Category Archives: Travel

Life with Sister: Tales from the Great Texas Blizzard & Blackout of ’21 – Part 5

Posted on March 9, 2021 | Leave a comment

When last we met, Sister (the ex-nun) and sister (my actual sibling) had finally crossed paths. Sibling sister had arrived for her first visit in Texas with her favorite brother while International woman of mystery Sister was rounding out her fourth day in the Lone Star State. The initial meeting seemed to go well. And now it was time for the nun to take a temporary leave. You know, kind of like she’s doing with convent.

Friday February 12, 2011

I let my sister sleep in today, figuring that she had a long, late-night flight and that she’s a grown-ass woman and she can set her own sleep schedule. Sister and I made our way to the oratory for mass. As soon as mass was over, Sister said goodbye. In addition to her trip to Texas, Sister had arranged to attend a conference in nearby Kansas. True, Kansas is not exactly the most proximate state to Texas. Still, finding herself only 450 miles from a conference like this one, Sister could not turn up the opportunity. She had rented a car and would drive north for the weekend, returning to us on Sunday to round out her vacation. Her plan was to spend one final overnight with us and fly home on Monday the 15th. Oh, I almost forgot. The conference which she could not miss? It was a two day seminar entitled: “Cold Wind A-blowin’: Energy Reliability and Variable Rates in the Age of Monolithic Windmills”. Sister has long been known among her closest friends as an amateur energy industry buff and a huge fan of medieval Dutch power supplies. As she sat down in the driver seat of her car, I waved goodbye. “Fare well, Sister,” I said. “God be with you!” Sister froze. She had barely put her finger on the push-button starter. She looked up at me with a mix of indignation and fear. Pointing toward the sky with her right index ringer and to herself with her left thumb, she said, “He. Always. Is.” Sister also has the most disarming smile. It seems to say at one and the same time, “I’ve been told I should pray for your soul and yet you bore me.” This smile was on full display as she slammed her door, backed out of the driveway, and sped off. From her car as it rolled quickly out of sight one could hear the faint sounds of Jay Z’s Hard Knock Life.

I returned to the house to find my sister had woken up. She was in the kitchen, sipping her coffee. Assuming she might want more than coffee, I asked her what she’d like. “I’d like my husband back,” she said. We’re cut from the same cloth, she and I. I knew this statement of hers, though completely true, was also meant to invoke laughter. And so we laughed. “Seriously lady, tell me where you want to go and we’ll go there.” My sister is one of those guests who says that she’ll be truly happy doing whatever and literally means it. So off to the JFK 6th Floor School Book Depository Museum and Commemorative Gun Range we went. As we drove downtown I wondered if any of the displays would have changed since I last visited two days ago. Then I remembered that the entire museum has remained exactly the same the entire time I’ve lived here.

This tour of the museum, as you might have imagined, was a fairly “normal” one. Again, though, the sky looked very ominous. From the sixth floor of the Book Depository Building, the south side of the building, one has the privilege of gazing through very large windows with an almost unobstructed view of the plaza below and, since Texas is flat, of everything clear to the Gulf. Something just wasn’t right about this sky. We left the museum after about an hour. I asked my sister if she wanted to explore downtown Dallas. It was now about 35 degrees. She preferred the warmth of a car ride home where we could watch a movie or have a drink. Just prior to leaving the museum I received a text from my wife. It said (essentially):

“OMG OMG OMG. Son just threw up all over bathroom. I literally cannot deal with this. Leaving for you. Please stop for Chlorox wipes on your way. And get yourself something pretty.”

This was followed with:

“No, I mean it’s everywhere. I tried to clean it and then I got sick. Sorry, you’ll have to clean it all.”

God has blessed me with an iron stomach in these situations. After stopping for bleach wipes (and bridge mix), I entered my casa. I told my sister and my children to avoid the area around the bathroom door. I, for once, donned a face mask (for the smell was wretched), I opened a door that may as well have had yellow caution tape on it… and I stepped in to a horror show. I closed the door behind me and set to work. Within 20 minutes I had accomplished my job. As a reward, I was allowed to eat dinner this night. And that’s what we did. We ordered take-out, watched a movie, and rested.

Saturday February 13, 2021

This morning the weather outside was neither frightful nor delightful but a basic understanding of bipolar disorder and Texas climate can help to understand what I mean. I am in the habit of going to daily mass. I learned this from my dad who went literally almost every single day of his life. In the four years since his death I have been blessed to grasp more and more just what he was trying to teach me. Fortunately I live in a place where I can go to mass every day without much difficulty. Being locked out of the sacraments for a time this past year (thank you, pandemic), I definitely took note of the need to go whenever I can. And I determined that I can go whenever God gives me the grace AND I will to go. That being said, Saturdays are the worst. Every other day of the week my parish offers a mass in the noon hour or later. On Saturday, the only mass is at 9AM. I struggle since this is the one day of the week I feel that it’s OK to sleep in a little, and that says a lot since I’m a homeschooling dad. But struggle I do. Last night I asked my guardian angel to push me out of bed in time to get to mass. In fact, I asked him to do it a bit earlier since a friend had invited me to a men’s prayer/study group at 7:30. Guardian Angel tapped me on the shoulder at 5:45. I love him, truly I do.

At 7 I stepped out of my house to discover the black ice from a few days earlier had returned. It was now in the 20’s and the air was bitter. I started out for the prayer group, made it a mile, turned around, and gave up on both that meeting and mass. A note on that prayer group. I have lived in the same house and neighborhood for close to a decade. For most of that time, unbeknownst to me, many of the men I have considered to be friends have all been meeting at this prayer group monthly. The man who hosts is someone I have only recently met. About a year and a half ago, another friend moved to town. He quickly became friends with all the same people. He started going to these group meetings and eventually asked me why I was never there. It’s hard to go to something you didn’t even know was taking place. Pity party aside, I do not now feel the obligation to attend something I’ve been left out of for years. So there, I win (said with burning interior self-loathing). Look, no one ever said that comedy doesn’t come from a dark, dark place. My mind? Let’s say I haven’t paid the electric bill for years.

Having opted out of my spiritual exercises for the morning, I prepared breakfast for my sister and my wife and our kids. Then my wife, sister, and I went out to do a little grocery shopping. By now, the forecast – usually completely unreliable – was as tight as my daughter’s wallet. The girl knows how to save a dime. In fact, every forecaster was predicting the same thing to where the 9 inches of snow the following day really seemed believable, despite this being Dallas. Don’t get me wrong. Texas, being enormous beyond belief – shut up, Alaska – has plenty of places that get significant snowfall each year. I’m thinking of the Panhandle and just about anywhere within a few miles of the Red River. But Dallas? No. That’s a usual NO. This? This was different. Snow was coming. My wife still insisted that it would come but not be as much as they were saying. I wasn’t sure but I know this much. Texas with even a trace of snow is bad. Roads would become impassable almost immediately. And although no one wanted to think about it, there was a possibility that power lines might freeze and come down. My sister made the decision, much to our dismay, that she should cut her trip short and fly out Sunday morning. The snow was predicted to start around 3PM on Sunday. This could only mean one thing. We should maximize our last day together.

