Well, This is New

Yesterday was one of my usual days. Dashing to airport at 4AM for a 6AM flight. A little different in that I was flying the worst airline in America..USAir. Got the airport a little before 5AM, got my boarding pass with little fuss, stood in line for TSA. After the obligatory comments by the TSA guy about my name, "Are you Jolly today?" Wow! I haven't heard that one!

Over the past several years I have developed a system for going through security. First of all, I only wear slip-on shoes. My 3-1-1 articles are in an outside pocket of my rollerboard. But I send my backpack through first, then my laptop, then the bin with my shoes/belt/wallet/cellphone/3-1-1 bag, then my rollerboard. Most of the airports are now using the body-scanner, rather than the metal-detector, so I keep my boarding pass in my hand, dutifully step into the scanner, raise my hands over my head and stand still from 3 seconds. If the TSA folks are getting their giggles by looking at us via the scanner, they aren't giggling much about my image. Let's just say they pass me through there pretty quick, no mulligans. Then when I get to the other side and grab my stuff, my laptop goes quickly into my backpack and slung out of the way over my shoulder, I stuff the 3-1-1 bag back into the outside pocket and set the rollerboard on the ground, then  shoes dropped on the floor so I can slip them on while putting on my belt, followed by slipping my wallet in my pocket, and snapping my cellphone to my belt. It took me longer to type this process than it does for me to actually accomplish the procedure. According to my youngest, I have become one of those impatient business travelers. I prefer to think that I simply have a system that works, so get out of my way while you fumble around for all your stuff.

Yesterday, however, something happened that completely disrupted my routine.

The power went out. TSA was completely shut down. I had exited the body-scanner. My four pieces of luggage and bins were stuck smack in the middle of the X-ray tube. I would say that I would normally be standing there, looking at my watch, making sure everyone knew that this was a huge problem. However, I don't wear a watch. So I stood there with only the 6 articles of clothes (Socks count as two) and no ID, no cellphone, no money, no credit cards, no nothing. I was stuck between two worlds, the outside world prior to security, and the 20' or so of being made secure, and the world where all have been cleared and are secure. I was a few feet away, yet stuck at the mercy of the TSA.

As I stood there, holding my pants up like a teenage hip-hop star, looking back down the tube for my various security blankets, a scenario popped into my head. What if I had to make my way with only what I had at that moment? My identity would have to be established. Could I convince the folks around me that my worth was wound up in who I was and not what I have (which was not much at the moment)? Whom could I trust? Who would trust me? Where would I go? How would I fend for myself? It was an insightful moment. I realized that the traits and habits and personal makeup would have to be enough, that my gifts and my foibles had all made through Security, but none of the crutches that I had come to rely on. I am me whether I have the little card from Texas to prove it or not. It was a moment of self-reflection that was long overdue.

They had to snake my stuff out of the X-ray tube with a long pole. Then a young man had to completely take my backpack and rollerboard apart for scanning on the machine looking for bomb residue. Each clothing article was carefully inspected. I remarked to the young man that he was lucky that I was outbound and everything was clean. Coming home would have been an entirely different story for both of us. He seemed to appreciate the import of the statement. He simply said, "No kidding." We both chuckled about it and I realized that this would be the way I would rebuild my identity, humor with human interaction. Sharing the events with a philosophy not bound up in "Why me?" but "Why not me?"

Finally I was allowed into the promised land and allowed to catch my flight, my stuff back in place, my clothes unpacked and repacked (hurriedly) my cellphone and link to the world by my side once again. But it made me look at my stuff a little differently. It is stuff, not me. The only way this could have been more revealing would have been a strip search in full view. Nakedness can be attained without taking your clothes off, it is the stripping away of all the supports and crutches we have devised to "clothe" us from the world.

Godspeed out there to the travelers on the journey. Every once in while we need to take an inventory without our stuff and see what we have.
Don

On The Go..

This past weekend marked the third weekend in a row that we had obligations beyond our house. Several weekends ago we went to OKC to support my grandson in his first 5K. Then we were in Amarillo for a baseball game, dance recital (different events for different grandkids, just to be clear, my grandson had the baseball game, my granddaughter had the dance recital)  Then this past weekend we were in Cleveland, TN for the wedding of some of our oldest friend's (tenure, not chronological) eldest daughter's wedding.

As it turned out, we were some of the few non-family members. It was lovely. 1888 house and grounds, reception in an old barn, ceremony under the huge magnolia trees, Japanese lanterns lit and drifting into the night sky. It was lovely.

The weekend was a time of travel and shopping. We landed in Knoxville, TN, got our little Nissan Vespa, loaded our suitcase and headed out. My bride was navigating with her I-pad, while I was trying to see the sights, get a feel for direction of travel, and visit.

We decided to take the 90 mile trip down back roads, instead of interstate. We lunched in Loudon, TN at Mark's Downtown Cafe. Apparently the place for all the locals. Sweet tea (only option) and sandwiches were good, the waitress was congenial. Then a little antique shopping across the street.

Then on the Tennessee Valley Winery. The view was spectacular across the Appalachians, the wine was average. We bought a bottle of sweet white for sipping at the hotel. With the recommendation from the lady at the winery we hit the Sweetwater Valley Farm for cheese and crackers. Huge dairy operation, but also set up for group events. The day was clear and sunny and we were having a great time criss-crossing I-75 looking at whatever the landscape and the journey provided.

