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Everything was fine until I boarded my flight in Atlanta. The last time I had flown on an airline was January 2008. Flying has changed quite a lot in that short time.
We still have to remove our shoes and and belts. Now, as an alternative to walking through the metal detector/golden arch of the chosen, we have the option of choosing a “pat down” instead. Airlines have learned they can charge for most any service these days. I would imagine they are brainstorming about how to charge for this “pat down” service as well. I think they should petition Congress to require us to remove one more article of clothing, as an additional safety precaution of course, and then offer the pat down as a pre-flight massage. For those who would see through this money raising ploy, airline executives could offer to contribute part of the proceeds to fund the “Society for Zoo Animal Nail Clipping”. You choose which animal’s nails get clipped. After all, it is your money.
One passenger in line smartly suggested to me that instead of removing shoes, the airline could just scan our shoes while they are still our feet. Marvelous. What an idea with possibilities. Those in dress shoes would love it. Shoe “scan and shine” all for one low price. No more untying those laces and the added benefit of having a little extra attention to detail before the big sales meeting.
Another change I noticed is that on time departure is now the passenger’s responsibility. “We can’t close the door until every bag is stowed and every person seated,” the attendant says with a smile. “We have six minutes to meet our on time departure goal so if the person in front of you is taking a little too long in the aisle, gently tap them on the shoulder, say excuse me and move past them” she encourages as she looks nervously at the open door.
This is a time of tapping, timing and tenseness for all of us.
What happens, I think, if we don’t shut the door on time? I’m seated and stowed so its not my fault. Maybe there will be a “not pushing and shoving enough” fee. Maybe it will be like musical chairs: whoever causes us to miss on time departure will be cast off the plane or maybe we will all have to deplane, do it again, and pay a “try to get it right this time” fee.
As the seconds tick, the attendant again suggests tapping shoulders. The urgency is apparent. I’m starting to think I need to rise from my seat and provide tapping support. Then all is calm. The attendant clearly relieved, states, ” Thank you ladies and gentlemen. We have made our on time departure goal. We couldn’t have done it without you.”
A simultaneous cheer erupts from the seated passengers. High fives and hugs and the occasional tear are the order of the moment. Again, I want to rise and, this time, lead my fellow teammates in our national anthem. As I lean forward to stand, I think I see the head attendant give me the “wave off” so I remain seated and am I content to bask in the success of our unrehearsed challenge. In the middle expressions of joy, the pilot quietly says on the intercom, “Ladies and gentlemen we’ll be leaving in a few minutes. We are waiting for a few more bags to be loaded.” Doesn’t matter. This one goes in the “W” column.
I’ve been flying for 30 years and if I’ve learned one thing about airline passengers, it is, we expect to eat. We don’t expect to eat well nor do we expect to eat food. We seem only to want to challenge our digestive systems with rubbery substances that have been given food nicknames because the scientific names are too difficult to pronounce or contain more letters than will fit on the package.
How the decision about what snacks to serve on a given flight is made is only for the lower gods to know. This flight it was peanuts or pretzels or what resembled a cookie or a half size can of Pringles potato chips. Pringles? A whole half size can? There must be 30 chips in that can. Pringles for me, please.
My seat number was 30E – a middle seat. Seat 29C was the last passenger to get Pringles. 29D wanted Pringles, but there were no more. Big disappointment. I sure could use a “pat down”.
I fought two difficult to open peanut packs. 16 peanuts. One escaped by squeezing between my fingers, skiing down the front of my shirt, and scooting under the seat in front of me. As I ate my 15 peanuts, I thought one more time about rising from my seat. This time to lead the rows of passengers behind me in a jingle demanding Pringles. Then I thought better of it. After all, I was down to 15 peanuts. If I didn’t eat them all now, I wouldn’t have the energy to open my wallet and contribute to the “wheels down landing” fund.
Today I flew out of the Columbus Ga airport. Good ‘ol CSG. Clean friendly and no nonsense.
It’s a comfortable 50 minute flight to Atlanta. No shoulder tapping required.
I know it happens. I see it happen. I wonder how it happens and exactly the point in time it happens. I wonder if the person feels it happening and fights to prevent the two identity tags from being placed on them that never go away. Most of all, I wonder which happens first, being anonymous or being an alcoholic?