So we hit the liquor store after stocking up on groceries. Texans are funny in that they don’t know to clean out the supermarkets of bread, milk, and eggs when snow is coming like us Yankees do. That being said, I could not find a single tortilla at the Kroger. After afternoon cocktails and a movie at home we made a decision that would change our lives forever. We decided to hit the bingo hall.

The first thing to know is that my sister has an affinity for pari-mutual games of chance. Chinese auctions, scratch-off lottery tickets, you name it. There is a bingo hall not far from our house. We’re talking an honest-to-goodness, step-back-in-time, smoke-filled bingo hall. Who doesn’t like to trash things up once in a while? And besides, it could be fun and we might even win some cash! We were under several misguided opinions as we entered the doors. First, we thought they sold beer and wine in this place. They don’t. Second, we thought it would be relaxing. It wasn’t. We immediately walked past six tables where every seat was taken by women and men who had died many years prior and were now simply zombies with dabbers in their hands. On the tables spread out before the undead were many multi-colored sheets with jumbled numbers from 1-75 printed on them. Surrounding these sheets were ashtrays with burning Misty lights, Marlboro Menthols, and unfiltered Camels. Protecting each ashtray and each sheet were multiple good luck talismans ranging from troll dolls to more troll dolls. Necks did not move. They simple stayed craned over the sheets while arms mechanically raced at a speed that did not belong with the bodies attached to those limbs, the hands rapidly dotting out numbers almost before they were called.

What can I say?

To say I was frightened, despite all the death I’ve seen in my life, is an understatement.

“Come on, sis’,” I said. “Let’s figure out how to join this freak show and then get the hell out of here.”

My wife, my sister, and I tiptoed to the back of the hall like a trio of Bob Fosse dancers, lithe and easy. When we reached the counter, my wife noticed a sign that said:

BIRTHDAY SPECIAL
If your birthday falls in the month of Feb. your boards only cost 1¢

Buying bingo cards is hard, yo. I am convinced they use some kind of black magic in order to confuse the hell out of everyone standing at that counter. Either that or I just can’t do maths. Regardless, we asked the following questions .

“What’s the deal with the birthday special?” and,

“What’s the deal with the electronic boards?”

To these questions we got the following responses.

“Is any of y’alls birthday this month? The month of February? Then your board costs a penny. And I’ll spot y’all the penny,” and,

“The electronic boards are $20 per unit and y’all can pick one up over on that table yonder.”

OK, maybe she didn’t say “yonder” but you get the point. I was intrigued by the electronic boards so I purchased one. Also, it happens that my dear sister who is eternally not 60 years-old was about to turn 60 years-old just five days hence. It also turns out that when you buy the birthday special it comes with a piece of cake! There’s nothing I love more than a supermarket sheetcake cut into millionths and served on a paper plate by a toothless drug addict.

Could it get any easier?

We gathered our sheets and my electronic board, a device resembling a heavy-duty iPad, and took a seat near the door. I immediately discovered that one could “BYOB” but that they did not serve alcohol at this joint. My sister and I each lit cigarettes as I texted my niece who was home watching the kids. “Go to my bar cart and bring me the gin, three glasses, a few bottles of tonic, and a bucket filled with ice. Oh and limes.” Then I texted, “Scratch that. Bring me some beers and some White Claws for the ladies.” The world of a bingo hall is a confusing mess of bizarre bullshit. In other words, this was the one place on earth most resembling my daily life. I turned to the man at the end of our table. He seemed to know what he was doing. “Sir,” I asked even though he hardly looked like he deserved the title. “What’s the deal with this electronic board? Do I have to do anything special?” Came his reply, “Look man, you put your code in. That’s on y’alls receipt from the lady at the window. Then you just watch that bitch go to town.” Keep in mind he had four of these boards resting behind his eight paper boards and 22 trolls. What’s with the trolls? “Oh and y’all don’t do nothin’ with that board. Keep an eye on it like a woman you expect to cheat on y’all. You know, watch it real sultry, see? Then prepare to slap her when she steps outta’ line.” He said “line” like this: “laaaaaaaahhhhnn”. “One last thing, brother,” he said. I fought the urge to explain genetics to him. “When that bitch says ‘YELL BINGO’, y’all yell BINGO.”

Got it.

My niece showed up with the hooch and texted me from just outside the door. I retrieved the booze like it was a back alley drug deal. We played 8 games of bingo – straight bingo, four corner bingo, postage stamp bingo, blackout bingo, and something called ball buster bingo. We didn’t win any of them. And yet I think I discovered my new preferred method of playing this crazy game. Next time, I’m going with six electronic boards. I literally sat there drinking and smoking with an eye on a screen hoping to see “YELL BINGO”.

We left the bingo hall never having received our birthday cake. My sister even forgot to wear her “60 never looked so good” glitter sash and ball cap so it truly would have been wasted. Truth is, she could be turning 160. She’s my sister. I love her to death. She saved my life. The least I can do is show her a glimpse into the strange world of Texas bingo.

We made it home just in time to get a text from Sister.

Lving conference now. Don’t want to get stuck snow. Lv dr unlocked. If you are up, will watch the first two seasons of Dallas when I arrive. ETA 2AM. Confrnce was unmitigated success.

She abbreviated “leaving” yet found room for “unmitigated”.

Tomorrow promises to be a blast.

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Posted in Catholic Blog, dad blog, Family, Humor, Lone Star Life, Texas, Travel

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I Just Need to Write Something

Posted on February 29, 2020 | 1 comment

I entered the year with high hopes of getting back to the hobby I love – writing.  Well, God saw fit to stick me on a plane with a laptop and not much else to do.  So here we are.

I am returning from a convention in the nation’s capital. I had tons of fun. I met many people that (at least) I consider famous – mostly YouTube celebs but some other true, famous folks. The reason I want to write is because my son wants me to write. Remember how I told you that I had been reading old posts to him? Well, after several months of this I’m almost running out of posts! So he admonished me to write more. Coming right up, son.

A nice treat for an aviation buff like me… American Airlines has painted several of their planes in the liveries of airlines they’ve acquired or merged with over the years. This one is an old Allegheny jet on the tarmac at DCA.

But the question is, as the title says, what do I write about?

