisor Adelia Ritchie

Submitted photo/Ritchie family

9/11/2001 arrived like any other day off from work at O’Hare International Airport, where I was a flight attendant supervisor for United Airlines. I turned on the TV for the morning news just in time to see the plane crash into the World Trade Center.

Stunned, I watched the second plane hit … and the buildings start to collapse into the streets. My brother was working in the Pentagon then, fortunately on the opposite side of the building where the third plane hit. And then, the crash in a field in Pennsylvania. 

Some of the flight attendants in my group were on those planes. I called my boss to check whether he was aware of this fresh hell, and he ordered me to come to the office immediately. 

When I got there, the airport was already locked down, and once inside, we were not allowed to leave. They put us up in the airport hotel until the situation was under control, or at least understood, for several days while this busy airport was shut down totally.

We went to work, contacting the families of our flight attendants, arranging travel for them, hotels and helping with funeral arrangements. Deep underground at O’Hare was an enormous vault containing millions of dollars in cash kept aside for such disasters. 

The flight crews who were not aboard those unfortunate planes were as shell-shocked as the rest of us. Counseling and consoling them was the most difficult effort any of us had ever undertaken. I doubt we were successful. And there was no one to counsel us. 

For weeks we struggled through this crisis. Then, late in October, we were called into our management office to be told we were no longer needed. Canned. Unemployed. “Go clean out your desk and don’t come back.”

From Cardinals’ press room with Pat Tillman
to Ground Zero and the NYC memorial site

Lee Shappell, Independent Newsmedia opinions associate | Ahwatukee

The new tower on Liberty in New York City. Submitted photo/Lee Shappell

Reflecting pool in tower footprint, New York City. Submitted photo/Lee Shappell

Image of Ground Zero destruction on display at the 9/11 Memorial & Museum. Submitted photo/Lee Shappell

Ladder 3 exhibit at the 9/11 Memorial & Museum. Submitted photo/Lee Shappell

Piece of a recovered jet on display at the 9/11 Memorial & Museum. Submitted photo/Lee Shappell

Recovered office equipment on display at the 9/11 Memorial & Museum. Submitted photo/Lee Shappell

The reflecting pool, New York City. Submitted photo/Lee Shappell

Entrance to the 9/11 Memorial & Museum. Submitted photo/Lee Shappell

Previous Next

It was a Tuesday. I was dropping off my second-grade daughter at school. The teacher on duty at the front gate, horrified, gave me the news.

I collected myself and drove to work at the Arizona Cardinals’ south Tempe training facility. I was the Cardinals’ beat writer for another newspaper.

Pat Tillman was unaware until he walked into the press room. We had it on TV. He sat down next to me to watch. He became angrier and angrier.

Later, my phone rang. The father of a neighbor, a disabled Vietnam veteran, had been on the jet that crashed into the Pentagon.

On Nov. 7, 57 days after the attacks, I was in New York, covering the University of Arizona basketball team. I just had to walk over to the World Trade Center site. The sun had set and portable floodlights threw a harsh, eerie glare on it. Pieces of girder protruded from the rubble. Smoke still wafted as workers continued to sift through debris. You could smell it all over Lower Manhattan.

I was struck by the irony of the street names where I stood: Liberty and Church. I tried to call my wife, but I couldn’t talk. It was one of those moments you never forget.

In January 2019, I returned to New York on a business trip. I was drawn to the rebuilt Trade Center. The memorial pools in the footprints of the twin towers are spiritual. As I stood on that corner where I first saw it all nearly 18 years earlier, I felt triumphant this time as I looked skyward at the magnificent new tower. I wish they had built two of them. It brought a smile to my face to see the tower as the backdrop to the street sign that still says Liberty.

Americans came together in the sad, cold days
after ‘normal’ had changed

Rod Wielkie, veteran, retired federal agent, former teacher | Chandler

The badge Rod Wielkie wore as a federal air marshal. He's also amilitary veteran and former Chandler Unified School District teacher.

