Most likely you followed the link from my first page of Random Thoughts stories. Here are some more, and I hope these are just as amusing and thought provoking. And, as always, your comments are appreciated.
Yesterday, I did something I've never done before. I marched in a parade. I'm involved in several groups here in Prescott, and within the last 30 days, volunteering and parades have meshed. Of course, I've watched parades, but mostly on television. I had never actually been to one till last month.
Growing up, I suppose we often watched the Macy's Thanksgiving day and the Rose Bowl parades. When we moved to California, I always wanted to see the Rose Bowl parade, but it involved getting up at 5 am, driving to Pasadena and before I could drive, I could never interest my mother into doing that, and once I could drive, I realized how silly it was to have even thought about it. Even today, it boggles my mind that people would go to so much effort and expense to create floats for the Rose Bowl parade, using only live materials, for something that would be viewed for at most a day. It's my practical nature that this requirement annoys me the most. Within a day or two after the Rose Bowl parade, the floats are decaying. At least in the Thanksgiving day parade, the participants can make their floats out of anything. And of course, they have those huge, inflated character balloons. That's how you can tell what's in. While I didn't see the parade this year, I am sure it was Pokemon and Toy Story. I wonder what they do with the old balloons. If there is some sort of graveyard for passè fads.
There are of course, other parades. The one that sticks in my mind most, was not a happy parade. It was President Kennedy's funeral cortege, but it was a parade nonetheless. I was 12 and while I can't recall all the details, I do remember sitting glued to the television with my mother and brother for the entire weekend. Ane while many of the images have been shown countless times since, I never forgot Caroline and John-John standing with Jackie. Maybe it's because it was so personal to me, because of my father's death. I didn't go to his funeral, so I'm sure, subconsciously, that became my father and his funeral.
The other famous person who I associate with parades is the late Princess Diana. I watched both her marriage ceremony and the procession that followed it, as well as the coverage for her funeral. There isn't a young girl who doesn't dream of marrying a prince. And most of us end up marrying frogs. Personally, Prince Charles didn't fit my mental picture of what a prince should look like, but dreams and reality are two different things. I suppose I felt maternal towards Diana. I wanted her to live happily ever after. And then again, there were two children left behind. My own life experience relived by others.
The first parade I was more or less involved with was a Veteran's Day parade. I was an observer by chance, because I was there to sell donuts and coffee as a fundraiser. There were 6 of us working and I was in charge of the money. The time went fast and we sold out of both items right as the parade was to start. One of my grandfathers and my father were veterans, so I moved by the pagentry and sentiment. There were times when this ex hippie pacifist was teary eyed. It was my first experience of seeing a parade in person, and I am glad I was able to experience it.
And yesterday, as part of the Prescott Branch of AAUW (American Association of University Women), I got to actually be in the parade. It was a glorious day, sunny and cool. I remembered to bring gloves for my hands, but not my sunglasses. I'm not sure what the name of the parade is, but I know it was supposed to be holiday related, because later that day, there was a big tree lighting ceremony. But the parade was earlier in the day. We were #64 in the queue. Our entry consisted of a car with bows on it, and signs on both doors that said, "Education is the Greatest Gift". The Board thought it was important for us to be involved, but not to go too crazy. We wanted the exposure with the least amount of fuss. There were about a dozen of us who walked behind the car, some carrying placards and some just carrying gift bags with fake diplomas in them. The signs were two pieces of poster board stapled together, one side had wrapping paper with a "diploma" attached, the other sign was parchment scroll with a mortar board cap. We probably looked silly walking the parade route, but it was a lot of fun. We waved to the crowd as though we were important people, and they waved and cheered back. It was over in less than an hour.
So what's the difference between watching a parade on television, or seeing it in person, or even being a part of it? It's the amount of personal involvement you give the event at the time. On television, there are commercials, commentators and you see what the cameras and directors want you to see. It's not a personal experience at all, no matter how moved you may be. Watching one in person, you can get more involved. You can see, smell, and possibly even touch it. You can decide what you want to look at, the parade, or the crowd. Walking in a parade you have a totally different view. I didn't see the actual parade, only the people directly in front and behind our group. I was more involved with the spectators and trying to walk with our group. My perspective was much different that the other ones, more self involved. Which do I prefer? I honestly don't know. Definitely not watching on tv. I guess next year, I'll have to do both events and maybe keep doing them till I figure it out.
