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After the service, a few parishioners stayed to pray, including Gail Lewis of Annapolis, who knelt at the altar railing. "There was nowhere else to go but here," she said, her voice soft and full of emotion.
The Red Cross Bright Oaks office on Emmorton Road in Bel Air was packed with blood donors by late morning. Sandra Tracy, a retired teacher from Aberdeen, was among the early arrivals.
"People in this kind of situation have to do something," Tracy said. "They found out this was something they could do."
In Baltimore, people were lining up to offer blood. At Union Memorial Hospital, B.J. Stinnette was working swiftly and mechanically. Around her, the small, windowless room that serves as the hospital's blood bank swarmed with nurses and technicians.
Stinnette and a second technician drew blood. A third stacked plastic pouches swollen with blood. A fourth rushed in with orange juice and cookies. "Next!" someone would call over the blare of the television.
As news of what happened spread, a line began to form at the hospital. By late morning, more than 300 people had filled the auditorium and were spilling into the halls. Most were students from nearby Johns Hopkins University, with a smattering of hospital employees and local businessmen.
"It's the only thing we can do," said Dennis Booth, a civil engineering student from Jamaica as he filled out paperwork.
By noon, the wait was about three hours. As hospital employees rushed to set up a second, makeshift blood bank, potential donors were urged to leave their names and numbers and return home.
"We'll be able to call you when your turn comes up," said Brad Chambers, vice president of operations. "We'll aim to draw about 100 units today. We'll prioritize by blood type, with the universal type O negative going first."
Bayview Medical Center and all of Johns Hopkins Hospital went on full emergency alert to prepare for the possible arrival of burn victims from either Washington or New York. Bayview, the regional burn center for the mid-Atlantic states, rushed to make room for attack victims in the 20-bed center. But by evening, hospital officials had not been notified of any patients en route.
It was a day of high emotions mixed with strange normality. There was an eerie quiet by midafternoon around Baltimore's Inner Harbor, presumably because many downtown workers went home.
A sign outside a Jiffy Lube on York Road read: "Closed in Memory of America's Tragedy."
But in Annapolis, primary elections for city offices continued as scheduled, despite closed downtown roads and government buildings. At the Annapolis election office, judges and election board members sat in a conference room watching news coverage on television.
"It is such a violent situation, and here we are in a little city voting for a mayor," said Mary Lee Schab, 84, an at-large election judge. Schab said she was glad the election went on. "It keeps a semblance of normalcy."
Just after 11 a.m., Mike Sicher's phone rang at his White Marsh office. It was his brother, John D. Sicher, a New York businessman who was calling from the 59th Street Bridge to say that he was all right.
"He called me from the apex of the bridge and said he was in an absolute state of shock looking at the skyline of New York on this crystal clear morning with a deep blue sky and seeing the World Trade Center towers gone," Mike Sicher said.
In Catonsville, Niki Lee waited anxiously for word from her brother, John Albert, who works on Wall Street. Lee tried repeatedly to reach him on his cell phone, all without success. It wasn't until almost noon -- more than three hours after the first airliner crash -- that she received good news in an e-mail from her father in Hawaii.
Albert had called their father. The message: "Close, but OK."
Some looked for protection in the aftermath of the morning attacks, and gun shop managers reported an increase in ammunition sales.
Larry Dunn, manager of Bay Country Guns Inc. in Annapolis, said about 20 gun owners poured into the shop yesterday morning to stock up on ammunition. Dunn said he usually serves only five customers in a day.
"People are concerned about civil unrest breaking out, and they want to protect their families," Dunn said as he restocked the shelves. "They don't know what's going to happen next. They don't know if it's going to continue and get worse."
Talk of the attack was everywhere, including The Block in Baltimore.
As Mark Venn, 36 , who drives a truck for Frederick P. Winner, wheeled several cases of vodka into the Hippo Lounge, he stopped on East Eager Street to talk with Robert Corcoran, 28, a delivery man for National Distributing who was delivering a quarter-keg of beer to the same establishment.
"How can they fly a plane into the Pentagon and not get blown out of the sky?" Venn said, as Corcoran nodded in agreement. "I was in Desert Storm, I hope I don't have to go back," Venn said. As he wheeled his load across Eager Street, he said, "These are crazy days."
The steps and benches at the Annapolis City Dock, usually full on sunny days with a lunchtime crowd and their takeout food, were empty except for three elderly women visiting from Edenwald, an assisted-living community in Towson.
Their bus driver had been turned back when he tried to drop them at the State House for a tour and had taken them downtown instead. A tour of the Naval Academy had been canceled, too. The women found the giant gates locked and patrolled by armed Marines. The friends were waiting for the bus to return and pick them up.
"It reminds me of Pearl Harbor," said Kay Blazek, who was a teen-ager when World War II began. "I remember where I was when I heard about that. And I will remember this. There was no doubt who did it at Pearl Harbor. I don't feel that way now."
Sun staff writers Gail Gibson, Will Englund, Tim Craig, Michael Dresser, David Michael Ettlin, Susan Reimer, Alec MacGillis, Michael Scarcella, Todd Richissin, Rob Kasper, Allison Klein, Lane Harvey Brown, David Nitkin, Johnathon E. Briggs, Laura Cadiz, Rona Kobell, John Woestendiek, Fred Rasmussen and Amanda Crawford contributed to this article.