I could write about coronavirus.

Wow, great going Harvey.  Stoke the panic.  In reality, I do not know what this is all about.  I am sure that when I read my grandchildren these posts years from now; we will scratch our heads and say, “What’s coronavirus, Grandpappy?”  I have determined they will call me ‘grandpappy’ because it sounds fun.  I will say that my flight is half-full which is odd for a Saturday afternoon direct flight.  Nothing more to write about on this Wuhan one.

I could write about how much I love and miss my kids.

The past few days I’ve been away I have enjoyed visiting with the good friends I’ve missed seeing in this part of the country.  I’ve loved hearing talks by people I admire.  I’ve really been thrilled by the availability of the speakers in the hotel lobby and their down-to-earth-ness.  But nothing to me will ever come close to being with my kids.  They’re growing up too fast.  Every minute passes too quickly.  And three days away from them is an eternity.  I’m really looking forward to walking in the door and shouting “Daddy’s home!” and being greeted by silence because they’re fixated on anything else.  Perhaps they missed me too?

I could write about the kid kicking the back of my seat.

Nope.  I’m sure my children did the same once upon a time and it’s a hardship I will lovingly endure.

I could write about this…  I’m watching live TV in-flight.  This service carries the New York local stations and I’m watching my old favorite, WNBC.  When I was a kid, the production value, the talent, just everything about this local station drew me in and made me want to be a news anchor.  We know how that turned out.  But the weird thing is that in the few years I’ve been gone from the New York area things have changed.  The studio is smaller, the music isn’t as driving, and the male anchors… I almost can’t bring myself to say it… they have no ties.  This is disturbing to me on so many levels.  A man presenting the news on television should always have a tie neatly tied around his neck.  I can’t say any more about this; but I will.  It is truly sad.  I do not want casual.  I want you to let me know you care about me.  And it wasn’t just the main anchor.  It was the sports and weather guy too.  Shout out to Al Roker and Len Berman who used to fill these roles waaaaay back in the day.  And you KNOW that my favorite broadcasters ever – Chuck Scarborough and Sue Simmons – would never let this happen.  Perhaps it’s an appeal to millennials?  No, that’s not right.  Not everyone born between certain years lacks intelligence.  Although…  Two nights ago I stood outside a public house in Washington as a young woman approached me to borrow a cigarette.  My lighter had been absconded at a security checkpoint so I offered her a small book of matches.  She actually said to me “Um, I don’t… I just don’t know how to use those; or even what they are…”  Matches, sister, matches.  Close cover, strike.  It’s not that complicated.

I think they’re trying to land the plane now so I kind of have to go.  Shame I never came up with a topic or four about which to write.

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Posted in aviation, Catholic Blog, dad blog, Dad Stuff, Family, Travel

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How Did You Spend YOUR Summer?

Posted on August 13, 2019 | 4 comments

Well I’ll tell you what I didn’t do. I didn’t write much at all. I have my reasons. Lots going on this summer; and usually that’s a recipe for more writing. But this summer was different.

I could say that a lot of what was going on was travel. If you read my last few posts a couple of months ago you know that we were well on our way to another amazing family road trip. And one day I promise to write all about that from the spot right where I left off. The Big Apple, the Garden State, my time at “Relaxation House and Spa” (AKA: my sister’s house in central PA), the rolling Blue Ridge foothills of Northern Virginia, a wedding, a long return drive through a place that is nowhere along the route home (Peoria, IL?), a journey down old Route 66, home again… And that was just us getting started with an incredible time for me and the kids (and my wife when she wasn’t buried in work). A few days later my wife and I set out for Southern California for another wedding, a major earthquake, some Hollywood sightseeing, and another trip home. A few days later my wife set out back to Virginia for a funeral and more work. Then a week and a half later and she returned to California for a vacation with some old friends while I entertained one of my nephews with his cousins (my kids). And like that, summer’s over. But I won’t say it was any of that.

One of my favorite moments from this summer.

I could say it was the near 1,000 degree heat and high humidity to which I have NEVER become accustomed. The stickiness of this literal hot mess slows down every molecule in the deep south to where typing out a few sentences is a major undertaking. It’s why we sit on our porches and drink gin. I did a decent amount of that this summer which also contributed to my bronzed appearance. I saw an old friend yesterday. We seem to lay eyes on each other about once a year despite living 4 miles apart. He noticed the tan. Some might say skipping sunblock is probably bad but it’s how I get my Vitamin D. And I’ve soaked in about as much as nature will allow. And like that, summer’s over. But I won’t say it was any of that.

I could say it was physical in nature; that I spent hours each day jumping rope shirtless (see tan above) outside, sweating bullets, hoping to see the slightest reduction in body fat percentage For the benefit of my fused spine. I also lifted weights, did a bunch of HIIT cardio, and a few other things just for fun. You’re probably wondering why I mentioned my lack of upper body clothing. Well, it’s funny you should ask. I have really come to rise above my self and my natural laziness and aversion to hard, physical work over the past few years. And something about stepping outside into the hot Texas sun and sweating everything I’ve got is incredibly rewarding. Unfortunately I still hate wearing sweat-soaked clothes. Since I can’t workout in public without shorts I opt to ditch the shirt. I promise it’s not a vanity thing. There’s not much to be vain about. But I mention this fact in particular because while entertaining that nephew I mentioned I traveled with him to stay at a friend’s house in Austin for the weekend. He wanted to workout with me so we bought a jumprope and some gym shorts at Walmart, stepped out onto our friend’s patio, and I trained him – a strapping young fireman – in the finer points of jumping rope. He was learning how to master the classic boxer skip; I was racing through double and triple-unders. My friend in who’s house we were staying texted and asked what we were doing. Her next door neighbor, unaware that we were houseguests or who we even were, texted my friend (the homeowner) to ask why two studly shirtless dudes were jumping rope on her patio while she was in Napa with my wife. Did I mention that I only had one rope and so my nephew and I took turns with it, and that while one of us had the rope the other simply jumped in place? It must have been a strange sight indeed. So I worked out like a beast all summer. And like that, summer’s over. But I won’t say it was any of that.

In fact it might have been a combination of ALL of that and it might have been NONE of that at all. Part of it is that I’ve been living life with my kids, knowing I could continue to chronicle this life of ours a little later. True I don’t like to wait too much longer lest I start to forget details or the stories don’t sound as incredible. But there’s something to actually living it and then writing it down. Not everything needs to be documented in the moment. And we’re still here and still fine. My wife has been beyond occupied by her job, traveling a full quarter of every month away from us and the kids and I have had to learn to adjust to that. It’s not ideal but we’re managing to have fun together even though we miss her terribly. We’re kind of developing our own groove in our communication and our interactions. I went back and read old posts from when the kids were babies. It’s funny that now we have inside jokes with each other, we sneak in “Dad-treats” to get ice cream, and play games. And Dad tries to keep them on track with their chores, hopefully inspiring them to help keep our house a home. And when Mommmy gets home we all breathe a sigh of relief because everything is back to normal. So it was some of that.