Two alcoholics are both fighting to keep from being anonymous. One plays in a band and the other lives with a charitable woman who is raising three boys.
Ross works full time and plays in a local band. He plays pretty well. He rides a bicycle to work. He rides in the rain, in the blistering heat, and soon, in the bitter cold. Ross rides his bike because he can no longer drive a car. Ever. For any reason. What caused Ross to take that fateful last trip that ended less than a mile away from his house? He was leaving his house -not returning- when he got the last dui he will ever get. It’s the one that caused him to lose his license. Forever. “It was a dumb move.” That’s his answer.
Ross has no electricity. He works full time and plays gigs two to three nights a week. He has no car, no gas needs, and no insurance. Two more weeks and he will have saved up enough money to get his electricity reconnected. So how does Ross feel about it? He hit a police officer because, “He pissed me, off.” “The power company is out of control for requiring such a large deposit.” Then he gets on his bike and rides 15 miles one way to continue court ordered community service. He does it on Saturdays. “If I didn’t smoke, I’d be in really great shape” he says.
Ross runs an extension cord from his neighbor’s house so he can watch tv and practice his guitar until his power is reconnected. No official designation of “alcoholic” has been placed on him. He is almost anonymous. His other neighbors don’t know him. They see somebody, but they don’t see him. He doesn’t know them either.
Gary was pulled out of obscurity by a woman. She is his lifeline now. He has escaped anonymity, for a while. She says, “Gary I have never seen a picture of you without a beer in your hand.” They have dated for three years. She has three boys to raise. He has no job. He lost his driver’s license due to non payment of child support. He still drives. Last time he was stopped, by the police, he was charged with DUI and driving without a license.
They couldn’t take his license away. He didn’t have one. The court ordered him to do 3 hours of rehab, 3 days a week. “What kind of job can you get with that over you’re head?”, the woman asks. Then she says, “I’m always helping folks. I really don’t mind…even to do small favors…it’s my calling. I feel guilty if I don’t.”
Dual alcoholics – one in a band and one in a family. Both fighting to keep from becoming -only- anonymous.
Alcoholics Anonymous is far from anonymity and farther from practicing alcoholism. They are people with two common goals: to fight their alcoholism and to fight their anonymity – they work together.
He had tried to kick his way out. The space he was in was dark and moist, but that didn’t bother him as much being cramped in a small space that seemed to be getting smaller. He didn’t know where he was or how he had gotten here or even how long he had been here, but he knew one thing – he would get out of here or die trying.
He kicked again. Each time his foot seemed to almost break through the wall that trapped him and then the wall refused to budge. He tried to feel around on the inside. He was laying on his back with his legs pulled to his chest so his reach was limited, but in the wet, darkness he didn’t know that. He kicked one more time with no more success than any prior attempt than his most recent effort to escape.
How long had he been here? Didn’t anyone know he needed help? He didn’t have any answers, but he knew he needed sleep. During his time here, he had determined that crossing his arms across his chest and crossing his legs at his ankles was most comfortable. As he lay there dozing, he heard the soft, rhythmic sound again. Sometimes the rhythm got faster or a little slower, but mostly it stayed the same. He couldn’t tell where it was coming from. As he drifted off into a deep sleep, he took comfort in the sound. Maybe somebody did know he was there and would help him soon. He dreamed of Mozart…
He woke to the feeling that something or maybe someone was hitting him softly, almost desperately, on his backside. He tried to move. He felt stronger now. He kicked the wall again and this time he really kicked. Nothing. Then the tap came again. He realized someone was in here with him! He had no idea who it was or if even “it” were a he or she. He had no memory. He had to find a way out. He squirmed and he stretched and he kicked. He tried to turn around. He could do nothing for himself.
As he was struggling, his brain registered the rhythmic sound again. It was getting louder and faster. He struggled furiously. Then help came. One more tap on his backside – it felt like a tiny, balled fist – and the rest happened fast. He hadn’t found the escape route, it found him and he was being forced to use it. He was being squeezed. He was being pulled, and he didn’t care. He just wanted out. Stuck in the narrow pathway laying on his back, his head felt a rush of cool air. What now he thought? He couldn’t move in the slightest. Then something grabbed each side of his head and tried pull him out. He felt the pressure. Another pull and a squeeze. Then no more darkness. It was light. Too much light. He promised to never open his eyes even if he could. Again the pulling on his head. His shoulders felt cold. Then with one, quick motion he was free! He sucked the cold air into his lungs as deeply as if it were his first breath…and then he screamed. He breathed again and screamed again. He couldn’t stop himself. He was free, but the light, the cold, and the unknown were too much.
