Backpack On Bus Reminds Me Of The Time My Mom Got Anthrax In The Mail

The backpack left on the bus in suburban Connecticut yesterday shut down roads and had area business evacuated and a school on lockdown. Thank goodness it turned out to be nothing and thank goodness authorities took the right precautions: it's how we know our system works. Like that time shortly after 9/11 and the anthrax letters being sent to senators when my mom got a mysterious envelope in the mail with hand-written block lettering and a return address in Tel Aviv. That's the Middle East! She gasped and dropped the envelope on the ground in front of the mail box to run inside and call 911.

The emergency services operator advised her to wash her hands, and then go wipe down everything she'd touched after touching the envelope. She was also to cover up the envelope while she waited for emergency personnel to arrive and investigate. She wiped down the doorknob she'd opened, the sink faucet and went outside and draped a dish towel over the dropped letter while she waited for the police, the fire department and a bomb squad. Our national threat levels were fiery bars of terror in those days - I don't even remember if orange was worse than yellow, but it was bad. We were all buying duct tape, weren't we?

The officer tasked with opening the envelope was sweating bullets while my mom anxiously looked on. He told her this was his first response to a 9-1-1 call for terrorism. I can't remember why she thought that Israel would be terrorizing her with anthrax (letting my brother and I drop out of Hebrew school?). When it was finally opened, no white powder fell out. The first responders went home relieved and my mom wrapped the envelope in plastic to show her ex-husband when he got home. Turns out it was some CD that he'd ordered and had been waiting for, the weirdo. My mom said she'd save the envelope forever because it became a family joke that terrorists wanted both Senator Daschle and my mom, but I'm pretty sure she lost it within a couple of weeks. When she called me that night to tell me what had happened, she started the conversation this way: "I have to tell you something, but you can't make fun of me."