But perhaps the biggest reason I haven’t written in a while is that I’ve been on a quest of late to re-tool my digital footprint. One way to do this is to step away from blogging for a bit, trying to rediscover why I started writing in the first place. Toward that end I’ve spent months re-reading the old stuff and getting a good laugh. I’m happy to say my style hasn’t changed much. I think I’ve become a better writer but the old stuff was still good – and some of it even still makes me laugh very hard. There was the dark summer last year where I wrote so many memories of my time in McCarrick’s seminary; stories I eventually took down so I could organize them into a book, a book that will come eventually. Mentally recovering from that mess was some of it too. I spent about a year reading every single article, watching every Youtube clip, searching out news, caught up in one of the darkest scandals in Church history. After a while, it’s time to just stop and reflect. And I did. I’ll still write about it, the truth; but I need to write about my blessings too. And speaking of social media, I deleted my Facebook after 12 years. Now that’s another story for another day. I’ll say that a friend of mine commented right before I pulled the plug that “I’d be back”. He’s probably right but when I am back it will be right for me, on my terms, as a platform to stay in touch with family and people with whom I am actually friends in real life. I think I know how to do it to. So was that any of it?

What did I do this summer? Man alive, what didn’t I do this summer? School’s starting next week. I’m so ready to have my kiddos back. I’m a teacher. If they didn’t return to me every year around this time I’d be talking to an empty room for an hour at a clip because I kind of have to teach. Say a prayer for all of us.

I’m thankful for this summer, thankful God gave me this time with my kids, this time truly to miss my wife, thankful for gainful employment (hers and mine), thankful for returning students, for travel, strange roadside attractions and the St. Louis Arch, thankful for a gift of writing, and thankful for all of you who read.

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Posted in dad blog, Dad Stuff, Family, Fitness, Kids, Parenting, Prayer, Teaching/Education/School, Travel

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Kids and Their Grandmothers: Another Road Trip – Day 3

Posted on June 3, 2019 | 1 comment

*You already know that I started out Day 3 by writing about Day 2. Now I am starting out Day 5 (in a manner of speaking) by writing about Days 3 and 4.

We did make it past Asheville last night (or rather, early this morning) and checked ourselves into a hotel on the side of I-40.  Charles Kuralt once said upon the completion of Interstate 40 – which runs from coastal North Carolina all the way to the Central Valley of California – that it was now possible to drive from one coast to the other without seeing a thing.  I fear he was right.  That’s not entirely true.  Why, late last night I saw stars.  No, my wife did not beat me over the head for blasting the original cast recording of Evita while she was sleeping.  My son, in a way only 11 year-old boys can do, announced confidently that he had to relieve himself.  He did this about ten miles after I had driven past the last exit with any services for a considerable stretch of road.  Oh well, I’m a guy.  I get it.  You don’t really need a bathroom proper in order to take care of that kind of business.  It’s just how God made us.  The only problem was that this stretch of I-40 wends and winds its way through the Great Smokey Mountains.  It was cut as judiciously as possible through rocky cliffs.  Owing to that fact the highway engineers “forgot” to install a shoulder.  I drove as far as I (and his bladder) could travel before, mercifully, finding a runaway truck ramp.  Out we hopped.  I walked him around the back of the vehicle to afford a tiny bit of privacy (not like he cared) and for some reason I looked up.  The night sky was blanketed with thousands of stars.  We live in the Dallas area.  On a typical night we’re lucky to see about five stars and one of those is the moon.  I also saw a sign that proclaimed bears would be crossing the road in some kind of pack formation.  I feel sorry for the bears, really I do.  According to the sign, they cross like this: a she-bear followed by three cubs.  Where’s the dad?  Not doing as good a job as I am, I should imagine, shepherding my wife and kids across the continent.

Upon leaving the hotel I did something I promised I would not do on this trip (or anytime if I can avoid it).  I asked my wife to drive.  She’s a fine driver and I appreciate the help.  It’s just that this is something I can do for her.  When I was growing up I never once saw my dad NOT walk around the car to get the door for my mom.  It’s a car door.  Of course she can open it by herself.  But he did it for her because he could.  And he could because she allowed him the privilege.  Until the last time I saw him drive anywhere with her, he held her door.  I liked that.  But, I needed time to write so I accepted her invitation to take the wheel.  She drove us all of an hour and a half until reaching the city of Greensboro.  That’s where my niece and her family live.

Right before getting out of the car my wife pointed out that Facebook had notified her of a “memory”.  On this exact date three years ago we had also visited my niece on a cross-country drive.  Her son was a couple of months old.  We had taken a picture of my daughter holding her first cousin once removed.  This meant that we would have to re-create the picture.  My niece prepared a lovely breakfast for us.  Sadly we couldn’t stay long – just long enough to enjoy a meal and catch up.  And one of the best parts for me was getting to play with her dog – a lab mix named Leo.  I love dogs and I especially love labs.  They’re so friendly and seek attention.  They also want to be loved and so they go out of their way to please every person they meet.  Sound like anyone we know?…

Perhaps the funniest thing of our trip so far happened at this time. I almost didn’t want to write about it but my wife insisted I should. My great-nephew is potty training. It happens. As we were getting ready to head out the door my niece walked past the bathroom door on her way back into the kitchen. As only a parent who’s potty training a child can, she said “Did someone poop?” And before anyone could comprehend her question a certain member of our party who happens to be my mother-in-law replied quick as lightning: “Me.”

Sometimes in life there are pauses. Sometimes these pauses are dramatic like when the Twin Towers fell and we all held our breath for 40 seconds. Time seemed not to exist. Sometimes these pauses are ironic like when we await the punchline of a joke. In either case there is anticipation in these pauses. We know something is coming, we just don’t know what. This was not one of those moments. In fact there was no pause. Her answer was immediate. The pause came after her “Me”. The pause was me and my wife wondering how to process what we had just heard. For a moment we just stared at each other. And then we figured it out. We were to laugh. Look, I’ve never thought bodily processes a good subject for humor. It’s lowbrow and cheap. But her innocence in answering so quickly and something about the moment just made us laugh. Seems she didn’t want my niece to think it had been her potty-training son. I admire such honesty. And I laugh at it.