Submitted photo/Wielkie family

In the months after Sept. 11, 2001, I was assigned to federal air marshal duty, flying almost daily between Reagan National Airport in Washington, D.C. and Chicago Midway.

It was during the holiday season, but Washington didn’t feel much like the holidays at all.

Riding the Metro, I could see the scarred Pentagon from the Sept. 11 attack. It was a daily reminder of what had happened and why we were there. Airports and passengers were different. We were all more watchful and perhaps a little less certain about the world around us.

But what I remember most is how people came together.

We shared a determination not to let fear define our lives. Americans got back on airplanes. They went to work. They visited family. They celebrated the holidays. People tried to return to normal, even though we all knew that “normal” had changed.

There was also an extraordinary sense of duty. Across the country, military personnel, law enforcement officers, firefighters, airline crews, airport employees and countless ordinary Americans simply went where they were needed and did what had to be done. I was only one of them.

Those were long, cold and sometimes sad days. I spent Christmas away from home that year, and my Christmas dinner was at a Chinese restaurant in Alexandria, Virginia. It wasn’t much of a celebration, but I still remember it clearly.

More than two decades later, I don’t primarily remember the inconvenience or the long days. I remember the sense that we were all in this together.

For a time after Sept. 11, our differences seemed less important. We had been hurt as a nation, but we were determined to carry on. We tried to live normally. We looked out for one another, and each of us, in our own way, did our duty.

Watching the devastation on TV
felt like the world was ending

Aimee Yamamori, managing partner, Mountain Forest LLC | Eugene, Oregon

I was just a few years in working at the Phoenix Zoo and living in Tempe. I woke up to “Beth and Friends” on KEZ as I always did, and I knew immediately from the sounds of their voices that something was very wrong.

I went to turn on the TV then woke up my husband, Steve. I called my parents and asked them if they thought we should meet or what to do?

We just sat and watched and it really felt like the world was ending. Everyone was late for work and no one cared. When the second tower fell, that’s when I lost it. I just couldn't believe what I saw.

We did eventually go to work, but of course the mood was so somber. We all just sat around talking and trying to process it.

From then on nothing was the same. I remember we traveled to see family shortly after that and there were officers with automatic rifles in the airport. It felt like the whole country was on alert for months and months.

NYC investment bankers moved to Arizona
and turned their trauma into joy

Helen Yung and Jan Wichayanuparp | Scottsdale

Helen Yung and Jan Wichayanuparp at the James Beard Awards. Submitted photo/Sweet Republic

Business partners Helen Yung and Jan Wichayanuparp moved to Arizona several years after the 9/11 attacks to turn their love for food into a joint venture. Submitted photo/Sweet Republic

Previous Next

It’s surreal that it’s been 25 years since 9/11. Sept. 11, 2001, was an experience that caused both of us to reassess our lives and brought us to Arizona.

We were young investment bankers, building successful international careers. We both were in Lower Manhattan the morning the world changed.

Our friendship continued after 9/11 and ultimately grew into a business partnership in what we both love: food. We moved to Arizona and created an artisan ice cream shop. Why ice cream? Because it makes people smile.

Helen reflects

I lived blocks away in Battery Park. Heading to work, I witnessed the second plane striking the south tower. I returned to my apartment, where the towers’ collapse engulfed the neighborhood in darkness and debris before my building was evacuated. 

I can still picture the second plane flying right over my head. It’s something that I’ll never forget.

Jan reflects

I was working on the 20th floor of 7 World Trade Center. I had gone downstairs for coffee and a bagel when the first plane struck. The building’s glass shattered as flaming debris fell outside and the building was evacuated.

I hurried uptown, eventually looking back to see smoke pouring from the towers and people jumping. 

Honestly, I rarely think about being at 7 World Trade Center that morning. Whenever 9/11 comes up, I’m still taken aback by how quickly the emotions rush at me: sadness for all the lives lost, but also gratitude for all the days I’ve been graced with since and wanting to live these days as fully as I can.