Attack of the Killer Tomato-Killer

Yesterday was to be my summer annual “Homemade Pizza Day,” which is not so much a one-time-a-year event as it is an all-summer, every-summer event. Its inception was to celebrate my first ever crop of fresh tomatoes and basil, and my love of provolone. This year’s maiden voyage event was timed to celebrate my first tomato of the season, and my fast-growing basil and oregano.

To Be Young and Free

Andrea is a quiet girl, the naturally pretty sort whose straight, white smile and warm, dark eyes make men and women alike want to talk to her. But she’s shy, and a bit uneasy engaging in conversation with new people. She doesn’t seem confident in what she’s saying at all times, which has made me wonder whether she’s had strong female influences in her life, or whether anyone ever told her she’s smart. The women in my own family were always so brash and sassy, I never had a prayer of being quiet.

Lobster Claws & Doggy Paws

Patrick stayed over last night, in “his” room–the one guest room that is furnished to date, in which he is the only person who stays–to help me dig up shrub roots today. It was some quality family time. I did regret telling him to come on over, at least for a little bit. Though I feel lonely and cut off from the world lately, I do enjoy my alone time and hate to give it up unnecessarily. That said, when he and Biscuit and Wyatt Earp hit the scene, I was glad to have the company and the extra furry bodies to wrangle–speaking of the pets, of course.

Neither Here Nor There

In not having internet when I returned from Kansas, I missed many opportunities to channel my complex feelings into blog posts.  Most of my posts are far from complex, so that’s just as well.

The return trip was decent.  I did have one arm-wrestling match with a space hog on my longest flight.  She insisted on using not only more than her share of the mutual armrest, but also snuck her elbow approximately six inches into my personal space.  To compound matters, the cuff on her elbow-length sleeve also stuck out beyond her elbow.  It is beyond me how a decent-looking, middle-aged woman could feel the need to munch her fresh bag of carrots with her mouth open…but I digress.

We flew over the Iowa floods en route.  I could not believe the devastation!  It was one thing to have seen it on television, but the same view from the window of an airplane was truly shocking.  All those cornfields, and lawns, and toys, and baby trees, and dreams, washed over and still spookily visible….  I had lived in Manhattan, Kansas for about a year before I discovered that, if the dam broke, the town would flood almost instantly and most of us would be killed.  I wondered how many of us live right next to disasters just waiting to happen.  It probably ought to be included in the purchase contract of one’s house, eh?  Or perhaps we do not wish to know.

So I came back feeling a little disconnected from here.  My internet was down, my pets had been happy during their vacation at Patrick’s house, and the lawn was much taller and lusher than when I’d left.  I missed our storewide meeting–partly by choice–and walked into work on Monday feeling out of sorts and pretty freaking sad.  The first person who asked me how my vacation was watched my eyes well up with tears.  My boss had me shut the door, and he let me cry while he talked about understanding the family side of things.  He shared a lot about his own family obligations and why he continues to work.  (I have said he is a moron of a boss, and that I hate working for him; but I should probably also mention that he is a hell of a nice old man and a good father.)  It took me a good while to get my crap together.

On Tuesday, I drove to New Hampshire for a meeting of my fellow Operations Managers.  It was too soon for me to make such a long drive, leaving me to think and consider my options.  At that point, I was still very excited and hopeful about a job opportunity with another company, one that would allow me to open my own franchise and be very supported by the company while I built an identity in my community.  But I also couldn’t get Kansas out of my head.  I could have sought the same opportunity there, if I’d wanted.  I just wasn’t sure whether I wanted.  I enjoyed the trees–and the fast, yet courteous drivers–in NH, though after a few hours I began to feel very claustrophobic.  I’d just come from the wide open spaces of the Great Plains, and now I could not see a quarter mile in any direction.  I started to wonder why I like trees so much.