After breakfast we were back on the road. Remember when I said a trip with us is like trench warfare? So… a half-hour later we stopped. This time our stop was an outlet mall. Unlike the depressing shell of a mall we had seen two days earlier, this one was vibrant. I hit all the shops I wanted to, got some new shorts and shirts. The lady behind the counter at the Old Navy even gave us a 20% discount because she liked the Nintendo-themed shirt my son was wearing. It seems his love of classic video games has indeed paid off. Back on that road. Another hour, another stop. We had promised my daughter we would hit a craft store so she could get a few items to keep her entertained at the beach. I thought the ocean and stuff would have been enough; but it appears not. Ten minutes after entering they emerged with even more crap stuff to stuff into the car.

Finally, we were on our way again. Fits and starts, kids, fits and starts. By the way, did you like my use of the word “wend” up above? Thought so. From the craft store we actually raced to get to our next destination. See, we’re Catholic, if you couldn’t tell, and this being Saturday evening and not wanting to attend the “beach mass” at the Outer Banks On Sunday morning we decided to take our chances on a church in the city of Rocky Mount. We got there with one minute to spare. I ALWAYS wear my best suit to Sunday mass. This time, however, that option was not available to me, arriving with no time to change. The church was interesting. For those in the know, it looked like a typical 60’s parish that had recently been assigned a more tradition-minded pastor. The mass was ad orientem and we knelt at the rail for Communion. This might offend some but I realized over the past five years that I need to go out of my way to exemplify the virtue of reverence in the face of so many Eucharistic abuses. Kneeing for Communion, for me, is the best way to do that. Not a fan? Sorry. But the building itself was quite distinct in that it featured the most bizarre stained glass windows. At one point I looked up to see a purple man-baby looking down upon me. If that doesn’t put the fear of God into one, I don’t know what will.

  • Purple Man-Baby Jesus
  • An oddly pretty Catholic church from a strange era of architecture.

And now for the “Top Reason to become a Libertarian” section of the post. We drove on from Rocky Mount headed for the Outer Banks. Normally, this is a three-hour drive. Not with us. And not because we took a ton of stops either. I use the Waze traffic app. About fifteen minutes out from mass Waze informed me “Police reported ahead.” My wife and I looked at each other and, noticing two county police cars in the median, remarked in unison: “Police right there.” Lucky for me I was not speeding. Had the cruise control set at the actual speed limit. But that didn’t stop our friends from Edgecombe County, North Carolina’s Sherriff’s Office from pulling out in tandem and trailing me for five minutes. In my mind I went over any possible violations I could have made. Nothing. Why were they doing this to me? We were about to find out because they put their lights on. Being the dutiful citizen I am (and always obeying my federal overlords) I quickly pulled to the shoulder. An officer approached my vehicle. Without ever identifying himself he said simply “Got your license?” I already had it out so I handed it to him (careful to make sure it was my driver license and not my gun license because this isn’t Texas and he has no right to know) and asked “What’s the problem?” “We ran a check of your plates and it came back ‘no record’,” he said. Stop and think for a minute. If I haven’t done anything wrong, why on earth would you run a check of my plates? None of this made any sense. After five minutes he returned to my window and handed me back my license. “You’re good,” he said. “I know that,” I replied. He turned on his heel to walk away and I decided to be a wiseguy.

“Just one thing, officer,” I said.  “Why do they call them Tar Heels?”

Officer Skippy shot me a look as if I had just asked him to explain quantum physics. “Um, I think… You know? I’m not… Hey Buck!” Here he called to the other officer who had never approached the car. “Buck! Why are they Tar Heels?” Buck mumbled something inaudible. Skippy stuttered a bit and then said “I think Tar Heel was an Indian or something. Yeah, I think he had black feet.” Then he scurried away. The thing is that my wife and I had just had this conversation moments before being pulled over. Thanks to Google we knew the answer and it did NOT have a thing to do with a Native American. I’m not even sure these two clowns were actual police officers or if they were. perhaps they were doing some kind of on-the-job training. Look, folks, be on guard when you drive through North Carolina. The very first speeding ticket I ever got was in the Tar Heel State and the trooper admitted it was because the county needed the money

Another stop. This one at a Walmart for supplies and the world’s smallest liquor store for liquor supplies. Then, with the cruise locked to the speed limit the rest of the trip we drove on toward the beach. And finally, at 11:35 PM we reached our destination. Having seen stars, family, a shopkeep with human decency, an inflatable unicorn raft from a craft store, Jesus, two Andy Griffith wannabes, and a whole lot of coastal flats we could settle into bed. And this dad could give thanks for his wife, children, mother-in-law, friends, health, and safety… and a whole lot of memories.

PS: I need to mention here that my niece and her husband started up a neat company a couple of years ago and I would love to drive business their way. The company is called Soledier Socks. Check them out here and, if you, like me, wear socks consider them for your next purchase.

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Kids and Their Gradmothers: Another Road Trip – Day 2

Posted on June 1, 2019 | Leave a comment

This morning I woke up in Alabama.  There’s nothing terribly spectacular about that fact I think.  Just a man and his wife, their two kids, and his mother-in-law struggling to gain consciousness in a hotel room in the Deep South…  I did what I do every morning upon waking up.  I hit the ground and said my morning prayers.  Praised be God!  I’m alive.  I got out of bed unassisted.  I required no help in getting dressed.  From the looks of things through the room-darkening drapes, the sun was out.  My watch told me that the temperature hadn’t crept too high.  This was going to be a beautiful day and my heart is full of joy.  I have a lot of prayers that I pray every morning.  It’s structured.  I’m not saying I pray like Rainman or anything but if you mess with my routine I will cut you.  I continued praying silently as I left the room and headed to the lobby for coffee.  The trip downstairs took a little longer than it should have.  I could not board the first two elevators due to overcrowding.  Hoop skirts and parasols take up a lot of space.  I told you there was nothing strange about waking up in Birmingham.

We’ve traveled like this many, many times to where we have the unpack/pack thing down. The lady at the front desk marveled at how quickly we managed to get everything back into the car so efficiently. “Y’all must have done this a time or two befo-ah, I should declaaayah.” I nodded politely. My daughter and her grandmother came past the front desk. “Ya’ll fav-uh; but I reckon yal’l get that a lot,” said the lady behind the counter, now staring at my daughter and me. I whispered to my wife: “If we pay her no heed perhaps she will ignore us.” We went back to packing the car while the attendant busily replaced the carafes of coffee with bottles of gin and a bowl of sloes mixed with sprigs of mint. If I hadn’t been so scared I might have been tempted to stay and check this party out. As she placed the bottles down I heard her softly singing something about the land of cotton and old time days, silently moving apostrophes as she did so. I walked around the vehicle shoving each member of my family inside, slamming doors behind them. Then I locked the doors, rolled down my window, shouted “We won the wo-ah!” and sped away.

