Flying South

I am still waiting for my underwear. It is somewhere, probably in the belly of DFW, missing me. Of course, it is more than the “unmentionables” that have gone astray. Khaikis, shirts – a particular favorite madras one – a camera, pills that I stashed at the last minute, and a bottle of some cologne that was no more than three ounces. You know how it is with TSA.

I hadn’t intended on checking luggage. I am cheap.

However, the plane from Chicago to DFW was miserably small and the overhead would not accommodate my “Fruits of the loom.” So, despite my better judgement – knowing that the departing flight was almost an hour late in leaving O’Hare and I had only an hour layover in Dallas with a departure from a different terminal than the arrival – I checked luggage. I had no other choice.

The gate attendant suggested “repacking” to make the Briggs & Riley accommodate the unders without the expansion option. Give me a break! It is embarrassing enough that the TSA looks at my stuff on a screen as the bag meanders slowly by an inquiring eye. I refuse to air my “linens and things” among the masses at the gate.

I have not mastered the Rick Steves packing method.

I am a miserable assembler of my clothes. Nor have I mastered the “wash, air dry, and go while traveling Northern Italy” habit. I have even been guilty of taking dirty things home to wash when I was in college. My mom could not understand why I owned 250 pairs of underwear at the end of freshman year. “Mom, I just don’t enjoy doing laundry.”

So, I arrived in a hot and humid Birmingham while my luggage remained in an even hotter part of Texas or on some plane going otherwise.

The airline has given me a code in order to track where my underwear is.

I don’t know why I needed a code. I would think “JB’s personal stuff” would suffice. But no, I have THAGHS. It is close to “things” but not quite there. Just as my luggage is not quite here.

It would have been comforting had the code been "in the top drawer on the left." At least that way I could feel some progress toward a solution. Could THAGHS be an acronym for "This harks of a great horror story?"

Years ago, the same airline lost my luggage and when it arrived it was in a cardboard box with two additional nametags enclosed: a doctor from Wilmette, and a lady from Merced, CA. I have no idea what happened that caused this kind of marriage between my “things” and the luggage of two strangers in the air. It almost as if there is another parameter of existence called “Luggage world.” A place of mad partying and cavorting on carousels and ramps. Calvins mixing it up with “cross your heart bras.” Just imagine what the toiletries are doing. Heavens!

So, maybe before I leave the provinces, my “things” will wend their way back to my care.

I would hate it if my stuff wound up in Guatemala. Not that there is anything wrong with Guatemala.

2 Fast But Not 3 Fast

I don’t know if you have ever attempted to impart the English language to someone who is not a native speaker. If so, you soon realize how really difficult our language is. Words that sound alike but have vastly different meanings, words that sound the same but are spelled differently, and so on.

“Yesterday, I read a red sign.”

“Could you read me the story about the reed?”

“You’re responsible for your own money on the trip.”

"The Principal knew it was a new principle."

“The very plain plane landed on the plain.” (You get the drift!)

This doesn’t even account for regional differences which impact discourse.

In Alabama, the rectangular metal plate which is attached to the rear of your vehicle is called a "tag." In Illinois I was rebuffed and told it was a license plate. In the deep south, you have a “sack” of groceries, further north it becomes a “bag.” For the English, a biscuit is a cookie, but it is the bread staple of a meal in Mississippi. And if you fried the biscuits instead of baking them, they were “hoe cakes.” We called a halloween mask a “doughface.” A bottle of pop is a soft drink. Bagasse or blackstrap - the residue from sugar cane in most cultures – Southerners call pummy.

However, in our family, even pummy took on another dimension.

Angelina, or Inie as we fondly called her, was our itinerant relative. She had no real home of her own. She spent time throughout the year with first one and then another family household. She would generally remain in one place for around two months before packing up and heading for a different locale. In every place she frequented, she also left a colorful manner of speaking about everyday things. These eventually wound up into our family language.

For instance, when someone is confused and seemingly making no progress on a task or a decision, we say, “My God child, you are going around the pummy pile.” This colorful description grew out of a time when a Inie was riding in the countryside with Percy and Rosalee Mims. Percy had a brand new touring car and the three of them had headed out to visit Aunt Serepta down in Chilton County. Percy was never good on directions and soon became lost. As my father would say, “he is attempting to course his way.” (This means no stopping for directions – taking intuitive turns in the hope that one would lead the way. And you thought “course” was an academic exercise.)

In “coursing” his way, Percy returned several times to the intersection where Miller’s Cane Mill had been in business since the “big bellum.” After about the third return to the same spot, Inie spoke up. “My God child, here we go ‘round the pummy pile again,” as she spied the dried pile of sugar cane once more.

When someone was taking too much time to complete a task, Inie would say, “My God child, you may hurry.” Much better than “get the lead out,” don’t you think?

“More pedal to the metal?”

“Light a shuck?”

My grandson, when describing his concept of speed relative to his new toy motorcycle said, “it goes 2 fast but not 3.”