Captain John Ogonowski
American Airlines Flight 11
âDad, I need help with my math!â1
John Ogonowskiâs eldest daughter, Laura, called out to her father the second he stepped inside his familyâs farmhouse in rural Dracut, Massachusetts.
âLaura!â yelled her mother, Margaret âPegâ Ogonowski, in response. âLet him walk in the door!â
Fifty years old, six feet tall and country-boy handsome, John gazed at his wife and sixteen-year-old daughter. His smile etched deep crinkles in the ruddy skin around his blue eyes. Dinner hour was near, and Peg suspected that John felt equal parts tired and happy to be home. As darkness fell on September 10, 2001, heâd just driven from Bostonâs Logan International Airport after piloting an American Airlines flight from Los Angeles. A day earlier, heâd flown west on American Flight 11, a daily nonstop from Boston to Los Angeles.
After twenty-three years as a commercial pilot, Johnâs normal routine upon returning home was to go directly to the master bedroom and strip out of his navy-blue captainâs uniform with the silver stripes on the sleeves. Heâd pull on grease-stained jeans and a work shirt, then head to the enormous barn on the familyâs 130-acre farm, located thirty miles north of Boston, near the New Hampshire border. Quiet by nature, content working with his calloused hands, John inhaled the perfume of fresh hay bales and unwound by tackling one of the endless jobs that came with being a farmer who also flew jets.
But on this day, to Pegâs surprise, John broke his routine. Changing clothes and doing chores would wait. Still in uniform, he sat at the kitchen counter with Laura and her geometry problems. âLetâs remember,â he often told his girls, âmath is fun.â Theyâd roll their eyes, but they liked to hear him say it.
Homework finished, the family enjoyed a dinner of chicken cutlets, capped by Johnâs favorite dessert, ice cream. Also at dinner that night were Pegâs parents, visiting from New York; his fatherâs brother Al, who lived nearby; and their younger daughters Caroline, fourteen, and Mary, eleven.
At one point, Peg noticed something missing from Johnâs uniform shirt. âDid you go to work without your epaulets?â she asked. âI had to stop for gas,â John said. Heâd removed the shoulder decorations so he wouldnât look showy, like one of those pilots who seemed to expect the world to salute them.
Johnâs modesty and quiet confidence had attracted Peg nineteen years earlier, when she was a junior flight attendant for American. John had joined the airline as a flight engineer after serving in the Air Force during the Vietnam War, when he flew C-141 transport planes back and forth across the Pacific. Some of his return flights bore flag-draped coffins. In his early years at American, John was a rare bird: an unmarried pilot, easy on the eyes, respectful to all. On a flight out of Phoenix, a savvy senior flight attendant urged Peg to speak with him. When they landed in Boston he got her number.
They were married in less than a year. By the end of the decade John had been promoted to captain, Peg had risen in seniority, and they had three daughters. All that, plus their White Gate Farm, growing hay and picking fruit from three hundred blueberry bushes and an orchard of a hundred fifty peach trees John planted himself. Every spring, they put in pumpkins and corn to sell at Johnâs parentsâ farm a couple of miles down the road, where heâd learned to drive a tractor at the age of eight. Peg often joked that the classic John Deere in their barn was her pilot husbandâs other jet.
John and Peg continued to work for American Airlines throughout their marriage, with John flying a dozen days a month and Peg working about the same. They alternated flight schedules so one or the other could be with the girls. When that failed, their families pitched in. John had spent a chunk of his career flying international routes, but the overnight flights wore him down, and heâd recently been recertified on the Boeing 767, the wide-bodied pride of Americanâs domestic fleet. Lately heâd been flying regularly on the BostonâLos Angeles route, often on Flight 11, which Peg had flown hundreds of times as well.
John was scheduled to fly again the next morning, another six-hour trip to California, but he decided he didnât want to leave home so soon after returning from the West Coast. Also, federal agriculture officials and a team from Tufts University were coming to the farm in the morning to discuss a program John felt passionate about.2 He and Peg had set aside a dozen acres to allow Cambodian immigrant farmers to grow bok choy, water spinach, pigweed, and other traditional Asian vegetables, to sell at markets and to feed their families. John plowed for the immigrants and rarely collected the two-hundred-dollar monthly rent. He built greenhouses for early spring planting, provided water from the farmâs pond, and taught the new Americans about New Englandâs unforgiving soil, crop-killing pests, and short planting season. Soon the Ogonowskisâ White Gate Farm was designated the first âmentor farmâ for immigrants. When a reporter stopped by, John heaped credit on the Cambodians: âThese guys are putting more care3 and attention into their one acre than most Yankee farmers put into their entire hundred acres.â
After dinner, John went to the desktop computer in the TV room. He logged in to the American Airlines scheduling system, hoping that another pilot wanted to pick up an extra trip. A match would turn Johnâs onscreen schedule green, allowing him to stay on the farm on September 11. He tried several times, with the same result each time.
âIâm just getting red lights,â he told Peg.
The farm tour would go on without him, while once again John would serve as captain of American Airlines Flight 11, nonstop from Boston to Los Angeles.