Absolutely none of that may have happened in reality.  I just needed some kind of device to get my story going.  You see, it’s actually the morning of day 3 as I write this.  When we reach the end of this dispatch you might see why I am writing this then or now or whenever it actually is.  Let’s pick up from the only part of that tale that was true.  That would be the part where I woke up and prayed.

Masses in English and Spanish and Latin and Spanish-Latin and Spanglish!

We packed the car and headed to mass.  My son and I were both wearing long pants despite the increasing heat.  That’s because we would be heading to a place that required a certain dress code.  My wife had chosen the church from a list online.  It was about a half-hour away.  She had to remain in the car to get on a business call so Wilma, the kids, and I all headed into the tiny, almost mission looking church building.  The sign out front declared that “All are welcome here!”  And what a strange way they had of showing welcome.  We encountered a Catholic mass in Spanish with heavy doses of Latin – as in, the priest seemed not to be able to make up his mind.  For instance (and I don’t know much Spanish) the priest prayed the Our Father in Spanish, said something rapidly in Spanish directed toward the congregation, and then chanted the Pater Noster.  We approached for Communion.  For such a “progressive” looking church building we all knelt at the rail to receive Communion on the tongue.  Again, I prefer to receive Communion kneeling and on the tongue but all of this seemed so disjointed.  Regardless, we had been blessed to stand at the foot of Calvary and I can’t ever complain about that.

We drove a little further down the road and stopped in at the Shrine of the Most Blessed Sacrament. Yeah, we’re those kind of people. And this is where the pants come in. Some shrines like their visitors‘ legs more covered than others. I don’t mind. It’s not like it’s 1800 degrees out today or anything. We’ll offer it up. This shrine was built under the direction of one of my heroes, Mother Angelica. Here was a woman who didn’t take any nonsense. A beautiful place it was, too. Seemingly in the middle of nowhere was a large church with an enormous plaza, visitors center, and the requisite gift shop. In fact it was both the best shrine gift shop I ever saw and one of the most beautiful churches too. I had to force myself to leave the gift shop before I spent a small fortune. We stopped at the crypt-level church to pray at Mother’s tomb and then it was on our way again. A quick lunch (at five different restaurants to accommodate five people who suddenly remembered it’s Friday and we’re not eating meat; a quick change for father and son into shorts; and we’re on our way.

  • Rest in peace, Mother!
  • Love the clouds in this picture.
  • A fool and his money are soon parted…

Still further up the same road (and keep in mind at this point we’re only about 30 miles from where we left this morning) we stopped at another shrine. I have a former student who is currently walking the Camino in Spain, mocking me every few minutes on Facebook with her pictures of beautiful places along the way. It is as if she is saying “Ha! You will never make it to Spain but I am here!” Yeah, toots? I’m doing the Northern Alabama Catholic tour. You don’t even know… OK, so it doesn’t quite work the same. This shrine is more of a grotto than a specific place of pilgrimage. It’s another spot that I had visited years earlier with my brother (see yesterday’s post). It’s called the Ave Maria Grotto. Here’s the story… About a hundred years ago, give or take, a young Benedictine monk arrived at St. Bernard’s Abbey in Cullman, Alabama. Possessing an artistic streak, he began making “models” of buildings he remembered from his native Bavaria. He constructed these out of rocks, twigs, broken dishes, basically anything he could get his hands on. He began making more and more “buildings”, placing them on the grounds of the abbey. Eventually his creations were arranged around a long and winding pathway and people come from all around to see what one monk could do with the other monks’ garbage. At one point Wilma, making note of the literature that said “friends would bring Brother Jozef old pottery, dishes, and knick-knacks, asking him to fashion them into his miniature displays of cities like Jerusalem or Rome.” Said my mother-in-law while staring at a crucifix made out of dozens of seashells “He must have had a lot of beach friends.” Oh, and the gift shop strikes again. “Look, kids, it’s all the same at all of these shrine gift shops. Holy cards, books, and statues of saints. Don’t get too excited,” I said as my gaze turned toward a holy card of a Fulton Sheen statue holding a stack of his books. They’re getting clever, these shopkeeps.

Packing the family back into the car I drove across the northern reaches of Alabama as I cut a diagonal path toward the northeast corner of that fair state.  We had planned to stop at a place I had not been to yet but that my wife had visited once as a child.  There is a mountain lookout near the convergence of Tennessee, Alabama, and Georgia appropriately named Lookout Mountain.  From the summit, a piece of private property known as the very touristy “Rock City”, one can see seven states.  After paying damn near a hundred bucks to enter I wondered aloud whether those states were frustration, anger, seething rage, depression, etc.  However, after wandering the grounds – following the paths laid out by the owners – we reached the lookout point and it was well worth the money.  Not only was the view spectacular (you couldn’t really see seven states, or at least I couldn’t) but experiencing the excitement of exploring new places and seeing things most people never get to see and doing this with my wife and children brought a great joy to my heart.  Additionally, the grounds feature lots of story-book themed motifs.  I’m still not sure why there were hundreds of garden gnomes placed throughout the park and we may have in fact been paced under some kind of Wiccan hex by signing the credit card slip.  Time will tell.  To be safe we may return to Mother Angelica’s grave for protection.

  • The sliver of light above me comes from a break in the rocks under which I was walking.

Finally we headed out toward a nighttime stopping point. “Feel like driving past Asheville?” asked my beautiful wife. Asheville, NC lies a couple of hundred miles from Lookout Mountain. I felt like stopping right then and there, finding a cocktail, and getting into bed. But I knew we had to go on. And if she thought I could get us past Asheville then I could get us past Asheville. Along the last few hours of our drive my wife lovingly mocked me for my multiple stops. Look, my back can’t handle that many straight hours in the driver’s seat AND I need coffee. Thinking my passengers were all asleep I turned on some music from my phone. Came across an old album I used to listen to with my sister when we were young and used to go to Broadway matinees on the regular just because we could. After a while my wife opened her eyes, looked over at me, and said “You’re so strange…” “What?” I said. “Just rehearsing for my new production: Evita, a one-man show.”

And just as Mandy Patinkin was cryptically shrieking about Eva Peron’s missing body we arrived at our hotel. The time was 1:37 AM (hence the next day posting). A more thankful dad I really don’t think you could find – at least not in any of the states one can view from a mountaintop that might be in Georgia or perhaps in Tennessee. No matter, I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings.

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Kids and Their Grandmothers: Another Road Trip – Day 1

Posted on May 30, 2019 | 1 comment

Dedicated to Annie DeLisle for reasons known to her.