No more dark, moist, cramped space and he was afraid. He was too tired to scream, but he could still breathe. He was dry now and he was little warmer and he felt cozy. He was again in a small space, but not cramped. He began to relax. After a moment, he realized he was hearing it again. That same soothing rhythmic sound. Now is was soft, gentle, farther away and well, loving.
As he lay there, he though of that last tap on his backside before the ordeal. What was it? His imagination, maybe… Soon the answer would come, but James was so tired and he needed sleep. When the answer did come, he didn’t hear it nor could he have understood it.
“Congratulations Mrs. Osmeyer, you have twin boys.” As the words moved happily through the delivery room, Sally Osmeyer smiled and turned her tired eyes toward her husband, Carl. Carl rolled his eyes, sighed a contented, relieved sigh and focused his eyes lovingly on his beaming wife.
On a cool, Sunday morning a single shot erupted from a shotgun. Not a word was spoken before or after. As the noise from the gun moved away from us at the speed of sound, quiet settled upon us as a wet, woolen blanket. One lay dead and the other, satisfied, went back to bed.
Sundays in this farming community meant you rested. Rest meant you cooked, you ate, you went to church and you visited friends or they visited you. I never understood how visitation worked. Very few times did we go somewhere and there was no one home. It seemed as if there were an unwritten schedule that coordinated, reliably, who was to stay home and who was to visit.
No one ever came to visit before dinner. Ever. It just wasn’t done. Sunday mornings early, were quiet peaceful, and for the kids, the only day we could watch cartoons. We got up at 5:30am every Sunday morning and quietly crept into the living room. Being quiet was essential. The cartoons came on at 6:00am and we sat motionless in our designated chairs waiting for them to start. Usually, by the time the third grown up emerged through the door that accessed a hall where the three bedrooms were, cartoon time was over. We expected to get thirty minutes of Elmer Fudd, Bugs Bunny, and the Tasmanian Devil, but always hoped for an hour. Sometimes we got it.
This Sunday started out like every other Sunday and, for the most part, it ended like every other Sunday. There was no doubt, however, a few minutes in the mid-morning changed how my brother and I perceived the circle of life…and death.
Papa was usually third to arrive in the kitchen. Granny, always first to arise, would quietly shut the door to the bedroom hallway and move gently to the kitchen, barely speaking to my brother me sitting in the living room as she passed between us. She was headed to make the best biscuits I have ever eaten. She made them every day. Shortly after, my mother would follow, look at us, and then the television. Each Sunday, as if our choice of viewing was a surprise to her, she would, with a slight furrow in her brow, express her disappointment. She usually gave us until Papa woke up and made his way through the door that separated those in slumber from those awake to watch the cartoons that would give us some fodder to dispense at school the next week where we struggled to maintain the notion we were like everybody else at the private school we attended.
This Sunday morning PaPa didn’t feel well. After eating breakfast, he would normally go outside, play with his dog, Blackboy, a solid black mostly airdale mix, walk around the driveway and survey the color of the pasture grass from afar.
This morning was different. He ate his biscuits, drank his coffee from the saucer he had poured it in so it would cool quickly, and went back to bed. He hardly said a word. Normally, we kids would be happy because we would get more tv time if someone needed more sleep, but this morning we were worried because Papa was not just tired. He didn’t feel well. We did get more tv time and outside, a cock began to crow.
Roosters were the time clocks of our farm. They would start about 10 minutes before daylight and would continue, intermittently, every four or five minutes for about an hour. Thirty five years later, hearing a rooster crow, moves my body, involuntarily from sleep to action.
This morning one particular rooster took issue with tradition. My brother and I noticed it and a couple of times even went to peer out the window set two-thirds of the way from the bottom of the door to watch the rooster crow relentlessly. The rooster crowed every few minutes between daylight and about 815a. I am still amazed that the rooster didn’t get hoarse or pass out from exhaustion.