On Wednesday, I went to the regional headquarters of company S.  I could have sworn it was actually a front for the CIA, all institutional and filled with security and locked doors and magnetic key passes.  I had to wear a badge.  The recruiter came to collect me, and walked me through long, webbed hallways full of more locked doors, into an open area with cubicles  and serious-looking women, and into his office.  He talked about the opportunity in front of me, and how great I’d be, and he coached me on how to pass the test.  He told me that the exact location I wanted was open, and that I’d have virtually no competition for it.  All I had to do was pass the test–a comparative analysis with others who’d achieved success in the same position–and get through the battery of interviews.

I failed the test.

He said he didn’t have the results immediately, but I could tell from the way he shuttled me toward the back door at full speed that company S wasn’t pleased with my honest, from-the-hip answers.  He said he’d call.  He didn’t.  Instead, he went straight to his computer, printed out a standard rejection notice, and raced it to the mailbox so I’d get it the next morning.  Some balls on that guy.

For a few moments when I opened the letter, home on my lunch break from the job I absolutely hate, I thought about marching straight over to the realtor across the street and announcing that I want to sell my house.  The house I loved, the house I had to have, the house I swore I’d lovingly restore to its former glory and make a showpalace for the magic of historic homes.  I thought, I’ll go back to Kansas and become a painter with my mother, and take over the family business.  I’ll marry a lame farmer and have some babies and just do what I’m supposed to for once. 

Then I took a good look around.  Walls still a dirty, cracked white…windows still broken and unpainted…floors gappy and somewhat sanded off…junk everywhere, in every nook and cranny….  Who would want it?  I don’t even want it.  Ina Hall is far from any sort of glory.  It’s hardly even livable.  While the title implies I live in a Million Dollar Zoo, it’s really more like a Hundred Thousand Dollar Barn.  It’s a mess, and it’s worth no more today than when I bought it.  And unfortunately, unless something changes drastically in my life, this is how it will stay.  I’m clean out of renovation money.

So where do I go?  What do I do?  Can’t be here, can’t go home.  For the first time in my life, I’m actually frightened of what comes next.  If I stay in my current situation, my finances will continue to teeter dangerously on the edge of bankruptcy.  If I sell out and go home, I’ll still be in for a big capital outlay and will end up in the hole–not to mention feeling like a failure.  I’m actually, for maybe the first time, scared to make a move.  I don’t feel like I can recognize “right” anymore.

I miss The Bill.  I miss his “It don’t matter” and ” ‘f it happens it happens, it don’t it don’t.”  Mostly I miss the way he made me believe that things were going to work out, either way–not because life is so great, but because it’s not, and we just deal with it and move on.  I’m afraid to move on.  Can’t be here, can’t go home.  That’s where I’m at.

Technical (and Other) Difficulties

So this is my first day with internet service in, like, six days.

A lot has happened, and nothing has happened.  In those six days, I’ve taken four airplanes; eaten an airport pretzel to (unsuccessfully) avoid “The Grouchies;” thought about moving home to Kansas; realized I can never move home to Kansas; waded through foot-tall weeds in my yard after nine straight-ish days of rain; wished I could start my own mower, then realized it is far too wet to mow; received a citation from the Village of HF regarding said weeds and their excess of 10 inches; gotten excited about a dream job I really wanted; pre-hired my staff for said dream job; taken a personality assessment for said dream job; failed it horribly (or maybe not horribly, but enough to have failed it); thought non-stop about my grandma and George the Dog and my friends back home; enjoyed bean dip with my bud Shelly Belly, who appeared, I presume, to get me out of my back-from-Kansas funk; watched Katie murder two squeakers; yelled at my boss; yelled near my boss; driven three hours to a meeting in New Hampshire and listened to HIS boss lie about how great the new setup is at work, even though we layed a bunch of people off and my job just grew by three times; placed a desperate lonely call to The Bill, begging for some kind of attention; heard nothing from The Bill, of course, because he still hates my guts and I am somewhat pathetic; got my first actual comments from Ry on my blog, even though I had no way of seeing them; spent five hours on three seperate occasions with Verizon Tech Support; talked to associates in India and in Canada, and ate all the negative words I’ve ever said about outsourced tech support; learned a bunch of new things on my computers while trying to trouble shoot it myself; wondered whether I should “troubled shoot” myself; slept almost none; ate way too little; wished I had cable but realized I still can’t afford it; got excited when the citation from HF was not actually a bill!; wondered whether any of this bs is worth staying here for.