Well here we are again! And by “we” I mean “me” sitting in a hotel room in a strange place, laptop on hand, pictures uploading to the cloud, bizarre canned cocktail nearby, cataloging the day’s memories, and reminiscing about the past – both years past and hours…

By the way, wasn’t it swell of me to start this post with a relatively short paragraph containing just two sentences, the second one ridiculously long and ending with an ellipses? Thought so.

By “here we go again” I mean to say that the very thing that was the catalyst to this blog and the forthcoming book(s) is now underway yet again. All the way back in the summer of 2008 and with a six week-old boy in tow because it would have been kind of wrong to leave him home alone, my darling wife and I set out to take the road trip we had talked about taking since we were dating. Six weeks later we returned to our apartment in Northern New Jersey, the boy now a man doubled in age. For 48 days we criss-crossed the continent reaching the far point of the Vegas Strip. I was a brand new dad and had fancied myself a pro at fatherhood. It’s hard to blame me since I had the best role model. My old man always did not only what was best for us but also made use of what he was good at while doing it. As a result I know every cerebral dirty joke every told. What I was good at (in my mind) was writing. So at the end of day one I found myself in a hotel room in Northern Virginia, playing with a happy infant boy, adoring my life, and reaching for my laptop so I could “pen a few lines to remember the day”.

Those lines exceeded 2500 words.

The next night I wrote another few thousand. And the night after that I did the same. I shared them with my wife who suggested I post them to Facebook where soon enough I had attracted a small army of “fans”. Long story short, I kind of forgot to stop writing. And every time we’ve taken a road trip since I’ve realized what is the bread and butter of this blog – road trips.

So tonight I present to you Day 1 of a new adventure on the asphalt ribbons of America.

Let’s start with the title. Every good story needs an apt title. The purpose of this trip for us is to visit my mother in New Jersey. And since we love my wife’s mother as well and she and my mom are great friends we asked her to come with us. So we’ll have one grandmother on the trip, another on the other side, and a whole lot of fun in between.

Best Mother-in-law ever!

The day began shortly before 3AM when I sprang from my bed, dropped to my knees in prayer, grabbed a cup of hot, black coffee, and hit the shower. My loving wife had stayed up most of the night getting the house ready to be abandoned for a month and packing the car. She insisted I get the rest since I’d be driving. It’s a guy thing. It’s literally the least I can do. I imagine myself in days of old, my family in the back of a coach and me on the bench up front driving the horses. I also imagine horses don’t scare me.

Typical Thursday morning at 5AM, Buc-ee’s
Yes, it’s a beaver.

A trip with us is like a trip to the DMV only not terrible or disgusting. However it does take all day to go a few inches. I was going to compare it to trench warfare but I thought it was too soon. Our first stop came just thirty minutes later as we pulled into Buc-ee’s. Click the link to look it up. It is pure Texas and pure awesome. I think we accidentally spent a hundred bucks there. Well, not me. I bought a black coffee and did 25 pushups in the parking lot. Off we go…

Every do push-ups on asphalt?

About two hours later, driving into the rising sun, we crossed the border into the Pelican State (Louisiana) at Shreveport. The kids and my wife slept soundly this whole time. My Mother-in-law Wilma remained awake long enough for the two of us to discover we were both halfway through a rosary (individually) and so we joined forces. Then she crashed. And I drove. Alone. For hours. Don’t feel bad. I got to count all the pine trees in East Texas along the way.

Perhaps it was the excitement of the rushing and mighty Big River but all my passengers seemed to awaken right before we crossed the Mississippi. After a bathroom break and photo op we stopped for lunch at a Cracker Barrel in Vicksburg. I got excited as we pulled off the highway. There, right next to the restaurant, was what looked to all the world like an outlet mall. They do come in handy on road trips for all the articles you suddenly remember forgetting to pack once you’re just out the door. Only this one was different. For starters it was only two strips of stores. And 98% of those were closed. As in, didn’t exist anymore. It was sadder than when my dog died in high school. Thank God for chicken fried steak.

Big River

As we barreled across Mississippi I decided it was time to indoctrinate the offspring by forcing them to listen to playing some selections my older sister made us listen to on road trips when I was their age. Linda Ronstadt, Boz Scaggs… I’m sorry. I almost drove off the road. Let’s listen to silence, kids! Silence sounds good.

Finally we crossed into Alabama where the stars fell. Not sure if that’s a tourist slogan or if a radiological waste site is actually contributing to the ethereal glow. It is a beautiful place. Here’s where it got really fun for me as a dad. When I was 12 my older brother had just graduated from West Point. Yes, that one. He set out on a trip to Birmingham to visit a friend from the Academy who had left two years earlier and was graduating from Auburn and he took me along for company. I remember the trip well and not just because my brother decided to make the 1000 mile return drive straight through but because our hosts took me to the Statue of Vulcan. Someone from Birmingham once visited New York Harbor and decided the Statue of Liberty would be nice overlooking their city. Instead they got Vulcan. Birminghamanians are proud of their city’s industrial roots so entrenched in the iron industry. In fact they’re known as “the Pittsburgh of the South” even though that city’s lifeblood was steel. Came up with that one all by themselves. Their history of segregation? Not so proud of that one. But they deal with that in several other really neat monuments. Hey, nobody’s perfect. Vulcan is really cool too. Perched on a very tall pedestal resembling a lighthouse, the deity looks out over Birmingham with an anvil at his side and an arrow in his raised hand. He’s even wearing a nifty apron round his waist. Unfortunately that apron was cut for a transparently smaller man. From the rear and shining on the Homewood neighborhood with the brilliance of a large celestial object is the exposed backside of a well-sculpted dude. God? Demi-god? It’s his butt. I remembered all of this and simply had to take my kids for the experience. Both kids laughed heartily when they saw it. Then we went to the top. My daughter even climbed the ten flights of stairs with me (had to get my workout in) and gleefully stepped out onto the viewing platform at the base of the Statue. Before freezing in terror.

I love Art Deco.
Seemed like the thing to do.
Note the abject fear in her eyes.
Perfect pose.

The platform was an open steel grid. Boy was that scary. I had to be brave so she wouldn’t cry. Inside I had three heart attacks. Not figuratively either. Ten stories up and a clear view of the ground below. Maybe this wasn’t such a brilliant plan after all.

Nonetheless we got our pictures and drove on. On our way to the hotel just north of town God must have known I hadn’t closed my exercise ring on my watch. An old woman sat in an old car in the middle of a busy street. She had broken down. My wife said “She needs help.” Good observation. I pulled over, jumped out, and like roaches scattering in a kitchen but in reverse two other people and I ran toward her car, dodging traffic, and pushed her a block to a safe spot.

They seem to enjoy this.