In one moment, the rooster stopped crowing and lay down still. It had finally happened. The rooster died. Natural death was not this rooster’s destiny. As my brother and I watched television, cartoons, maybe even Foghorn Leghorn, Papa had slipped quietly from the hall of slumber, passed between us and the television, taken his shotgun from the coat closet and with one quick motion, opened the door and shot the rooster dead from thirty yards.
He replaced the shotgun and ambled back through the door. No one tried to explain or have a discussion about the incident. No one ever spoke of it. About 30 minutes later, granny moved from the kitchen through the living room, passing between us and through the door that led to the outside. A few minutes later, she returned with the rooster. Waste not, want not. At 12:15am, after church, we at the rooster.
This is a true story. Other ways to have chicken for Sunday dinner are to simply go to:
Columbus Georgia Restaurants – Complete with Menus
Maybe you miss the cartoons, but you miss the gun play too.
It seems that if you love any kids you love’em all. My neighbor has two sons. I have a son and a daughter. I love all four of them. My children and I enjoy doing things together, but some days it’s “the more, the merrier.”
One Saturday in less than an hour, my son and the younger neighbor had a badminton birdie, two badminton rackets and shoe stuck 12 feet up in a pine tree. When I went out to check on them, they trying to get everything down by throwing a baseball helmet up in the tree. I just had to laugh…out loud. I was living young again. They reminded me of how I used to think and, by some accounts, still do. We got it all down, eventually. Getting everything down was at least as much fun as getting it stuck, I think.
The older son and I compare our overseas trips, our slowly developing guitar skills, and the latest in wifi and Ipod technology. He’s learning to drive this year. I get to watch.
My small front yard has a baseball field, a golf course, a pine straw fort, a chalk artist’s canvas a great slide and a floor exercise competition area. No one driving by can tell, but they are all there…when they are needed.
My neighbor brought fresh shelled peas over this afternoon. Haven’t eaten those in ages, but I will cook them and we will feast this weekend.
Just this afternoon, my daughter and the younger boy and I have played a board game, played in a sand pile and eaten fresh pomagranite the boy picked from a tree on his walk home from school. It is so “Andy Griffeth”…just the way I like it.
Indications are that math tutoring is on the horizon…
Tomorrow is a school day for them and a work day for me, but until then, we are living the dream…really living it. For me, a cool evening watching children grow and learn and experience in play…it’s where I want to be.
Maybe you get to be in this world some too. I hope so….Coming Aunt Bee!!
Money can’t buy you love and money can’t buy you happiness, but the latest theory is that with a little money, you can share happiness. It seems that if you are already happy, then you can share that happiness for a little as one dollar. I read this on a giant sign just off the highway. It must have been a public service advertisement because their was nothing else on the sign except the picture of a soft drink. What a philanthropic sponsor. They weren’t even willing to share their identity.
When I read this latest idea about money and happiness, I was overcome with guilt. I am a happy person and, on occasion, I do find myself in possession of a dollar. Everyone wants happiness, I have it, and I have now be made aware of my selfishness by not sharing it
So I have some ideas to make up for the error of my ways. Let’s say I’m stopped for speeding. Now I’m certain police officers are generally happy people, but I don’t ever see them smiling on the job. Not once have I been stopped and been told by an officer, “Step out of your vehicle son and show me what engine you’ve got under the hood. I almost didn’t catch you. What a rush.” They are always somber. So I think I will try to share some happiness with the officer. When he asks for my license, I will give him dollar…and I will smile. Sharing happiness. That’s the new me.
My daughter’s birthday is coming up and I am excited about this test. I think it has real potential. “Happy Birthday Sweetie”, I will say as I give her the dollar…and I will smile. Of course, I will give her quarters so she can tell her friends her daddy gave her four gifts, well five including the smile. Kids are all about volume. She will be so happy.
This sharing happiness could catch on like the colorful rubber bands you buy for your wrist that have stopped people from losing their balance. Before these rubber bands were discovered, it was really difficult to shop in the mall or spend quiet time at the library because of all the people stumbling, falling and running into each other. Now if I’m the owner of a bar, I’m giving these things to everyone who walks in my place. Think of the money I can make if people can drink and never lose their balance. One rubber band for each wrist and and a rubber headband for everyone too…
Lately, I have been trying to share my happiness with my girlfriend and, so far, with only limited success. Now I have the answer. This time when she says, “What are we doing tonight baby?” I am going to give her a dollar and say, I want to share my happiness with you, honey”…and I will smile.
