by Hoda Kotb
“People ran by us when I was in the lobby because they were just appalled and disgusted and horrified at the look of this woman,” Ron says, placing his palm on his heart. “I mean, I was absolutely horrified as well, but I know from our Irish Catholic upbringing that you never leave someone in distress, that you are totally one hundred percent responsible for them until you can pass them on to the next medical station in life. That was ingrained in me growing up.”
The years following the darkest days for Ron were filled with various business ventures and raising Monica. With donations that poured in from the States and Ireland, the family created the Juliana Valentine McCourt Children’s Education Fund, a foundation to promote tolerance in children. Ron’s mother, Paula, manages the six-acre McCourt Memorial Garden in Connecticut, officially opened in 2005, as a family tribute to Juliana and Ruth, who loved to garden.
In April 2006, Ron was asked by the Federal Bureau of Investigation to testify, along with thirty-nine other government witnesses, in the trial of Zacarias Moussaoui, accused of conspiring to kill Americans in the 9/11 attacks. Ron says an FBI agent suggested he bring then-fifteen-year-old Monica to the trial in Alexandria, Virginia. Ron was skeptical, knowing that Monica never talked about 9/11 and that therapists told him to let her bring it up when she was ready. Monica was at least ready to listen. She was seated directly across from Moussaoui and, for the first time, heard her father’s version of events that day.
Monica joins us in the living room. She shows me the special gift she received from Ron’s mom for her recent twenty-first birthday: one of her aunt Ruth’s rings, set with an aqua-blue stone. Monica also tells me about a family trip the summer before 9/11, when she enjoyed special treats from her aunt Ruth and time with her little “sidekick.”
“Juliana was four and I was ten, so she would follow me everywhere. We slept in the same room,” Monica recalls. “She would do everything I would do. If I said I didn’t want eggs, she would say”—she crosses her arms in defiance like Juliana—“ ‘I don’t want eggs either.’ ”
Ron raises his eyebrows at me when Monica talks about her deceased aunt and cousin, as if to say, “Wow, she never does this.”
Monica says she was interested in going to the Moussaoui trial to support her dad and to gain some perspective on an event that occurred when she was quite young. I ask her what she thought of her father’s testimony.
“It was incredible.” She pauses. “I didn’t realize how close he was to the action. He was very brave.”
For Ron, the trial provided tremendous relief; a hint of justice for his sister, niece, and all the victims; and an open door to more dialogue with his daughter.
“When we drove out of Alexandria that day toward home, I just thought, My God, the cloud has lifted.” Ron adds, “And I remember that was a huge moment. We had the trial, and this guy was found guilty.”
Ron supports the life sentence for Moussaoui and the killing of Osama bin Laden, and he’s eager for the government to push forward with the promised military trials for the remaining 9/11 terrorists held in the Guantànamo Bay detention camp.
“I’m adamant about having my day in court. These guys killed a lot of people, wrecked a lot of families, changed the face of America and the world. Every time I get on a plane I think about them. Every time I stand in a security line taking my shoes off I think about them. We’ve got to have some justice.”
Sailing off the Irish coast. September 2011. (Courtesy of Ron Clifford)
Each year, on the anniversary of 9/11, Ron avoids all media coverage of the wretched morning. He chooses instead to spend the day sailing the Long Island Sound. There’s always a special birthday gift for Monica that day, but she celebrates with friends on the weekend before or after the anniversary. My chat with Ron is one month after the much-anticipated ten-year anniversary, which he spent in Ireland with his brothers. The oldest, John, for the last ten years has housed the shard of glass the police officer brought to Ron from Ground Zero. The family decided to etch the infamous date on the glass and to pass it off to each other every ten years. The glass is supposed to spend the next ten years with Ron, but he says he couldn’t bring himself to take the memento away from John’s kids; it remains in Ireland. As we talk about his recent trip, Ron calls up several photos on his BlackBerry PlayBook; a new niece, Kayla Juliana, is a bright spot. The once-very-black humor is now simply healthy, as he points out a photo of an elaborate limestone headstone for Juliana and Ruth on the family plot in Cork. The sculptor has engraved the wrong birth date for Ruth.