Finally in the hotel I “did the Dad thing”, even though I was beat, and jumped in the pool with my children. My wife went for food. Krystal’s. Never had ‘em? I’ll tell you more tomorrow. Wilma? She stayed in the room to pray. I needed it – the prayers that is. Later I closed out the day with a Walmart run. I forgot to pack my jumprope. It’s my daily cardio. I start every day with 30 minutes of high intensity jump rope before breakfast and vacation doesn’t change that. How else do you think I can do all this? Prayer? Oh, yeah that too. Made five trips back to the car for forgotten items, and finally cracked open a drink (if you can call it that) with my mother-in-law.

Alabama what now?

Which brings us to the present. Seems we have some 30 days ahead of us and many more adventures in store. I can’t promise more bareassed statues of Roman gods but I can promise lots of love and plenty of fun and a most thankful heart from this dad of two future saints.

Ready to join me? Let’s go.

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Posted in dad blog, Dad Stuff, Faith/Theology/Spirituality, Family, Fitness, Kids, Kids and Their Grandmas, Parenting, Road Journals, Sights, Travel

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My In-Flight Style

Posted on April 11, 2019 | Leave a comment

This Saturday I shall take to the friendly skies as I head home to visit my mom. She’s had a health scare recently. Although she appears to be fine I still like to “pop in to town” to let her know I love her.

This got me thinking of an old article I wrote about flying. There are many old articles I have written about flying, in fact. This one, however, made me laugh out loud while reading it to my son tonight. And so I present to you, my lovely audience, the re-printing of My In-Flight Style (originally published October 9, 2011):

When Flying Was Glamorous

Just came across an article on Foxnews.com detailing the level of formality (or lack thereof) people choose to display when flying, particularly evident in their attire.

I can remember my dad, who was born in the 1930’s, always recalling how “in the old days” people didn’t dare attempt to board an airplane unless they were appropriately dressed. It was as much a social thing as it was a matter of pride. Apparently this meant men wore suits and ties, ladies wore a nice dress. To him, people getting on planes in jeans, shorts, tee shirts, generally unkempt was an abomination. I’ve been watching that new show Pan Am* and I can see what he meant. It must have been an incredible time to fly!

These two travelers embody the light, carefree attitude of the modern and sophisticated aeroplane flyer.

According to the article there are six basic in-flight styles ranging from the “ethnic adventurer” (whatever that is) to the “beleaguered parent” (which I have been on a few occasions). For instance, the “suited frequent-flyer” is, as the name implies, one who flies a lot, typically for business. He or she is recognized by the ability to pack everything with precision into a perfectly regulation sized carry-on bag, and zip through security like it’s no one’s affair. This person has been around the TSA screening line before and his or her sole purpose at the airport is utilitarian. Get in. Get on board. Get to the destination.

After much thought I have decided to review my own recent airport episodes and have concocted two profiles.  The first is the type of flier I imagine myself being and the second is who I actually am.

The Flying Man I Want to Be

In a perfect world, I am driven to the airport in a black Lincoln Towncar.  Although I banter freely with the driver I am not personally interested in his life — except in so far as it is fodder for my blog.  Oh, I forgot to mention, there is soft smooth jazz being piped into the back seat of my ride.  I am neatly pressed in my appearance, calm in my demeanor, and ever so excited about my destination.  I am delivered curbside where a skycap opens the door, collects my bag, which is black and showcases an elegantly stitched “HARVEY” near the top.  Another skycap hands me a chilled Sapphire and tonic and leads me to the lounge.  I, of course, given my importance, bypass security altogether.  Once in the lounge I mingle effortlessly with the elite of the world and we trade quips about the weather and the latest offerings from Brooks Brothers.  A stewardess dressed in stylish garb approaches.  “Mr. Harvey, we’re ready for you.  But first, the captain wishes for you to review his flight plan for your satisfaction.”  “Gladly, my dear”, I respond, my voice now bearing a strange British accent.  As we walk through the jetbridge I pass framed 8×10 sepia-toned prints of myself holding plastic models of various aircrafts, not smiling, simply presenting.  After checking in with the flight crew I am seated.  Another stewardess switches out my drink while still another approaches with a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and still a third offers to light my cigarette.  My sportcoat has been placed on a hanger and my shoes stowed overhead.  I am now in a red velvet robe and slippers.  The flight is magnificent — no turbulence — and we land safely, three hours ahead of schedule and, miraculously, my hair is still in perfect form.

See the elegance and grace with which they board the aircraft!

The Flying Schmoe I Really Am

Meanwhile in the realm of reality, I am dropped at the curb by my wife in our white Chrysler Town & Country.  The musical selection is Veggie Tales’ The Princess and the Pop Star.  I try to offer my kids a heartfelt kiss good bye.  “Daddy’s going on a trip now.  I love you!”  “Hurry up, I’ve got to get back in time for Pan Am“, my beautiful spouse informs me as she tosses my bag out the door and speeds away.  At this point I realize I have left my phone in the car and my iPad has zero battery life because my one year-old daughter decided to watch Backyardigans 18 times this morning.  I enter the terminal where I attempt to swipe a credit card for my boarding pass only to realize that my card has my middle initial on it and my flight information does not.  In frustration I kick the machine.  I break three toes on my right foot.  Damn, that’s a long line I’m going to have to stand in.  Shouldn’t have done that.  Meanwhile, in my attempt to get my card back into my wallet I have actually sprung loose five other cards (two of which will remain missing in action for good).

With a smart cocktail in hand and a kiss from a pretty stewardess we’re ready to take off into the future of flight! Lucky Lindy, eat your heart out.

I spend the next half-hour on the line for security only to be touched in ways no one should be by a woman twice my size.  Past security, there is no lounge for me.  There is only the dull passenger waiting area where there are absolutely NO seats to be had.  I am last to board a plane that smells like popcorn and urine.  I do believe the lady sitting next to me is drunk.  Well, that’s a given, she just threw up.  And… OH!  She missed the vomit bag.  I’d hate to be the owner of that jacket she just soiled.  Oh wait, I AM the owner of the jacket.  “Miss, you can keep that jacket…”  The flight takes off with all the gracefulness of an elephant leaping from a waterfall.  It is turbulent for twelve hours until finally crash landing at the wrong airport.  “Ladies and Gentlemen, I know we were supposed to be flying into Newark but our pilots both fell asleep for a while. It happens.  You’ll be enjoying a nice weekend in Manchester, New Hampshire!”  And, oh yes, they lost my luggage.  Meanwhile, I still have not been handed a single drink by a stylish stewardess.

Is it any wonder the airline industry has been teetering on the edge of collapse for some time now?!  At least I have Pan Am!

*Pan Am was cancelled the day after this post was first published or thereabouts.

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