Eventually we headed to the hotel.
Saturday we decided to hit a big antique mall which my bride went through very carefully. It was housed in an old textile, knitting mill. It is with great appreciation that the old building had been renovated and re purposed in this way. It was on the North Shore in Chattanooga, TN. We wandered around the area and had lunch at FoodWorks. This place was a gem. If you ever go there, try the Shrimp and Grits.

As I mentioned, that night we attended the wedding, it was a great to attend, watch, and not stress over any part of it. I have done my turn on that deal and I have great empathy for the parents of the bride.

Sunday morning we got up and went to the hotel where our friends had headquartered and had a very nice visit, catching up. These were the folks we found our way through early marriage with. They were broke and we were broke. We shared all we could, food and entertainment. Sorrows over loss, frustration over building our families. We have kept up through the years and have only gotten eccentric in mild ways.

It was good to get home, but we had a nice journey, a moment. I think it is good to revisit some of the special people from other eras in our lives. To remember the struggles and the bonds that are formed. These are good people. I'm glad we went.

Godspeed to the Hunters and the Hunter's kids. A new chapter for you guys.
Don

Emotional Journeys

This past week was a study in the roller-coaster of my attempts to observe and contemplate the complexities of our society. The week found me in downtown L.A. trying to smooth over a turf war among some of our more volitile cusomters and hand-holding the rep who is responsible for all this. While on the way to hotel after all the fireworks, I spied a highway sign indicating the exit to the "Museum of Tolerance". After making a few internal jokes about L.A. being the perrfect site for this museum, I decided to craft a humorous blog around this sign and the L.A. culture. Then on Saturday my bride and I got up early and drove to Oklahoma City to watch my 8-yr-old grandson and his daddy run in a 5K race. There were also 1/2 marathon and a marathon to go along with this. My grandson had been impacted by a young lady in the huddle group from church because she had been such a sweet spirit and had died in the last few months of cancer. There were over 50 people from their church who participated, but I think this was Eli's way of saying he still thought of her and missed her. The race was on Sunday at 6:30AM, so we had most of Saturday afternoon to tour the Alfred Murrah Memorial. At first my grandson was more into running around and being an 8-yr-old, but my bride took him in hand and in her quiet, impressive way took him around to all the different memorials within the context of the greater memorial and explained the horror and intolerance of this single act of hatred. I watched from a distance as my bride leaned close and almost whispered into his ear the impact of each stone, each name, each plaque. And from my distance I could see his eyes and body lean ever more intensely into her words and teaching. The Memorial is an impressive place. I find it hard to believe that almost 18 years have passed since the tragedy of that day. The babies who died in the daycare would be in college or just entering. There have been no skinned knees, no butterfly kisses, no first day of school, no driving lessons, no first romance, no first kiss, no graduation. In a blink and a flash, the hopes and dreams, unrealized expectations, the precious moments were all erased. Along with these were a couple of smaller plaques, one in particular of a husband and wife who died on the same floor of the building. In my minds eye I see them as having a chuckle together in the car before work, perhaps sharing a cup of coffee, maybe a quick have-a-good-day kiss before they unbuckled and strolled together into work. Maybe they weren't like that, maybe they had a quarrel, or simply rode to work in silence not knowing that the sand was down to the last few grains...and they were unaware. And the five plaques of the people who happened to be walking by the building, on their way to work when in a flash their world was gone, and the shpe of the world and the hearts of their loved ones gone with it. Was this their normal route to work? Or did they change their path to run by Starbucks or a quick errand and just got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time? Who knows? But as I walked and read and pondered, my mind kept coming back to the question of motive. Why kill all these innocent people? Why rob us all of the innocence that marked us before? We learn just a few short years later that indeed this hatred, this intolerance can be enacted on a much bigger stage. But this intersection of hatred and intolerance is only two of the streets. It is criss-crossed with courage and hope. As I stood there in the midst of that memorial, I could see poking above the walls the steeples of two churches. My cyncism took over for a few moments and I wondered, bitterly, where these communities of faith were, when the babies and grownups of the Murrah building needed them most? The very next morning I was sitting in the assembly hall of one of those churches, eating a free breakfst. It occurred to me that this little church, across from the memorial had given up their "worship" time to feed a bunch of people who came to remember the tragedy, to run for those who couldnt run for themselves. I heard the story of this little church acting as a clearing house of information for those who couldn't find their loved ones that tragic day. Of offering food and consolation where they could. It then came home that these little communities of faith can't change the events, or craft any big answers. They can only hug and cry and feed those who are so devastated that they can't think or respond because their world has been blown up by an intolerance and hatred that they never even knew existed. The Museum of Tolerance is an educational think tank, to use the atrocities of the Holocaust to teach an emerging society the lessons learned by the intentional acts of cruelty by a few men. Oklahoma City could add a few lines to that lesson. But the real teaching will be in the model of my bride, leaning close whispering the acknowledgement of the evil that exists, and the path to tolerance in the truths of a better way. The little church may have grave internal issues, but the willingness to feed and console and point to the hope of compassion is in their DNA. I wish my words here were better, but there is simply some things that impact us so deeply that we can't adequately express. My grandson wants to run next year. In four years he wants me to run the 1/2 marathon. I'll be 62, what better time to embrace the concept of tolerance as the only effective tool against hatred. If my knees can handle the strain I will do my best to fulfill his wishes. The future is in the hands of those who have heard the whispers of their Nena and compelled their grandaddy to act. Godspeed, we all have a race to run. I pray yours is downhill and downwind, but if not I pray you will run it anyway. Don