© 5 December, 1999Growing up in Chicago, I never heard of hockey. In Los Angeles, at least I heard of it, but that was about it. Many years later, when I lived in Minneapolis, I saw my first hockey game. I didn't want to go, I could have thought of a dozen other places to go now that we had a baby sitter, but my husband convinced me to go. I had seen the Met Center, where the North Stars played, because it was on the way to the airport. But go inside?? To a hockey game?? NO WAY!!
I don't remember who the North Stars (notice I will always call them the North Stars) played that night, or if they won. It was 1980, and they did have a good team that year. Bobby Smith, Neal Broten, Craig Hartsburg, Gordie Roberts, Gilles Meloche, Dino Ciccerelli, Tim Young and Curt Giles. Within 10 minutes I was hooked. I didn't understand the game. Icing. Blue line. Offsides. Face-offs. It didn't matter. The player's flew down the ice. Helmets were not mandatory back then, so you could see faces. When the crowd yelled, so did I. When the final buzzer rang out, I wasn't just a hockey fan. I was a North Stars fan.
We started going to the games on a regular basis. I liked going to see the North Stars play the Blackhawks, and would chant "Ban- ner- mann" loudly. He was the Hawks goalie. In 1981, the North Stars made it to the Stanley Cup finals. We went to see a playoff game, and were in the third row, behind the goal. They played the dreaded Hawks. I think Bannermann heard my voice calling his name for hours after the game was over. No one else could hear it, since I yelled myself hoarse. They won that game, went on to lose to the Islanders in 5.
In 1983, we moved to Memphis. No hockey. We had cable tv there, for the very first time. I used to watch the New York teams on WOR. I would watch any hockey game. St. Louis was a mere 300 miles away, so we would take long weekend trips, coinciding with the North Stars playing the Blues whenever possilbe. There I would be, in my North Stars jersey, #7 for Neal Broten, screaming on the top of my lungs. The looks I used to get never bothered me. The excitement of being at the arena was all that mattered.
At the Mall of Memphis, there was an ice skating rink. I found out there was a youth hockey program. Evelyn was 6 and Greg 4, and they both started playing hockey. Every Sunday, we would take their gear and go to the Mall. Greg was so cute, so small on the ice, that people would stop and watch him. His skates were the smallest size hockey skates made. I'll never forget the cheers from the crowd when he scored a goal. There were about 40 kids in the program, so they all played together.
One visit to Chicago, we managed to get tickets to a Blackhawks game. I still was a North Star fan, but a hockey game was a hockey game. And there was no stadium quite like the old Chicago Stadium. I didn't wear a North Stars jersey that night. It was early 1986, and Lowell was about 3 months old. From the moment the big pipe organ started playing the national anthems, the crowd never stopped screaming. I kept my hands over Lowell's ears the entire game. They played the Toronto Maple Leafs, and I sang that anthem too. I couldn't jeer Bannermann, but it was the most exciting place to see a game. As long as you parked your car close to the stadium, you had nothing to worry about.
Then we moved back to Minneapolis. Back to my beloved North Stars. We would go to several games a year. Evelyn decided to stop playing hockey, but Greg continued. His skill level was not the same as some of the other boys, who had been skating daily from 3 years old, and whose dads had played hockey. So by the time he was a first year mite, his career was over. He was doomed to C teams, but he loved the game, so we let him participate. He would say the highlight of his career, was second year mites, when his team got to play on the North Stars ice. They played in between periods. Youth hockey is the most important sport in the suburb I live in. People bribe, sometimes threaten, the coaches, the members of the hockey board to ensure their children's place on a certain team. Lowell began playing too, so all our weekends and several nights a week, were taken over by hockey. They would play outdoors as long as it wasn't colder than -10 F. Lowell never was a good skater, so we switched him to football. Greg was convinced to switch to skiing. His last year, he was playing against kids who had 6 inches on him, and 50 lbs. I didn't want him to get hurt. He would have had to quit a year later anyway.