So, like I said, you haven’t missed much.

I have a hungry dog who needs new squeakers.  More later.

The Magic of This Giant Sky

The sky here, I think I’ve mentioned before, is the biggest sky in the known universe. I imagine that people who exist on boats in the middle of the ocean are the only others who know a sky this big–only their picture exists in only limited colors and patterns. Out here, not only is the horizon a completely straight line, but the land leading up to it is a multitude of ever-changing hues and prints, morphing daily as crops grow and moisture giveth-and-taketh-away intensity. Storm clouds and nothing clouds and chemicals hanging in the air combine to play with the sun and create amazing technicolor canvasses in the sky. It is a brilliant thing to see in the evening, but an even more brilliant thing to wake up to in the morning. And I manage to miss it, each and every morning.

“Hey There, Georgie Girl!”

For about an hour, we drove around the farm; up in the corn field; along the highway; over to the old Delmar George place; in and out of all the shops; along the ditch for a mile in each direction; and we called out to the poor old dog. She was nowhere. Her food had not been touched all day. We came to accept that this was not a rescue mission. It was, as they say, a recovery.

Long Term Caring

Grandma Libby has 18 grandchildren, and to be honest, I’ve completely lost track of how many great-grandchildren. At 87, she’s lived a long and full life. Perhaps not so full over the past few years, but we all slow down in the end I suppose. We’ve always had a special relationship–which is not to say that she doesn’t share equally special relationships with all her grandkids–and I think she knows, at least I hope she knows, that she’s my hero.

The Art of Farming Cats

Farm Cats (AKA Barn Cats) are never bought and sold, they are merely traded occasionally for other Farm Cats. Much inbreeding occurs, as they are never fixed; and disease can run through families like a passenger train. So every once in a while, you make a trade eith a neighboring farmer in order to mix up the bloodlines, inject some healthy ones/get rid of the less healthy ones, or get the breeding started again. Farm Cats serve pretty much one and only one purpose: keep the rodents away, to keep the snakes away, to keep it safe to walk around the farm. And if a Farm Cat is occasionally run down by a pickup truck, or sucked up in a farm implement, or shot instead of a rabbit by mistake, so be it. There are plenty more where that one came from.

The Loneliness of George

“The George Dog” started coming over in the night, scrounging for food and trampling my mother’s flowers. Not exactly pet people, my parents were not thrilled. My mother kept threatening to shoot her. (Somehow my mother enjoys shooting living beings. It is not a trait I share.) But Moby seemed to like her, and because they are not completely heartless, they started putting out some food for the poor starving dog. Pretty soon she was coming around in the daytime, just to visit.

Leavin’ on a Jetplane (aka Longest Post Ever)

My day began last night, when I loaded up two grumpy cats and a well-behaved dog in a MINI Clubman and headed for their shelter for the coming week:  Patrick’s house.  The cats were displeased, to put it mildly, at being shoved together into a plastic tub.  They were even less pleased to find themselves, inside said tub, being shoved together in a car with that ferocious dog.

It was hot.  Hot, and sticky, and past their dinnertime.  I hadn’t fed the cats when I got home from work, knowing that the sensitivity of Carter’s senior stomach didn’t lend itself to full-tummy traveling.  When we scrambled into Coco the MINI, Willie began to wail like a banshee, out of hunger and fear.  It didn’t stop for twenty minutes.  Adding to the drama, it started to rain a few miles into the journey–so we had to make do with maximum A/C instead of the fresh air of the sun roof.  Carter stayed in the box, and threw up almost immediately…and then proceeded to lie down in it and stay there.  (He really had little choice.  There was a dog in the car, after all.)  The only bright spot in the trip was that Katie behaved herself remarkably well, and only tried to eat Willie once.