All this typing is making me thirsty. I wonder what I should drink?
Bobby was sitting on the grass staring at something on the ground when his Dad, getting home from work, pulled into the driveway. He walked over to where Bobby was sitting, leaned over and asked, “What are you looking at son?”
Dad, Bobby asked, “Are weeds bad?”
“I hope not son because we are kind of like weeds,” his Dad replied with a hint of a smile.
“Dad we are not like weeds. This weed I’m looking at has small purple flowers. You can hardly see them. I would have missed them completely if I hadn’t dropped my cookie. I saw it when I bent over to pick it up.”
“Bobby, weeds aren’t bad. In fact they are strong, resilient plants. Almost anywhere the seeds land they can grow and bloom.”
“Ok, Dad, tell me how are we like weeds?”
“Well Bobby, we have moved 3 times in eight years because of my job and each time we put down new roots, make new friends, you go to another school and we learn to enjoy our new hometown. That makes us resilient like a weed.”
“Hahaha! That’s funny Dad. Wait ’till I tell Mom she’s a weed!”
Moving to Columbus, Georgia? Flourish in our city with Greatercolumbusga.com – New Resident Information
She had a problem. She knew that. She couldn’t say what it was. A dull pain, at first only slight, was slowing growing inside her. She groaned. No one seemed to hear. As she looked around, she could see her surroundings more clearly or should I say things farther away seemed more clear. Marsha’s had always been good at seeing things close to her. There was a person in front of her singing and moving around. Marsha called to her. Not by calling her name, rather she made a sound like mmmmm. The person didn’t hear. That was the only part of the person’s name she could say. Then the pain struck again with surprising intensity. This happened every morning to Marsha and sometimes at night. She knew what she had to do to make the pain go away, but it was so hard. The fact that she was strapped in a chair didn’t matter. The solution to her pain was in front of her. She could reach them. This morning one would not be enough. She knew that. It would take several and, this morning, maybe more than several. Carefully, slowly, she reached for the first one. No mistakes she thought. I must get it to my mouth. Concentrating, she covered it with her hand and clenched her fist around it. As she brought it to her mouth, another person came into her vision. The two people she lived with were standing close and looking at each other. As she looked at them, she became distracted and what she needed so badly fell out of her hand and onto the floor. She squealed and hit the table with both hands palms down. She was mad. One of the people approached her and picked up another of these tasty morsels and put it in her mouth. At first, it felt hard against her gums. She knew the taste and she liked it. As her saliva soften the first bite of food she had had in twelve hours, she reached for another. Clenching her fist again around the morsel, she acted more quickly this time. As she went to delight her taste buds, she missed and the hard round piece of food stuck to her cheek. She reach up desperately with both hands found the little ring of cheer and worked it closer to her mouth. Success. It was so good. She reached again and this time – immediate success. Again and again. She was remembering how to do this now. It wouldn’t be long, she thought, until she could eat these cheerios with a spoon like mmmm and d….
All you need to know about Columbus Georgia
John didn’t want to take off his pants. Not now or anytime today. In ten more minutes he would have to do just that. The sun had been up about an hour and the time was near. Underneath his pants he wore a new, lightweight fabric. The sparse garment weighed less than a standard pair of cotton briefs, provided adequate coverage and were made for use in the intense outdoor heat. Today was cold. Unexpectedly cold. 37 degrees cold. He was committed this day and he knew it. He had traveled from a time zone farther west to be here. His internal clock registered 6:45a. He had expected 55 degrees and he got 37. Still, he wanted to be here, but he didn’t want to take off his pants. Not yet anyway.
Five more minutes. John looked around uneasily as he tried to process what he saw. Somewhere in the middle of Columbus Ga at a place he had never been, there were over 100 people slowly gathering closer and closer together. They were brought here by different goals but for the same purpose. John’s eyes surveyed the landscape where he would spend the next 30 minutes. As he looked at the old trees spreading out as so many canopies, the metal structures of different shapes some with chains hanging from them, and cages with nets dividing the enclosures in half, his mind did not process what he saw as a city park. His mind was preoccupied with the wind.