“She’d love that!” Ron says with a grin.
As for the hallowed site here in the United States, Ron says he avoids Ground Zero. Friends visiting for Thanksgiving want to tour the new memorial and museum, but he won’t join them. Ron says he makes a point of navigating around the area whenever possible.
“I got a flat tire on my way back from sailing several years ago right there. I thought,” Ron laughs as if his sister was trying to get his attention, “Ruth! Aw, Ruth! I just felt like, I gotta get the hell out of here. I just don’t feel good down there.”
Ten years later, some residual angst still lingers in Ron’s daily life. He’s still startled by the explosive noise of his neighbor starting up his motorcycle. He continues to wake up from dreams where people jump off the Twin Towers. One element that’s never been part of Ron’s struggle is regret, and for that, he’s grateful. He’s made a point throughout his life of letting family and friends know how he feels about them. He didn’t have the chance before his brother Gordon died, so, from that day on, and with Ruth’s encouragement, he openly expressed his love for the people in his life. Ron says the loss of his father, sister, niece, and Paige would have been harder by tenfold if regret was added to the mix of pain and sadness.
“I think that’s why people have a really bad time with some death and loss,” Ron says, “because they haven’t resolved any issues where they feel guilty. That’s why you have to cherish people and don’t go to bed feeling angry in your heart toward the one you love. Just figure it out. I have some very good friends, and even though we’re guys, we tell each other we love each other. It’s like, ‘Love you, Jim,’ you know? It’s not being the least bit effeminate. You just have to tell people you care about them.”
Ron has also found comfort in being grateful for his life, despite the losses. He loves the words a dear friend shared with him, a friend who’s been battling cancer over the last few years. Ron says even through the rigorous regimen of treatments, his ill friend expressed gratitude.
“He had an exercise bike put next to his bed. He got out of bed in the hospital every morning and exercised, even as he was literally dying. One day he turned to me, and he wasn’t a religious guy, but he turned to me and said, ‘You know, if there’s a heaven after this, it’s a bonus.’ ”
As we wrap up the interview, Ron makes a point of telling me about the pretty houses along his street. He points to the left and encourages me, excitedly, to “go that way!” so I won’t miss the sights. I’m amazed by this man’s upbeat attitude and passion for life after all he’s weathered. I tell Ron that people who read his story will want a magic bullet, his secret to coming out the other side of calamity with such a genuinely positive outlook on life.
“For me, would I like it to never have happened? Yes.” He wipes his palms together back and forth in a washing-away motion. “But you gotta carry on with life. You can’t just delay it. You can’t feel sorry for yourself. Maybe you can for a month or whatever, but you gotta just hit it full blast. You just have to deal with things and try to think logically. Would this person who you lost want you to lose your life as a result of them losing theirs? I think no, they wouldn’t.” Ron ponders. “They’d want you to go forward.”
Addendum
In May 2012, Ron had a home visit from Ed Ryan, one of the lead federal prosecutors in the upcoming death penalty case against alleged 9/11 mastermind Khalid Sheikh Mohammed and four accus
ed coconspirators. Ryan and Ron have stayed in touch over the years, so Ryan knew that Ron and other victims’ families were interested in their day in court.
“Having our day is a very good thing,” says Ron. “I keep thinking of Lee Hanson, this guy in his sixties, and his wife. He wants the trial before he dies. His son and daughter-in-law and grandchild were on Ruth’s plane.”
Ron says his specific role in the proceedings is to share the trauma of not only escaping death himself but having to endure the sudden and tremendous loss of Ruth, Juliana, and Paige. The military trial will be held in Guantànamo Bay, where the suspects are imprisoned. Ron and anywhere from twenty to forty family members of victims will fly to the U.S. base in southeast Cuba to testify at the trial, its start date still to be determined. Ron will have several more visits with the Department of Justice to finalize the details of his testimony and what he might encounter during cross-examination.
