SHAWNEE, Okla. – Clint Seidl recalls nearly everything about the Oklahoma City bombing: the lunch lady who told him about the explosion, the three long days he waited for his mother to come home, the man who finally told his family that she never would.
Yet he doesn't remember his mother. "I hate saying it," he said. "I've got a few stories in my head, but I just don't."
Clint was 7 when Timothy McVeigh, a disillusioned Army veteran, detonated a truck bomb outside the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in downtown Oklahoma City. Clint's mom worked in the building as an investigative assistant for the Secret ÂService. When the bomb went off at 9:02 a.m. on April 19, 1995, Kathy Seidl, 39, fell nine stories to her death.
The explosion killed 168 people, including 19 children, most from the day care center. It was the deadliest terrorist attack on U.S. soil until 9/11.
Kathy's only child quickly became one of the bombing's most heartbreaking and memorable victims. He forged ahead without reluctance or self-pity. He prepared testimony for McVeigh's trial, lobbied Congress for a swifter death penalty and broke ground for a memorial with Vice President Al Gore.
Clint became the stoic one. The one who stayed dry-eyed during the trial while seasoned journalists wept. The one who grew up to deal with pain by going for a long drive. The one who learned to suffer alone.
"I've always kind of been the 'it is what it is' guy," Clint said. Now 27, he's raising a family of his own.
He's not one to commemorate his mother's death, or make a big fuss each April 19. He'd rather stay busy and try to ignore the date's significance. "I really don't want to relive it every year," he said.
He may have to this year, because for the first time as an adult, Clint will attend Oklahoma City's annual memorial ceremony on Sunday — and face memories he's long avoided.
Clint didn't join the Secret Service like his mother. He chose plumbing, like his father. The two share a business in this Oklahoma City suburb.
About 10 days a month, Clint also works a 24-hour shift at the Shawnee Fire Department. He said the job provides income and good health insurance. His father laughed at that explanation and said firefighting Âfulfills Clint's desire to help others. "I'm proud of Clint," said Glenn Seidl.
Clint and his dad became inseparable after Kathy's death. They took fishing trips, practiced baseball and ate way too many pot roast dinners, one of the few meals his father could cook. Glenn taught his son how to do plumbing work — and how to tease old Dad about it. Clint's wife, Geordan, said the men needle each other for not pulling their weight on the job.
Clint is tall, 6-foot-2, with broad shoulders and a slight beard. He gets his build, and his even-keeled nature, from his mom. But the rest, he gets from his dad: his chin-up attitude, a slow-talking, vowel-heavy manner of speech, hair that looks unnatural unless confined by a baseball cap.
Father and son also cope in similar ways. Each said the other works to avoid painful memories.
Glenn has a thick gray mustache and a broken heart tattoo on his arm. "As a reminder," he said, "of how life can be taken away so quick."
He lives alone in a brick house on a hill in eastern Oklahoma. It's a man's home: sparsely decorated, with two sofas, an easy chair and a TV. His four dogs have the run of the place.
"I'm doing all right," he said. He admitted, though, that he never Âimagined such a solitary life.
Clint recalls only fragments of his mom. He remembers the Secret Service agents who stayed with his family afterward and let him wear their badges. He remembers seeing his mom's body at the funeral home and not believing it was her. He doesn't remember her funeral at all.
After the bombing, Clint said, "I became pretty insensitive." Today, he's not as "nurturing" with his kids as he thinks he should be.
His wife said Clint is a good dad in other ways to Amari, 8, and sons Lundan, 5, and Zeke, 1.
But parenthood has tested Clint. His need to be alone conflicts with his desire for closeness.
Becoming a father has also changed feelings about the bombing. For years, Clint lamented growing up without a mom. Now, he grieves more for her, because she missed out on being a mother and grandmother.
"Man, what a bad deal," he said. "She would have been the crazy baseball mom with the foam finger. … She really got cheated — and not just her. There were a lot of other people, too."
