Another Day in the Country
A brand-new boarding pass
© Another Day in the Country
It all happened so fast, my week in California with family. To pull off this first Thanksgiving together in years, we spent four of the seven precious days traveling back and forth to the airport to collect ourselves.
And now, my daughter and I once again were on our way to the airport.
“Was it worth it?” my daughter asked, knowing that I don’t travel as easily as I used to. “You mentioned how much it cost, joking about $100 a day, as if it were too expensive.”
“Of course it was worth it,” I said, “that much and more because in reality it cost each of the four of us at least that much, and that’s only the beginning of the price in dollars and cents.
“There is also the cost of lost work hours, of special foods for the event, of making choices that prevent other opportunities from transpiring, always traveling the unknown path toward togetherness.
“That’s what I meant when I was joking about $100 a day. I was reminding myself in monetary terms to pay attention, to look for every opportunity for joy, to savor what was happening and not just letting the hours together drift by.”
Jana had been doing that, too, with her lists of things to do. And now we were reviewing our precious time together as we drove to the airport.
“I’m getting you there way early,” my daughter said.
I knew she had other appointments to meet during the day, “but better early than late,” she chuckled.
We’ve had myriad trips to the airports between us as we’ve lived our lives together — many hellos and goodbyes where we try to ease the pain of parting by talking of our next trip or some occurrence in this trip that made us laugh.
Once inside the terminal, my one bag checked at sidewalk check-in, I read the list of arrivals and departures and realized that my plane was listed as two hours late.
Even one hour late could mean that I would miss my flight from Denver to Wichita because there was only one hour between my scheduled landing in Denver and my departure for Wichita.
I kept watching the kiosk and realized things were looking up. Now my plane — notice how suddenly I claim ownership of a 747 — was only one hour late.
I went to the desk to inquire about my connecting flight. A young man, also traveling but with an airport identification tag around his neck (which gave him priority), said, “Don’t worry. They won’t leave us.”
How would he know?
Our plane landed in Denver at five minutes until five o’clock (the time of departure for Wichita), and we had some extensive tarmac to cover before we even got to the gate.
“Let these people trying to catch connections deplane first,” the pilot pleaded over the intercom.
But, it seemed, the whole plane was late for one connection or another.
“I won’t leave home until I hear you’ve made the plane,” my sister texted.
I read this as I ran for the departure gate.
“Oh, no,” I thought.
I wanted her to stay on schedule unless she heard I didn’t make it because then I’d have plenty of time to text her, sitting resolute in the Denver airport.
There was no time for anything except walking fast. My running days are over.
I could see my plane to Wichita through the airport window. The walkway still was attached. I ran to the gate, but the door was closed.
I looked around frantically for the proper person, the right desk to approach, the correct flight number, and then I spied the young airport employee I’d seen in Sacramento who also was flying to Wichita, beckoning me to come over to him.
“They thought we wouldn’t make it,” he smiled. “They’ve taken us off the manifest, but they are issuing us new boarding passes.”
I was trying to catch my breath, wheezing, my eyes wide. He laughed.
“See, I told you they wouldn’t leave us,” he said in a jolly mood. “You should trust me. It’s all OK.”
Trust him? A complete stranger? A kid with a badge? A boy with very limited experience?
As I approached the gate, out of breath, probably rather frantic looking, seeing the plane I was scheduled to be on but standing there with a walkway attached and a door firmly closed, I trusted nothing.
I did have to smile at the comparison that flitted through my mind as I stood there in a brief moment before another young airport employee waved for me to come over.
I felt as if this was the end. My life had stopped. I was now standing before the future I’d imagined, even signed up for.
The doors were closed, shut tight, impenetrable, no handle to turn, no button to push, as if there never had been an opening in this stainless-steel wall. It was like death.
It seemed as if St. Peter, whom so many of us have been taught to imagine standing at some pearly gates we’ve read about or heard about, barred passage as he checked my passport, shook his head, and said, “Your name was removed from the manifest. We thought you wouldn’t make it.”
“But I did make it, Pete. Check this out, a brand new, hot off the press, boarding pass,” I thought, winking at him as I boarded the plane, flying home to Kansas, to spend another day in the country.