With a trembling hand and bent knee, I planted an American flag on my lawn today. It quickly waved, almost in remembrance for the poor souls who died on Sept. 11. All of America waved their flags and wept for deaths that should never have been. Each flutter brought back memories of a happier New York that waved their colors in a burst of joy and patriotism over half a century ago.

It was 1945 and a group of weary soldiers were sailing through the Mediterranean on their way home from war. That day the Mediterranean Sea was a graveyard of torpedoed ships with broken masts stretching in a death grip for the lost souls beneath their hulls. As a bugler blew taps our flag was hoisted and I hoped the sad notes could be heard by the ghosts who dwelt below.

Crossing the Atlantic and almost home, we searched for land. On the fifth day there was a roar. We could see the tops of trees and I became the focus of attention. "Where are we? "Do you recognize your hometown, New York?"

I wasn't much help; there weren't many landmarks on the south shore of Long Island in those days. I was just as lost as the rest of them. But the ship turned a few degrees and I could see the Marine Park Bridge! "There it is," I yelled. "We're passing Brooklyn, USA!" A shout went out from the other New Yorkers who had spotted the "Parachute Jump" on Coney Island. After all those years we were entering the narrows of New York Harbor. Patriotism, pride and flags hung in salute from every building, billboard and water tower. The docks were awash in stars and stripes. Banners hung in gratitude with letters 4 ft. high ... "Welcome Home!" "Well Done!" Tugboats shot water in the sky. We had made it home.

But the welcome had just begun. Out of nowhere ships arrived with jazz bands blaring and leggy chorus girls kicking, dancing and throwing kisses. Broadway and the whole USA were in love with us. Farm boys from the south, steelworkers from the midwest, ranch hands from Wyoming were all heroes to the metropolis of New York.

And now in a different age I rise from my lawn, flag waving gently and I grieve for the heroes of a different war. Thousands of mortally slain civilians and an army of Police, Firemen and Port Authority guardians who lay beneath towers that once touched the sky. I salute them in sorrow as I did once on a ship sailing the Mediterranean after another war.

(Editor's Note: Mike Lipstock, a resident of Jericho, wrote this essay the day after the World Trade Center disaster.)