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.

Going Naked Into The World

It is the afternoon of the first day of a new decade. I am supposed to be in Alabama preparing to head back to Chicago on a 5:20 United flight. Instead, I am sidelined in Chicago with a new pacemaker.

I missed the great Brunswick Stew at the Downtown Grill and, of course, puttering around in the golf cart with my granddaughter Gracie. However, at 3:40 on January 1, I am happy that I am snug in my condo and not facing airport security in the post-Christmas Day fiasco.

“Sir, look at the ID card, it is a pacemaker!!! I am not a threat!”

David Brooks, the NYTimes columnist, had a brilliant essay today about the failure of our technology and of our vast governmental systems to keep us safe in a world full of people out to do harm. In the post-9/11 world, even the “hyped” governmental agencies have proven to be an empty shell when it comes to actually functioning. I must admit that I always felt The Department of Homeland Security sounded like a name contrived from a Dick Tracy comic strip. Think Tom Ridge in a yellow fedora and trench coat.

My son figures that we will soon all arrive at the airport in a skimpy hospital gown and get dressed after going through security. Having been so attired earlier in this week for the surgery, I can attest that it can get drafty. We are all going to get to know each other far more than I had ever wished. Too much information!!!

This put me to thinking about the past.

My mother’s maiden aunt, Birdie, who lived next door to us, was a very religious woman. She steadfastly refused to cut her hair because it wasn’t Biblical. She washed the long tresses each Saturday and when dry, placed them into a bun. It was a weekly ritual in which she would sit on her back lawn in a large white Adirondack chair and let it dry in the sun. This was before the days of the hand-held hair dryer and to go to a commercial establishment would risk some of the “crowning glory” being caught off-guard by Maylene's unwieldy scissors. So she sat in the sun, read her Sunday School lesson, and sang great hymns of the faith.

This time also coincided with an era where the giving of a baby chick at Easter – usually dyed a nice blue or pink - was not at all empathetic with the needs of the fowl in question. Think pre-PETA. So each Easter I received one. It usually didn’t make it but a few weeks. However, one such baby chick survived and became a large white rooster, which we named Charlie. Charlie had keen ear and a mean streak.

Now Birdie was lame from birth – her left side was malformed such to cause a severe limp and limited use of that hand. Her agitated walk seemed to attract the attention of Charlie when the two – the rooster and the Aunt – encountered each other. Charlie would peck at her heels as she tried to get away from this unwanted attention.

Each Saturday, before heading out with wet hair to her favorite chair in the sun, she would phone my mom and request that I place Charlie in the pen. While my mother would dutifully tell me to do so, I often failed. Eventually, on the failed days, Charlie would hear the strains of “Will There Be Any Stars In My Crown” and wander through the opening of the hedgerow that separated our lawns.

He would immediately startle Miss Birdie. Her combs would fly in one direction and King James in another as she tried to make a dash to the safety of her back screen porch. Rarely was she the winner. If I tell you that I enjoyed the spectacle, then it would alter our relationship irreparably.

One particularly hot summer day, she was expecting the Preacher to drop by her home around one in the afternoon to pick up a check to purchase new collection plates for the church. Birdie was generous to a fault and this particular clergyman seemed to see her as a source to be tapped often. She told the housekeeper that she was expecting the preacher, but wanted to freshen up before he came. She was wilted from the heat.

She retired to her bathroom for a long cooling soak.

Repairs were being made to the rear porch on her home and the workman had not yet reinstalled the doorway to the screened porch.

Enjoying the cool waters of her tub, she began to sing one of her favorites, “The Unclouded Day.” About the time she wafted into the chorus, “Oh the land of cloudless day……,” Charlie wandered into her yard and found his way up upon the porch through the opening where the door should have been. He followed the sounds and soon was eye to eye with Birdie in her bath. Upon seeing the rabid rooster, Birdie jumped, totally naked, from her cool waters to beat a hasty retreat. Charlie was on her heels.

Meanwhile, the preacher had arrived a bit earlier than expected in order the mention that the church piano was in bad need of tuning and had been shown to a seat in the living room.

It was reported later that each time she passed the Preacher on any of the several circles through her house trying to elude the white demon, she never failed to say, “How do you do, Reverend?” It was a testament to her good upbringing and impeccable manners, even when nude before a man of God.

So now it seems, like Birdie, we will dash through the airport with as little on as possible so as to not cause a problem with a TSA guy named Charlie.

But keep your cool. As my mother would say, “Without good manners, you might as well go naked into the world.”

Happy New Year.