“You can’t forget those horrible details, y’know?”
I ask him if he needs to do anything to prepare for yet another unearthing of his buried anger and sadness.
“No, I think I’m emotionally there. I have often fantasized about killing the guy, y’know. I’m not that way, but when you start to read again about this maniacal nut who just orchestrated everything, the guy who held Daniel Pearl’s head after he cut it off, when you read all the evidence against this animal, you start to get very, very angry that he could orchestrate a plan that did so much damage to our world.”
The suspects will face charges including terrorism, hijacking, conspiracy, murder, and destruction of property. They could face the death penalty if found guilty. I ask Ron if he’s on board with capital punishment for Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, for his role in the deaths of 2,976 people.
“Totally. Most definitely. I think this is one of the few times in life that you say, ‘Look, there’s so much evidence, he’s admitted it, he doesn’t deserve to live. He doesn’t deserve to be part of this life.’ ” Ron continues, “It’ll never be closure, but it will be a step to say, ‘Yes, we went to court and the guy who was responsible for this, who crafted this, who put this together, who designed this, he’s ultimately responsible and we have charged him, and he’ll never see the light of day, or he’ll get the death penalty.’ ”
Ron’s not yet sure whether Monica or his youngest brother, Mark, will join him. He plans to use the challenging experience, as he has many times in his life, as another chance to learn and grow.
“It will be a good testament to how somebody gets tried under our constitution,” he says, “and how the American justice system works for everybody, even people like him.”
ROXANNE QUIMBY
Hiding in plain sight. That’s how you could describe Roxanne Quimby’s story when we found it. We were on the hunt for a rags-to-riches story, fascinated by people who had the drive and the perseverance to create something from nothing, and Roxanne’s name popped up. Huh. How could we not already know this woman’s name, like we do Sam Walton or Debbi Fields? Over the years, this masterful marketer has had no interest in promoting herself or her incredible story. Roxanne clearly wonders why someone would make a fuss about her journey. I love that about her. In Roxanne’s mind, this life offers us the chance to dream it and do it. Why waste time talking about it? There are too many other things to accomplish.
Roxanne Quimby was born in 1950 into middle-class comfort in Cambridge, Massachusetts, the oldest of three girls and a boy. Her father, a Harvard Business School graduate, sold large machinery to manufacturing companies and was always looking to expand his sales territory. The family moved every year or two to cities around the Northeast and Midwest. From a young age, Roxanne had an interest in not only creating things but peddling them, too.
“I was always selling stuff. I always tried to sell stuff to my sisters,” Roxanne says with a laugh, “and to my parents. I’d bake muffins and go around the neighborhood and try to sell them to the neighbors.”
When Roxanne was five, her dad made her a deal: he wouldn’t give her money for college, but he’d match every dollar she earned herself. By the time she graduated from high school, Roxanne had saved $5,000, which her dad, as promised, boosted to $10,000. She enrolled in the University of Massachusetts, where she met a senior classman named George St. Clair who was studying comparative literature. They began dating, and after one semester, Roxanne became restless for a new view. The two headed west to Northern California. George had already graduated; Roxanne entered the fine arts program at the San Francisco Art Institute, where she studied oil painting. Once Roxanne got her bachelor of fine arts, she and George hit the road in search of a place to settle down. A place where trees were your neighbors.
“I had had it with big cities,” she says, “and I knew I didn’t want to live in the suburbs, so that was the only thing I hadn’t tried.”
Roxanne had also been influenced in college by the teachings of Helen and Scott Nearing, a husband and wife who wrote extensively about the art of simple, frugal, and purposeful living. At the peak of the Great Depression, the Nearings had moved from their small New York City apartment to a run-down farmhouse on sixty-five acres in rural Vermont and lived off the land.
“They were very inspiring because they had a lot of control over their own lives and their own destinies, and never had to punch a clock or answer to anybody but themselves,” Roxanne explains, “and they lived with their values intact, raised all their own food, and were very independent.”