I fell asleep on Patrick’s couch, having settled the pets into their respective places:  Carter, atop the fridge; Willie, under the bed; Katie, on the living room rug and sniffing for cats; Biscuit, wherever the food was; and Wyatt Earp, high in the rafters and looking way pissed.  I was awakened in the middle of the night by the sweet sounds of my alarm clock playing Miley Cyrus.  It was off to the airport.

My flight to Chicago was to leave at 5:45.  Somehow I didn’t think that at this time on a Sunday morning, there would be much traffic at the Albany airport.  I was mistaken.  There WAS quite a crowd, and they all happened to be standing in line at MY airline.  I had given myself just under an hour to get checked in and through security.  Unfortunately, for the first time ever, I had paper tickets and was not able to check myself in–so I had to stand at the end of that long line.  I hate that.  I don’t check bags.  I’m a master packer, and I refuse to wait at a baggage claim, so I carry on my one (not even cheating, perfectly sized) suitcase and a large “purse” with all my most important items:  liquids, money, books, cell phone charger, camera, and this time, a laptop.

In line, I stood behind a rather sophisticated-looking older woman dressed in linen and dragging a rather large artist’s portfolio.  She turned around and asked me if it was hot and humid in here.  I replied, “I don’t know, are you supposed to be able to slice the air with your hand?”  We got to talking.  She was headed to an art show in Jackson Hole.  I guessed that she would be joining me on the Chicago-Denver leg as well, and I was right.  We became buddies right away.

Nancy waited for me to check in behind her, and we headed for our gate.  She was now about 50 pounds lighter, having offloaded some luggage and her portfolio.  We strolled through security and stuck together (I waited while they searched her bag–I guess she did look pretty suspicious, what with the $400 outfit and knitting supplies and all), and when we got to our plane it was already boarding. 

I was seated in an exit row on the wing, which I absolutely love!  More leg room, and being at the pivot point really helps when the air gets choppy.  Nancy was seated in the row ahead, and turned to note the empty seat next to me.  “I’ll sit with you if nobody shows up!”  I don’t normally make friends or talk to people when I’m flying.  You should know that about me.  I read books, and I keep to myself.  But I was actually disappointed when another woman–a needy type, the kind who has a question or request for the flight attendant every time she passes–sat next to me.  I had wanted to get to know the cool older lady who flies off to art shows.  Still, it gave me a great start on my book, which I hadn’t started yet and was determined would not make me cry like a little girl.

When we rolled in to Chicago, it was grey and rainy.  I had done my usual study of the airport diagram, even though I’d been through O’Hare several times, and I knew that for once I would not have to race to make my connection.  I saw Nancy get off ahead of me, but I got tied up waiting for my larger carry-on, which had been stowed underneath the plane for safekeeping.  When I caught up to her, it was in the line for the shuttle.  She was about teneo of me in line.  When the line began to move, I saw her go out through the door–and then the line stopped.  That was all they could take.  But then the attendant called out, “Singles?  Who’s the next single?  I have room for one!”  Everyone ahead of me looked to his or her side.  They were all pairs.  (Ha!  Reason number 32 why it pays to be alone!)  I hopped right up to the front, and caught up with my buddy.

“I waited for you outside the gate, I didn’t see you!”  Nancy said.  For a minute, I thought she had avoided me.  But we stuck together for the remainder of the wait for our next flight.  We found two seats together, and she knitted while she told me about her life.  Turns out, she and her husband are the biggest sheep farmers in the country.  They raise sheep for milk, and it gets made into cheese.  I’ve even driven by their farm, on my way to Massachusetts.  I told her about my dream of opening my own insurance agency.  By the end of our conversation, she had me in business school getting my MBA.  And I was invited down to the farm.