The North Stars went to the Cup finals again in 1991. This team had Bobby Smith, Neal Broten, Brian Bellows, Mark Tinordi, Jon Casey, and Gaetan "DUKE" Duqushene (sp). They lost to the Penguins and Mario Lemieux, again in 5. Afterwards, they held a big rally for the fans. Everyone cheered for the players and the coaches. We had met most of the players in person, so it was a very exciting night, and we almost believed the North Stars had won the Cup.
One day, the North Stars got a new owner. He moved into town with his trophy wife, and his two pampered pooches. He made a lot of promises to the fans. Then he changed the name of the team to just Stars. The state motto of Minnesota is "etoile du nord", or Star of the North. Hence, North Stars. People didn't like the change. Then he started complaining. He wasn't making enough money. Not enough fan support. The rumors started. He started talking about moving the team. Then, he did the unthinkable. He signed a deal to move the North Stars to Dallas, TX. Texas?? No one in Texas knows anything about hockey. I went to one last North Stars game, where they played the Flyers. There was a young player on the Flyers I wanted to see. I didn't wear my North Stars jersey to that game. I didn't cheer for the North Stars either. There was a great reluctance to leave the Met Center that night, knowing I would never be back there.
That was the last professional hockey game I have seen to date. I still watch hockey on tv, but I don't have such an undying loyalty to one team anymore. Like all professional sports, it's just a business. Bottom line counts more than hometown pride. Hockey players are getting as spoiled as the rest of the professional athletes. The Met Center is now gone, torn down, and stands as an empty lot across from the Mall of America. I still have my memories, some souvenirs and a love for the game that I will cherish always.
© 30 May, 1997I am sitting here, and it's quiet. I had better get used to this. We finally sat down and talked settlement. I think we are pretty much agreed on things, considering there are so many unknowns. I waited to cry till I had left the room. I am proud that I was able to do that.
It's been almost a year since I went to talk to Fred about our marriage. It was obvious that we had grown apart. I knew the marriage was over that March day when he told the marriage counselor, he no longer cared about making me happy. It still makes me sad to think that. I waited 6 months, to see if there was any hope. He was the one who said divorce, not me. He's the one that told the kids the next day.
Even after I filed the papers, I kept thinking, he's going to change his mind. I've been a good wife, good mother. I knew when he took the kids to California for Christmas, and I stayed here alone, that there was no more hope. I started pushing my lawyer to get the divorce moving. I made plans to go to Raleigh, NC. I applied to school there, and waited. Spring came, and I was full of hope. I went to Raleigh, to check it out. When I came back, I felt my decision was a good one. Now all I was waiting for, was for Evelyn to graduate.
We didn't sit together at her graduation, though we did at Lowell's. When they were both over, we went our separate ways. The boys decided they wanted to stay here, with him. I knew I couldn't fight it, so I accepted it. I'm not happy about it, but I know it will only delay things and the result would be the same. My lawyer and I agreed it was better to fight for the financial settlement.
Then my plans got derailed. I wasn't accepted to the school in Raleigh. I didn't fall apart though, and I had alternative plans in reserve. One application had gone out, one was almost ready to send. I was using my strength and resourcefullness, instead of falling into a deep depression. Even my psychiatrist was proud of me. Now came more waiting.
At the last visit to my lawyer, she said the best thing for us to do would be to go to mediation. I told Fred, and he suggested we try and work it out ourselves. I agreed, knowing I would never agree to anything without my attorney's approval. Evelyn and I went off to Montana. He left the next day for a business trip. I suggested we set up a meeting time, and get the details worked out.
That is what we just finished doing. He is going along with just about everything I am asking of him. He will get me a new car. He will pay for my schooling. We agree on who gets what furniture, and household goods. There are still some unanswered questions, but it looks like we will come to some sort of temporary agreement.