In the summer of 1974, Roxanne and George set out in their old Volkswagen van in search of cheap land. They soon realized they couldn’t afford to buy in Northern California; there were no deals in Oregon or Washington, either. Hoping the opposite coast would prove more affordable, George and Roxanne drove the 2,200 miles to Vermont. Land there was too expensive, but rural northern Maine turned out to be right on the money. For $3,000, they bought thirty acres in Guilford, a small mill town fifty miles northwest of Bangor. With bow saws and a pioneer spirit, they cleared the land and built a two-room cabin and planted a vegetable garden.
“It was just trial and error,” Roxanne says of the handiwork. “On-the-job training.”
Roxanne’s mother was supportive of her move to the woods, but her father was appalled.
“My dad had certain expectations about his children and how we would live our lives, and that was a real curveball. He never expected anything like that. He was very disappointed. His first reaction was, ‘Wow, I wasted all that orthodontic work on you.’ He spent so much money on braces when I was a teenager,” she says with a chuckle, “and he thought I was moving to the tundra, where it didn’t matter whether my teeth were straight or not.”
Her father’s displeasure with Roxanne’s decision was rooted in more than just teeth. He felt a productive path in life must include an MBA and a substantial paycheck.
“That was how he evaluated our relationship: could he be proud of my achievements? And he defined them. He was not very proud of my living in the middle of the woods and clearly not pursuing any vocation that he could identify,” she says, “and he just dropped me in a way.”
It was the start of a father-daughter estrangement that would last for decades.
Roxanne and George set up camp in Guilford, sharing the woods with a few dozen like-minded families in a community known as back-to-the-landers. Each family built a home on a large piece of property and lived a subsistence lifestyle that rejected modern-day civilization.
“We spent most of our days outdoors, gardening, cutting firewood, hauling water, hiking, and camping,” she says. “And that’s what turned me into a real lover and appreciator of the outdoors.”
In 1976, Roxanne and George married in his parents’ backyard outside of Boston. All of Roxanne’s family attended except for her father. The couple was content, and enjoyed the slow pace and self-reliance the rustic lifestyle offered.
“We had no electricity, so we tended not to stay up very late. There were no
electric lights; we had kerosene lamps and candles. We didn’t have television or any kind of media at night, so we’d read for a little bit and go to bed,” she says. “We’d get up with the sun and we had a lot of daily chores to do. We didn’t have running water, so we had to haul water from a spring; we chopped firewood to stay warm; we had a garden for our food; we had a woodstove to cook the food, so most of our day was consumed with these chores of eating and cooking and washing and hauling water and keeping firewood in the house. It was a pretty simple lifestyle.”
The pair maintained a garden and stocked their root cellar, which substituted for a refrigerator. Once a month, a truck from Boston would drop off fresh food orders at the local co-op. Both worked odd jobs to pay the annual property taxes: Roxanne sold her art and waitressed, George worked as a disc jockey at the local radio station.
In 1978, they started a family. Roxanne gave birth at the local hospital to twins, Lucas and Hannah. Back at the cabin, Roxanne washed diapers in hot water boiled on the wood-burning stove and breast-fed the babies for six months.
Roxanne’s twins Hannah and Lucas in a “stroller.” Guilford, Maine, 1978.
(Courtesy of Roxanne Quimby)
“And then when they started eating solid food, I had a little baby grinder thing, this little crank-up thing,” she says. “The Happy Baby grinder it was called, and whatever we were having, like rice or beans or potatoes, we put it right through the grinder and it would make a mash out of it.”
No refrigeration required some creative cooking.
“We lived close by to a farm that raised chickens, so they always had a lot of eggs. They would have to grade their eggs by size, and any size that didn’t fit the grader they would sell really cheap. They keep pretty well in a root cellar, so they’ll last for quite a long time. So, I would get a lot of eggs and mix milk powder in them. They still hate that,” she laughs, referring to the twins. “To this very day they won’t eat it.”