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Sept. 11, 2001 – a day that no American who lived to see will ever forget. I was recently asked about where I was that day, and I remember it keenly, deeply. I think it’s a question every American has an answer to—a moment engraved in time. Since it was early September, it was right in the middle of hop harvest. My cousin and I were working to unplug the picking machine, a more-than-common occurrence for hop farmers, when his wife called, crying. Those first moments that morning were ones of disbelief. Then, justification—it...