After what seemed like an eternity–but was really more like forty minutes–we boarded the plane bound for Denver.  Nancy was in the row behind me, just across the aisle.  Close enough that we were still together, but not close enough to talk.  But now I found a new buddy!  I never caught her name, but I can tell you she’s best friends with Jesus.

We sat in one of the outer sections of the Boeing 767, on the wing, just behind the lavatory.  The galley was to my immediate left, so the army of (gay cliche’) flight attendants were seated next to me.  I didn’t notice at the time, but it became important:  the galley, its cabinets and closet, and the two outer lavatories were all connected as one unit, with two aisles on either side of the galley.  This was the twentieth row, so it was fairly slow getting on, and would be slow getting off.  We sat until our scheduled departure time…and we sat…and we sat.  We were told that lightning was preventing them from completing the loading of the aircraft. 

As we sat, I began talking to the woman seated next to me.  She was Mexican-American, from Tennessee.  She was on her way to Dodge City, Kansas (Bonus!  new travel buddy!) to visit her sister.  She desperately wanted to call her husband, Hector, but couldn’t figure out how to use her new Samsung Glide.  So she handed it to me.  Seemed simple enough…only it wasn’t.  And then it was time to turn off cell devices, and we couldn’t get it turned off.  Nothing worked.  Somehow it had been programmed so that the power button was not the power button!  I pestered the most gay flight attendant for help, and he said, “Of course,” with a look on his face that said we were total idiots.  But he couldn’t figure it out either.  So he passed it to another flight attendant.  And this went on and on.  Finally I suggested, “Why don’t we take out the battery?”  So that’s what he did.  Poor little Travel Buddy!  After being delayed the day before and having to spend the night at the airport Hilton, she was now being delayed on the tarmac by both lightning AND mobile phone technology.

Not quite forty-five minutes late, we rolled away from the gate.  The lightning cell had passed, and the remaining rain was deemed safe enough to fly in.  As we took off, however, an announcement was made that we were expecting some turbulence, so the flight attendants would not begin serving right away. 

“Some turbulence” must be code for, “We hope you don’t watch Lost, ’cause hold on to your asses!”  It began with a little bump on the ascent.  Then another little bump.  Then a series of horrid, giant bumps.  Then  there was the oddest banging sound.  And here’s a bad sign, if you ever need an example of one:  a gay flight attendant reaches across the aisle, touches my arm, and with wide eyes, inquisits, “Did you hear that?  What was that sound??”

Trying very hard not to panic–I AM a Lost fan–I sputtered back, “Uh, I think it’s the suitcases falling against the inside of the closet?”  But the flight attendants were in a dither.  All three of them.  “No, no, look at the bathroom!  It’s moving!”  And sure enough, as the outer tube of the guts of the airplane moved in one direction, like a carnival roller coaster gone off its track, the lavatory and galley moved in the other.  It was like a brother giving an Indian burn, you know?  One hand twisting your arm one way, and twisting the other direction with the other hand.  The plane seemed to be coming apart at the seam, right at the most stable part of the aircraft, where I always sit on purpose.  And you know what else was coming apart?  My stomach.

My new little buddy reached over with her tiny little hand, and said reassuringly, “It’s okay, God is watching out for us.”  Okay, I thought, I certainly hope so.  I nodded in agreement…and I may have talked to God a little in my head.  And then, as only a sweet, tiny little Mexican American can do and get away with it, she said in her thick accent, “You have Jesus in your heart, right?  It’s not to late to let him in your heart!”  Ordinarily, that kind of comment would make me want to puke.  But my puke reflexes were already busy.  So I thought it was kind of sweet.  I told her maybe I’d have to consider it real quick.

The flight settled down after about fifteen minutes, and I read a good portion of my book.  I cursed my friend, though, who gave it to me.  I had not wanted to sob like a crazy idiot on this vacation–for once–but I had already cried several times on two planes.  I became so engrossed in it that I was startled when some strange woman, who had been loitering in the galley, grabbed my arm and asked whether I had any dramamine.

