Carla Sarett
My father had not
flown for a decade or so – perhaps even longer, certainly long enough so that
he had no concept of the nightmarish array of security measures, police and bizarre
check-points introduced since 9/11—as indeed who could?
But it was my
niece’s bat-mitzvah and so we were off to California from Philadelphia. My mother had not lived to see it but my eighty-five
year old father had. I’d promised to get him there, one way or the other.
I cautioned him
about the strange New World of Flight.
“Dad, the airports are different now.
There are lots of new rules --no shampoo, no lotions, no nail
clippers. You need to be careful.”
My former
engineer father said, “You’re joking.”
“It’s not a joke,
Dad. The government doesn’t allow
liquids on board.”
Dad eyed me as if
I were slightly insane. “You worry too much, honey,” he said.
I had reason to
be concerned. My father had lost his
left arm in a cancer surgery. While he
never labeled himself handicapped, he was. The airport requirements of removing jackets
and shoes while keeping one’s balance would be daunting—or so I feared.
At Philadelphia
Airport, we faced the long hostile security lines. “This is what it’s like, now—it’s ridiculous,”
I said as I helped him with his driver’s license.
“Country has to
do what it has to do,” Dad reminded me.
“Not such a big price to pay to be safe.
I think the line moves pretty quickly.”
Dad’s luggage
triggered the airport security system.
“Dad, what did you put in there?”
I asked.
“Sue me,” he
said.
We marched over
to a tired security inspector. Sure
enough, he’d packed huge bottles of lotion and shampoo and shaving cream and about
anything liquid he could think of. He
might even have packed mouthwash.
“That’s not
allowed sir,” the stout woman informed my one-armed father, dumping all of it
in the trash with little fanfare.
“Really, you’re
wasting all this stuff?” Dad protested.
“Do you have to throw it out?”
“Yes, sir,” she
announced.
“He hasn’t flown in
a while,” my husband informed the agent.
The woman shook her head in disbelief.
She continued to
rifle through Dad’s luggage. Out came a comically huge pair of scissors. The
agent dangled the scissors in front of him.
“These are definitely not allowed, sir.
Scissors are illegal to take on a plane.
Are you aware of that, sir?”
“Dad, what are
you doing with scissors?” I almost screamed.
Dad addressed the
agent in a soothing voice. “I am so sorry, miss. But I do need those scissors. I hope you understand, but I need them.”
The stout agent softened. She measured the scissors and allowed them to
remain in his luggage. “You should
follow instructions,” she told him, amused.
“Thank you. I
will next time,” he lied.
The airplane
itself was over-crowded and not so clean.
My
husband and I settled in – discontented, filled with ire at airport
security and ill-disposed towards one and all. All of the passengers looked
woebegone and disgusted at the prospect of the six hour flight to California,
unrelieved by free airline food.
Alone in this den
of misery, Dad enjoyed himself. About an
hour after the plane had alighted, he poked me. “Listen to how quiet this
airplane is. What is this, a Boeing or
an Airbus?”
All I heard was
ceaselessly chattering passengers. By that time, I was about to clobber whoever
was in the seat across from me who would not shut up. I dug out the airline magazine, and
identified the aircraft for him—whether it was Boeing or Airbus, I detested it.
“Actually, it’s a
Boeing 767.”
Dad took this
in. “In early days of aviation, airplane
engines were so loud it shattered ear-drums—it made flying unbearable. Flying was dirty and dangerous and noisy. And
now, listen, just listen.”
We listened
together—and I saw clouds outside.
“Those engineers,
they know what they’re doing. And we’ll
be across a continent in less than six hours.
Centuries, people slogged across the continent—think how hard that was
for pregnant women. Now, we’re just
sitting here doing nothing, and we’ll land in San Francisco, safe and sound and
snug in a few hours. You can’t do better
than that, can you?”
“I guess not,’ I
admitted.
When we arrived in
San Francisco, Dad said, “Smooth landing.”
We trekked to the
car rental- which first required an airport shuttle trains. Having left Philadelphia ten hours before, I
feared my father would be exhausted—I certainly was.
Once aboard the
airport shuttle, an automated voice announced the terminal name and came to a
stop. My father’s bright eyes went wide. “It’s like the future,” he said. “This is so cool! The train even talks to you!” He was flying high.
My father’s joy
was infectious – and even my tired husband laughed. Our fantastic shuttle reached our destination
and Dad came gently back to earth. For
his sake, I wished our journey had lasted longer.
At dinner, we sat
at a table overlooking the moonlit Pacific, but my father’s thoughts were still
in the air. “Such a fantastic trip,” he
said. “So smooth and quiet, and in less
than a day, we’re in California looking at the ocean. It doesn’t get much better than this, does
it?”
“No, it doesn’t,”
I said. “But please, no shampoo on the
way back.”
He smiled and filled
his glass of wine. “Honey, you just
worry too much.”
This piece appeared in Airplane Reading.
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