On September 11, 2001, 2,996 bright lights were extinguished. This is one candle’s story.

Max Hammond was a guy much like one of your friends. He loved NASCAR and WWF and life. He had just moved to Derry, NH, with his MITRE defense job earlier in the year and bought a house. I believe he was also engaged to be married. Co-workers and friends recall how he bought gifts for their children each holiday.

He was on Flt. 175 that crashed into Tower 2 of the WTC. No one will hear his booming voice or receive a card with his signature. No one will benefit from his Ford Mustang expertise or the fun activities he planned. No one will hear him tell a funny joke or check the cars with him on the raceway. Because aside from the hole where the WTC used to be there are 2,996 little holes where loved ones once were as well.

Max is remembered by those who knew him best, his family, as a funny guy with varied interests, like fixing up cars and writing poetry. I wanted to include the beautiful poems he wrote here because they really show us his heart. Thanks to his father, Carl,  for sharing them:

Below are four poems written by Max. Hope was published in 1979 (Max’s Freshman year).in the Grissom High School, Huntsville, AL publication SEED. Midwinter Morning and Master Craftsman were published in the SEED in 1982 (Max’s senior year). Sunrise was written when he was twelve years old on a chalkboard to his sister’s dorm room the day we moved her in for her freshman year of college. Max started writing poetry and short stories as a child. The poem HOPE is surprisingly descriptive of his death and the renewed patriotism and spirit of cooperation among diverse groups. Max had a very strong belief that individuals should be judged by the quality of the person and not by external appearance or position.

HOPE
The earth erupts in savage fury
The land and oceans tremble
Man~{!/~}s buildings, his creations,
his world
all are gone.
His ultimate dream is filled
for he is dead.
But among the crumpled buildings and
sweeping fires
Among the utter destruction, the horrible
terror,
In the night
A child is crying.
(1979)

Midwinter Morning
The water of the pond,
stained brown from the soil of the earth
laps gently at cattails
beckoning them to play.
Beyond, Silhouetted against the cold gray sky,
bare branches wave good-bye
to the silent birds above
making their way gracefully toward the newborn sun.
From a twisted walnut tree,
a gray furball of a squirrel darts up
eagerly eying the view,
He leaps and joins the morning. 
(1982)

Master Craftsman
The controlled rhythm of his hammer
provides the backbeat for the music of his trade.
The crackles and sizzles of forming metal
make staccato runs through the score.
His sanding provides a consistent melody
as his saw shrieks and screams and rips through the scale.
Hammering, forming, sanding, make the music.
Blood and sweat are the conductors
to the Master Craftsman’s symphony.
(1982)

Sunrise
Life may get tough at times
But you must always look forward
Never toward the setting sun
for it is only a depressant
But toward the rising sun
for sunrise holds tomorrow

The more I read about him the more I thought he could have been one of my friends–smart and funny, easy-going and kind. He was willing to help people who needed it. I think I would have liked him a lot. And I’m sorry I never got the chance. My prayers go to his family on this difficult anniversay. May you know God’s peace in a new way this year.One quote from a friend sums it up well

I see the life of Max as heavier than Tai Mountain,

for I know his spirit will never disappear. 

He is in heaven now, watching over us.

You can read more about him from those who loved him here. If you are family or friends of max, please leave a comment and share more with us. We would all love to know more.

  

To see other tributes, please visit the 2,996 project.