As we landed in Denver, I pointed out the section of the airport My Buddy and I would need to get to.  And the plane taxied about as far away from there as it could get.  She was nervous, having never been to Denver before and not being much of a traveler, so I told her to stick with me.  I was an old pro.  Unfortunately, I was an old pro who didn’t have much idea how late we were arriving, and exactly what time my flight was taking off.

We began to exit the plane after the pursor made an announcement asking anyone whose final destination was Denver to remain seated until those making connecting flights could get off.  We’d taken off late, and many of us would have to run!  Everyone on the plane stood up, and two women in particular from the rear of the plane frantically asked everyone else to let them pass.  Their connection was about to leave!  One of the women, in particular, became quite beligerent because the traffic was not moving.  The door of the aircraft was not even open yet, and she was insisting rather loudly that she needed to deboard first.  She was traveling with a small child and had a connection to make.  After her fourth request, as the crowd began to move forward, the gayest flight attendant–my hero–said to her snottily, “You know what?  Everyone on this plane has somewhere else to be.  There is no reason why they should let you pass.  Get over it.”

“The difference is I’m traveling with a small child,” she spat back, “that’s the difference.”  This further proved my theory that stupid people who have children are the most self-absorbed bastards on earth.

We were moving forward now, and I asked My Buddy to stay close to me.  I saw Nancy ahead of me, pulled over to the side.  She looked at me almost in admonishment, and said, “I’m letting the lady pass.”  She was rolling her eyes a little bit, but her example was a polite one.  So as we neared the front of the plane, I pulled My Buddy off to the side and we let the lady and her child go ahead of us.  She just glared at me as she passed, and I was immediately sorry.  I was even MORE sorry as many others crowded in behind her and passed us as well!

My Buddy and I entered the terminal and looked for the big board.  We backtracked over to it and looked for our flights.  I saw hers first, and noted the gate.  Then I caught my own, and saw it was leaving fromt the same walkout gate as hers, and it showed “on time.”  Not “boarding,” not “departed,” but “on time.”  I saw that it was to take off at 10:35.  I looked at the clock.  10:28.

“We have to run!” I said to my buddy, and grabbed her arm.  Only I didn’t see at first which way to go!  Denver is a relatively easy airport when you are taking off, you see; but not necessarily when you are landing.  The signs are too far between, and the directional arrows are somewhat vague.  I took a stab at it and turned left, which turned out to be correct.

My Buddy, I think I mentioned, was a tiny little woman.  Under five feet tall.  So even though she was moving as fast as her little legs could carry her, I was taking only half as many steps as I would have liked.  We came to a crossroads, which was somewhat familiar, and I wanted the signs to tell me which way to our terminal–but they didn’t.  We went ahead and jogged a little further, and finally saw the arrow down to the trains.  As we came up to the escalators, we saw that they were clogged with people who were, apparently, NOT about to miss their flights.  You know, the kind who stand on it instead of walking down, and who place their bags next to them so that you cannot pass.  “Excuse us!” I kept hollering, and they just looked at me in bewilderment.

We arrived at the tubes, and it was not clear at first which way to go.  I knew which train I’d gotten on last time; but I didn’t know whether both trains went to both terminals, or if I was about to head us in the wrong direction.  Just as I firmly decided to go for that familiar train, its doors closed.  We were forced to wait.  “Now, listen, when we do get on the train and then get back off, there will be more running.  It’s aaaaaaaaaall the way to the seeming end of the terminal, and then down some stairs, and then aaaaaaaaall the way to the end for real.  Okay?”  She nervously nodded agreement.

We finally boarded and deboarded, and ran like hell–at least, she was running like hell.  I was running at half-speed.  We entered the people-movers and pushed past people who were just standing on them.  (Apparently some people think they are for standing on instead of for moving you more quickly.  Amateurs!)  We got to the escalators again to go down to ground level for the walk-on gates, and again we ended up behind senior citizens who insisted on stretching all the way across the escalators!  But we finally made it to the bottom, and began to jog again.  “It’s not much farther!” I reassured her.