I now need to go find a place to live. I could stay in Minnesota, but it seems best that I try to start a new life. Where no one will know me as Mrs. Hundt. Fred's wife. I was accepted to one of the schools, only I had applied to the 4 year day program and not the one year certificate program. I am hoping that the only obstacle will be space in the evening program. But this week, I will get in the truck, and start driving east. Once I find a place, he and the boys will bring out my stuff. I've packed most of it, but there are a lot of things I will need to buy. Like a bed, a microwave oven. And especially something to make noise. I like quiet as much as the next person, but I am not used to the silence I will soon be living in. No fighting or arguing. No one whining about doing their chores. No more celebrating all the little victories in a child's life. Just the silence.
©26 July, 1997My first born graduated from high school last night. There she sat in a sea of purple, on the green grass of the football field with an orange sash indicating she was an IB candidate. All the seniors looked so grown up. They knew this was their last chance to be kids, and during the outdoor ceremony, beach balls were tossed back and forth, until the teachers caught them. Bubbles were blown and silly string was squirted. And underneath those traditional academic robes, were shorts and tee shirts. Hopefully.
It was a typical ceremony. Too many speakers. Too many crying babies. Kids proud and relieved that they have achieved this honor. Some rebelling by wearing jackets over their gowns, strutting to the beat in their walkmans, and somersaulting for the crowd. My daughter's class motto was, In this bright future, you can't forget your past, from a Bob Marley song.
Today, my youngest graduated from elementary school. His class was the first to start the French immersion program. They were the first class each grade, from Kindergarten to 5th. Now some will be leaving the French program, while most will continue. His program had speakers, too, and handing out of "diplomas". There was a little less frivolity among the kids, but no less sense of accomplishment.
Evelyn went to an inner city school, where whites were the minorities. Armed police officers roamed the halls. Her class started out at 406, and was under 300 last night. They had students read off the names. They had an hispanic, a Vietnamese and a caucasian to pronounce the names correctly. Lowell went to school in the suburb we live in, which is nearly all white and affluent. The only children of color in his class are the Korean kids adopted by white families. Last night, we sat by family groups speaking languages we could not understand. They seemed to dress a bit flashier than we do, but they were just as proud of their child as any parent. Most likely their child isn't going away to college, but they will be thrilled to have their child go to a community college. The parents at Lowell's graduation, including us, have much higher aspirations for their children.
Evelyn decided to attend this school. She was not being challenged at Edina, and there is no more challenging high school program than the International Baccalaureate program. We drove her to school and picked her up every day. And while 31 kids went for the diploma, most of them are going to state schools. Only one boy is going to an Ivy League school, the one who won all the awards and honors. Mostly, it is a matter of finances. Lowell's class won't have that problem.
It is the American dream to have your children do better than you. For some of Evelyn's classmates, this was a first graduation in the family. It made me proud to have Evelyn as a member of an energetic, diverse class, who, despite all of the difficulties, financial or otherwise, are determined to succeed in life. If these children are our future, then it will definitely be a bright one. I am equally proud of Lowell, but for his class, the future is assured to be bright. Most times, life is not fair.
©6 June, 1997I was writing an email to my *big brother* Allan, about the visit I had with my children. I was telling him how on the drive down to Boston, we cut through New Hampshire, and drove down route 1-A. We went this way because it runs right along the ocean. Just south of Portsmouth, we found a place to park, and got out and climbed the big rocks to the shore. It was pretty cold out there, so I skipped the customary foot in the water routine. No way was I about to take my shoes off in that cold. However, I did follow one of my other customs; that of taking a rock to remember the occasion.
I don't remember when I started doing this, but it was not all that long ago. Perhaps it was on the first drive up to the North Shore. When you look across Lake Superior, it feels like an ocean. All you can see is water. I remember looking at the rocks, and thinking this one is pretty, and putting it in my pocket. Then added another, When I got back home, I put them in a box. Eventually, I had quite a large collection of rocks. I took some of the more colorful ones and put them in a wine carafe. But some rocks, even though I can't distinguish them from the others, have special meanings for me. I keep those around me.