As the sun rose, the wind began to increase. At a speed of 25 mph he would discover later, the wind turned the unexpected cold into a brutal, unrelenting taskmaster. It blew across him now, but soon he would face it head on…twice. For how long he would be strafed by the feeling of cold needles piercing every bare part of skin, he did not know. Of the masses present, only two others would be with him at the end. They would make their case to the judge. Each had only 26 minutes. Two would need longer.
Now it was time. He took off his pants and his shirt. He dropped them near a 10 foot high chain link fence that had other pants and shirts line against it. He joined the others at the appointed place. He would be one of the first into the wind and judgment. He was not the only one being judged on this morning only an icicle could enjoy, but would be unaffected by most of the others.
He heard a gun discharge over his head and he ran. He ran fast. He ran uphill toward the full force of the wind. Two ran with him closely. They were fast as he was fast and they need to get far away from the pack that now chased them. To be caught by the pack, even a few of them, meant certain and absolute failure. The three did not come for failure, but in separate ways two of the three would fail. For one, failure would mean losing thousands of dollars and would forever set his life on a different path. 26 minutes was all he had. In the cold wind, wearing only the flimsy shorts and light undershirt, his face frozen by the cold, time would seem to stand still.
To the top of the hill and the left turn. For a moment, he stopped moving forward. The other two seem to stop as well. The wind had hit them like a brick wall that could not be penetrated. Then in unison, without rehearsal, their knees lifted together, their heads bowed and their arms drove their bodies forward. The force of the wind had stood them up and stopped their forward motion. Once they had regained momentum, they would form a line to lessen the wind’s affect. John nestled into the middle for now. In a few minutes, he would lead and take on the wind by himself while the others hid from it and rested. Working together, they would overcome, they hoped.
Maybe their were sounds that morning. John could hear nothing. He, like everyone else, was focused on survival in this unforgiving cold. He had been running almost 12 minutes and was not yet back where he had started. He lead for a short time, but when it came time for the third runner to take over, he did not. He was content to continue to seek shelter behind the two. John knew he cold not lead much longer and not be overcome with exhaustion so he slowed ever so slightly. The first runner overtook him easily and returned to the lead. John looked at his watch as they began the second and final lap of the race. He was a little behind his goal time, but he would make it up he told himself. Again into the wind. Again it stood them up but not for as long. He and the other two were ready this time. With only eight minutes left to run, the first runner began to seem further away from John. First it was only a slight perception. Then it became real. Arms length between them then two arms length. The third runner still nestled behind John pulled a little closer to John’s left shoulder. John knew he could not let him pass so he reached within himself. He lungs were already taking in evenly spaced, large volumes of air and so he began threw each hip forward with an ever so slightly quicker tempo. Not enough to catch the first runner, but enough to hold the third runner at bay, this time. Two minutes left. With less than a half mile to go, the victory had been decided. The first runner would win. John was not there to win. Winning wouldn’t matter if he ran too slowly. Again, the third runner try to pass and again John surged just enough. John was too exhausted to look at his watch, but he knew it would be close. With a 200 yards left he surged for his final sprint. As he did, the third runner passed him. John surged again and again for 30 seconds he raced a sprinter’s race. After following for 5 miles this third runner might beat him at the end. John remembered instinctively, what an olympic gold medalist sprinter had taught him. He remembered rhythm and relaxation. He had needed to relax. He did and he finished second easily. He looked at the finisher’s clock. 26:05. The winner had finished in 25:55. Five miles in 26:00 minutes was the requirement. He missed his track scholarship to Auburn University by one second per mile. The winner had finished in 25:55. If only the wind…he thought. Nope he couldn’t blame it on the wind. He had done his very best and come up short. He had been judged as less than required.
John slept well that night knowing he had given his best. At a meeting with his coach the following Monday, The coach said John, “I heard what you did Saturday and I was extremely pleased. You know the requirement is 26 minutes for five miles. You came so close. Don’t give up. You will certainly get it next time.” John nodded and smiled. Leaving the office he couldn’t wait for the first race next spring. For John, next spring did not bring another race. Life changed for John. He never got another chance. He remembers that cold day with joy and peace. That was a day where he tried his hardest and gave his best.
Greatercolumbusga.com – All you need to know
Columbus Georgia Perspectives 