I’VE BEEN DREADING writing this column. Normally in this space, I try to take a look at the lighter side of direct marketing. But like many others faced with the task, I don’t feel particularly funny at the moment.
As this page goes to press, it is nearly three weeks to the day of the date none of us will ever forget. I’m struggling with what to say, for it seems what I feel has already been expressed in so many shapes and forms far more eloquently than I could ever manage.
Unlike most of the DIRECT staff, I was not in New York on Sept. 11. I was in my home office just outside of Boston, glued to the television with a mixture of horror, sadness, disbelief and anger running through my veins. When I wasn’t making phone calls or sending e-mails to New York to check on the well-being of friends, I was fielding my own round of inquiries from friends and family, wondering if I had been in New York on business that day, or God forbid, that my husband and I had taken a flight out of Logan to Los Angeles.
