The Airplane Story

I had totally forgotten that Northwest and Delta are now one airline that simply can't afford to re-paint their fleet yet. So when I got on my flight to Minneapolis--the first time I went up North--I was at a NW gate but had no idea the plane said "Delta" on the side. No big. Whatever.

My row was maybe 2/3 back. I had paid an extra $20 to have a more comfortable seat, because when I booked my ticket, all that was available were the emergency exit row seats and the ones in front of them which don't recline, and the roomier but more costly one(s) which I had booked.

The flight was progressing as normal. I was reading, the beverages were served and I had coffee, since it was still 0-dark:30 in the morning. I can tell you beyond a doubt that coffee is also what the woman behind me ordered.

I had taken my time drinking my coffee, as in 30-40 minutes at least to drink luke-warm stuff that I'm fairly sure was brewed by tying a string on a coffee bean and dipping it into my cup. Yes, it was a little on the weak side. The flight attendants had been up and back twice picking up garbage and my cup was long gone.

Then I did what everyone does at this point. I leaned my seat back.

From the sounds that emitted from behind me, you'd think I had pulled down my pants and shit in the woman's lap. First there was a splash, then a squak, then whining and yelping, then several beeps (the flight attendant button--did you know you can push it more than once?) and then…the bitching.

"Could I have a towel or rag or something? SHE leaned her seat back and SPILLED MY COFFEE ALL OVER.!"

In between her comments, she made many.pointed.exhales.of.EXASPERATION.

Then she stood directly next to me and told the person across the aisle from me that I had leaned my seat back and SPILLED HER COFFEE ALL OVER! I'm pretty sure she told the person in front of me, too. I'm not really sure, because I was trying to read my book, which was pretty good.

She finally sat down, but didn't shut up. She told the person across the aisle from her, which as you can imagine was totally unnecessary because I'm fairly sure they had actually witnessed the incident (when I had leaned my seat back and SPILLED HER COFFEE ALL OVER!) At this point, she was telling anyone who would pay attention, starting and stopping again every couple of minutes. A full half hour later, she finally remembered to thank the guy next to her for catching something or other.

That guy was the only person, aside from the flight attendant, who actually answered her. He said "You're welcome," and nothing else.

Once I finished my chapter and was wishing for the flight to end, I wondered what, exactly, did this woman think I, personally, had done wrong? How, exactly, was I to blame? Where the hell had her coffee cup been, that I was able to knock it over with my seat? Was I personally responsible for the tray table design for Delta airlines? Is there some rule out there that says I have to ask permission before leaning back? (Because, if there is, please tell me, and I'll pass that info along next time someone leans their seat back in front of me without warning, which would be, oh, EVERYONE who is ever going to sit in front of me on an airplane, ever. Maybe I should have little laminated instruction cards printed up and just hand them out. But I digress.)

So she put coffee in a stupid place and it spilled, and then bitches about it for the rest of the flight? Since I handn't looked at the woman when she wanted me to, I tried to imagine her. She had to be over 50, hair dyed and not very well, print button-up shirt, impractical shoes, and white pants. And she just HAD to be the kind of person who wears white pants on an airplane--in December on the way to Minnesota, no less.

My suspisions were confirmed as we de-planed. The guy who had been stuck next to her looked at me as he went past, glanced at her and rolled his eyes. I smirked and glanced at the woman next to me who was wearing a hijab, lifting part of it up to cover her mouth so her smile couldn't be seen, and then she rolled her eyes, too.

The woman in the coffee-stained white pants hurried up the jetway in front of me, eager to tell her story to people who hadn't witnessed it, so she could get some REAL sympathy.

Good luck with that.

Pharoh

In the hospital, at the end, I was talking to my friend Jami's daughter Avi. She's 10. I was trying to prepare her for what it was like to see my dad the way he was. He'd lost a lot of weight, and dammit, he was BALD. It had been a shock to me, and I can only imagine what it would be like for her.

"He looks like…well, a mummy. Do you watch the Discovery channel?"

"No."

"Never?"

"Never."

I looked at Jami. She confirmed it. No Discovery channel, EVER! Such a travesty.

"Okay. Well, some day in school, you'll study ancient Egypt, or you'll get to watch the Discovery channel," I paused and glared at Jami. "They'll show mummies, upwrapped. Their bones are there, and their skin is there, but there's no…" I had to stop and think. "They've lost tissue. Some of themselves. And when they were buried, they did all kinds of other things to preserve the pharohs and stuff. It's really cool. But it's kind of shocking, how much they look like themselves, but they don't.

"So that's how Marvin looks right now. Himself, but not. It's okay to be a little shocked."

I'll admit I was rocked to the bottoms of my stupid pink tennies, the first time I saw him in that hospital bed.

"Dad! Look who came to see you!"

He opened his eyes--both of them, for once and said, "Toby! Jami!" and then, "Avi!"

They stayed breifly, talked breifly, and the the nurse had to do something without us in the room. Outside, I talked to Avi a little more.

I had never met Avi before that day. She was due to be born the same week as my first baby--the one I miscarried. Being determinded to have a baby that year, I got pregnant with Zoe and had her with an easy margin; she was born in November. Avi had been born the June before. I won't even pretend that Avi wasn't my parents' substitute for the grandchild who didn't arrive as expected. For a while, once I was definitely pregnant again, Mom--and Dad--were all, Avi this and Avi that, and I know that most of this was second and third hand information, but what can you do? They're Grandma and Grandpa. They were just doing what they do.

Avi was definitely uncomfortable, after seeing Dad.

"You don't remember him, do you?" I asked. She admitted she didn't.

"Well, at least now you know what a mummy looks like. Some day you'll see a picture of one and say, hey, that look just like Marvin did! It's okay that you don't remember him. You were only a baby. He doesn't have to be important to you. You're important to him."

The Pharoh had spoken.

Aunt

My Dad had only one sister, Leona. This was in a time when farmers had as many kids as possible. I guess two was grandma's limit.

Leona ran as fast and as far as she could from the farm. I don't think she ever got over being stigmatized and terrorized by the "urban" kids from my home town. Way back then, they were unbelievabley cruel to "country kids," a practice which still hadn't entirely ended in my own time.

She never knocked that chip off her shoulder, but then again, she never bothered to look to far outside herself either. When I was young she was my favorite aunt, but as I realized just how self-absorbed she was, she became my least favorite. I could tell many stories about her self-absorption, but I'll just summarize it this way: She never bothered to learn her only brother's children's names. Oh, she could pronounce them, but every Christmas, our presents came addressed to : Sarah, Darrin, and Janis. EVERY FUCKING YEAR. FOR DECADES. Don't bother asking if we politely corrected her. We did.

For the record, they are spelled Sara, Darren, and Janice.

Bitch.

Unsuccessful

It's been a rocky Fall and Winter for me. As most (or all) of y'all know, my dad died earlier this month from cancer.

Thus far I've been unsuccessful at writing, let alone posting, an entire cohesive piece about it. I just can't put it all together yet. Therefore, I've decided to post breif thoughts about my dad: his life in general, his illness, the funny bits, the sad bits, the surreality of it all. It won't all be in one post. I can't do that yet. Maybe in the end it will all make sense.

This will be very random--84 years' worth of life rarely ties itself up neatly.

(PS: Each thought will be an individual post. It's the only "order" I seem to be able to impose on these thoughts.)