Now, this whole time, I must have told her a half dozen times that they would not leave us.  “Our planes will only have like ten people a piece, they know we arrived late, they’ll wait.”  It seemed to make her feel better.  Only when we darted up to the counter at Gate 61, it turned out I was a liar.  “Garden City!  Is Garden City still at this gate?”  I know that they like to scramble the small planes at the last minute and change the posted gates.

“Uh, that plane left, like, five minutes ago,” said the confused girl behind the counter.  “You missed it.”

My whole body sank and I dropped my bags.  “Dude, our plane just came in from Chicago!  We ran all the way,” I whined. 

The other girl looked even less sympathetic as she said, “Well, we kept calling you, but obviously you were late.  So they took off.”  I could have smacked her.

“What about Dodge City?” My Buddy asked, eyes wide.  Oh, that flight is boarding in a few minutes, they replied encouragingly.

“Listen,” I stared at them, “I want on that Dodge City flight.  Can we make that happen?”  They seemed confused.  The next Garden City flight leaves at 1:40, they told me.  “Dodge City.  Can I get on it?”  They picked up their phones and started helping other customers.  Another woman was standing nearby, and they told her she could go to Dodge City if she wanted.  She seemed to be debating it, and they were waiting for her to decide.  After several minutes, and as I was furiously dialing my cell phone looking for my parents (who were no doubt already on their way to Garden City to pick me up), I grabbed their attention with a louder voice.  “Can you send me on that flight to Dodge City or not??”

They looked at one another in confusion.  “But…what about your bags?” 

“I DON’T HAVE ANY CHECKED BAGS.  It wouldn’t matter anyway.  Just change me!”

“You don’t want the next Garden City flight?”  Girl with the Scrunched face asked, dumb as a box of rocks. 

“Why would I wait three hours for another plane when my ride can drive thirty miles and pick me up in an hour?  Do you have a seat or not?”  I was losing patience.  And the plane was about to board.

Girl with the Scrunched face tapped her little fingers on the keyboard, and begrudgingly handed me a ticket to Dodge City.  “Thank you,” I said calmly.  I finally got my parents, who were in fact already in Garden City, and re-routed them.  Meanwhile, My Buddy had found herself a seat and was reading her Bible or something.  “I’ll be on  your flight now.”

We boarded with eight others on the type of twin engine prop plane where the pilots have to do all the talking.  After the (humorous) safety briefing, one of the pilots asked, “Any questions?”

I was sitting over the wheels.  “Yeah,” I said, “how do you get the beverage cart over this hump?”  One guy thought I was serious.

The engines were noisy, which made conversation impossible.  I finished my whole book, and cried my eyes out.  It was the best thing I ever read.  I tried to wipe the tears and the snot from my face before everyone on the plane decided I was crazy.  I had finished reading about thirty minutes out from Dodge, so I looked out the window at the familiar Kansas patchwork of squares and circles, farmsteads sprinkled here and there.  I love Kansas from the sky!

My dad had warned me that the flight would be rough.  I probably should have warned the people around me.  When the pilot said that the weather in Dodge was “sunny, ninety degrees, forty-mile-an-hour winds,” I just laughed.  As we descended, the plane began to jolt hard from side-to-side, up-amd-down.  The guy behind me grabbed his barf bag only half in jest.  My Buddy looked scared.  I leaned over to her, and with nothing to say about Jesus, tried to reassure her, “Don’t worry.  My dad is a pilot and he said this was going to be rough.  But these guys fly through these winds every day.”  She smiled and thanked me.

We all applauded in our heads as our pilots landed the plane safely at the World’s Tiniest Airport.  I was home.  Well, almost.

Little Russ and Me

Tim is still a regular weekend visitor to my house. His ability to soak the truth out of people, to get right down to the point of an argument, to direct the conversation toward the common ground, staggers me. Without thinking too much about it, I’ve allowed him to shape a lot of the thoughts I have about American politics.