The Red Cross Bright Oaks office on Emmorton Road in Bel Air was packed with blood donors by late morning. Sandra Tracy, a retired teacher from Aberdeen, was among the early arrivals.
"People in this kind of situation have to do something," Tracy said. "They found out this was something they could do."
In Baltimore, people were lining up to offer blood. At Union Memorial Hospital, B.J. Stinnette was working swiftly and mechanically. Around her, the small, windowless room that serves as the hospital's blood bank swarmed with nurses and technicians.
Stinnette and a second technician drew blood. A third stacked plastic pouches swollen with blood. A fourth rushed in with orange juice and cookies. "Next!" someone would call over the blare of the television.
As news of what happened spread, a line began to form at the hospital. By late morning, more than 300 people had filled the auditorium and were spilling into the halls. Most were students from nearby Johns Hopkins University, with a smattering of hospital employees and local businessmen.
"It's the only thing we can do," said Dennis Booth, a civil engineering student from Jamaica as he filled out paperwork.
By noon, the wait was about three hours. As hospital employees rushed to set up a second, makeshift blood bank, potential donors were urged to leave their names and numbers and return home.
"We'll be able to call you when your turn comes up," said Brad Chambers, vice president of operations. "We'll aim to draw about 100 units today. We'll prioritize by blood type, with the universal type O negative going first."
Bayview Medical Center and all of Johns Hopkins Hospital went on full emergency alert to prepare for the possible arrival of burn victims from either Washington or New York. Bayview, the regional burn center for the mid-Atlantic states, rushed to make room for attack victims in the 20-bed center. But by evening, hospital officials had not been notified of any patients en route.
It was a day of high emotions mixed with strange normality. There was an eerie quiet by midafternoon around Baltimore's Inner Harbor, presumably because many downtown workers went home.
A sign outside a Jiffy Lube on York Road read: "Closed in Memory of America's Tragedy."
But in Annapolis, primary elections for city offices continued as scheduled, despite closed downtown roads and government buildings. At the Annapolis election office, judges and election board members sat in a conference room watching news coverage on television.
"It is such a violent situation, and here we are in a little city voting for a mayor," said Mary Lee Schab, 84, an at-large election judge. Schab said she was glad the election went on. "It keeps a semblance of normalcy."
Just after 11 a.m., Mike Sicher's phone rang at his White Marsh office. It was his brother, John D. Sicher, a New York businessman who was calling from the 59th Street Bridge to say that he was all right.
"He called me from the apex of the bridge and said he was in an absolute state of shock looking at the skyline of New York on this crystal clear morning with a deep blue sky and seeing the World Trade Center towers gone," Mike Sicher said.
In Catonsville, Niki Lee waited anxiously for word from her brother, John Albert, who works on Wall Street. Lee tried repeatedly to reach him on his cell phone, all without success. It wasn't until almost noon -- more than three hours after the first airliner crash -- that she received good news in an e-mail from her father in Hawaii.
Albert had called their father. The message: "Close, but OK."
Some looked for protection in the aftermath of the morning attacks, and gun shop managers reported an increase in ammunition sales.
Larry Dunn, manager of Bay Country Guns Inc. in Annapolis, said about 20 gun owners poured into the shop yesterday morning to stock up on ammunition. Dunn said he usually serves only five customers in a day.
"People are concerned about civil unrest breaking out, and they want to protect their families," Dunn said as he restocked the shelves. "They don't know what's going to happen next. They don't know if it's going to continue and get worse."
Talk of the attack was everywhere, including The Block in Baltimore.
As Mark Venn, 36 , who drives a truck for Frederick P. Winner, wheeled several cases of vodka into the Hippo Lounge, he stopped on East Eager Street to talk with Robert Corcoran, 28, a delivery man for National Distributing who was delivering a quarter-keg of beer to the same establishment.
"How can they fly a plane into the Pentagon and not get blown out of the sky?" Venn said, as Corcoran nodded in agreement. "I was in Desert Storm, I hope I don't have to go back," Venn said. As he wheeled his load across Eager Street, he said, "These are crazy days."
The steps and benches at the Annapolis City Dock, usually full on sunny days with a lunchtime crowd and their takeout food, were empty except for three elderly women visiting from Edenwald, an assisted-living community in Towson.
Their bus driver had been turned back when he tried to drop them at the State House for a tour and had taken them downtown instead. A tour of the Naval Academy had been canceled, too. The women found the giant gates locked and patrolled by armed Marines. The friends were waiting for the bus to return and pick them up.
"It reminds me of Pearl Harbor," said Kay Blazek, who was a teen-ager when World War II began. "I remember where I was when I heard about that. And I will remember this. There was no doubt who did it at Pearl Harbor. I don't feel that way now."
Sun staff writers Gail Gibson, Will Englund, Tim Craig, Michael Dresser, David Michael Ettlin, Susan Reimer, Alec MacGillis, Michael Scarcella, Todd Richissin, Rob Kasper, Allison Klein, Lane Harvey Brown, David Nitkin, Johnathon E. Briggs, Laura Cadiz, Rona Kobell, John Woestendiek, Fred Rasmussen and Amanda Crawford contributed to this article.
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