There's the rock I got from the shore of the Battenkill. I think it's quartz. It's rugged and substantial. I didn't get to fish the Battenkill that particular time, but I know I will one day. That rock is in my kitchen. I got one for Evelyn too, to remind her of our fishing together. It reminds me of that, but also of the start of my new journey in life.
I have two rocks I took from the area where I spread my mother's ashes. It took me four years to be able to do that, and I had to have something to remember it by. I have the two rocks, and the end piece of the box her cremains were in on my desk. I wrote down the date I finally had the nerve to fulfill her wish, that of being set free in the ocean, so I wouldn't forget. It's nothing like a head stone at a cemetary. Just a reminder of my saying a final goodbye to my mother. It doesn't fill me with sadness like going to my father's grave would. I think I need to go there, just once more, to come to terms with his death.
In that carafe of rocks, are rocks taken from the most beautiful and wonderous place I have ever been. It's a provincial park in New Brunswick Canada, aptly named, The Rocks. We happened to be at the park at the right time. It's on the Bay of Fundy, which empties into the Atlantic Ocean. But the tides are such that at low tide, there is no water. You can actually walk on the ocean floor. And you can see how amazing Mother Nature really is, because there are tall rocks that must be 100 feet high, that you can stand next to, knowing that in high tide, they will be half submerged under water. I can't describe how beautiful it is, and how insignificant one feels compared to those rocks.
There are also rocks from my trip to Australia. From my fishing trip to Montana. Rocks I picked up just on short day excursions. To the casual observer, it would look like a bunch of rocks. And perhaps that's all they really are. The memories are inside of me, not the rocks. Unless of course, like after one such trip, I didn't know Lowell had put several rocks inside my purse. For days, I wondered, why on earth it was so heavy. I keep just a few things in my purse, and eventually, curiousity won out. There were 5 good sized rocks in there, that Lowell had forgotten to tell me he hid there. We had a good laugh about it, and that too, is a memory of rocks.
©4 January, 1998The best part of my life these days, is my divorce support group. I truly get the support I need to cope with this process, and have realized I'm not the only one, and people do move on and feel better over time. I try to attend each week, and every so often we have a speaker that really affects me. This happened the other night.
His topic was family of origin. And how that can shape you and your personality. I find this subject fascinating, because it really is true. Briefly, you look at how your family was, and where you fit in that family, and it can tell a lot about the way you are. Combine that with birth order, and the therapist can tell you all about you. He also discussed how these two things can affect how you deal with conflict. You can either try to work things out peacefully, fight it out, or run away from the problem. I am a person who flees from conflict. Next I will fight, and I fear working things out.
Until age 3, my family of origin was very ordinary. My mother and father were in love, and my brother and I were normal healthy children. I was the youngest and bonded with my father, while my brother, the oldest and first grandchild, bonded with my mom. I suppose my grandparents loved their first granddaughter, but nowhere near how they felt about my brother. So it was a calamity when he got polio, and not me. This message was never vocalized, but I felt it all my life. It should have been me. Then, when I was 5, my father died. The parent I had bonded with abandoned me, which shaped my life more than any other event.
As the speaker was talking about this, I fought back my tears. The little squares and circles he was drawing on the easel became my parents, and the smaller ones my brother and me. As second child, my older brother should have looked after me, but it didn't work out like that. I looked after him. I was also almost an only child, forced to grow up before my time, because of all the time he spent in the hospital. And I was the isolated child, forced to create my own world and family outside of my family.
I stayed with the speaker when we broke up into groups. Usually, I say too much in the small groups, even though I tell myself to sit and listen. I did this time, just listen. One of the women started talking about her ex and the speaker diagrammed her family, and his, and explained how he ex was looking for a caretaker, and the woman was a total caretaker. As he drew the members of both families, it all became clear how the relationship was doomed. How he didn't have what she needed to compliment her. The speaker explained that it is hard, but you can change what type personality you are. That if you can't work things out, you practically freeze when you have to, that you must learn how to do it.
One of the other people there had a similiar childhood as mine. He lost his mother at an early age, and he did speak up, so we could talk about it. The speaker spoke of trying to cope with the loss, and deal with the distance of the remaining parent. Afterwards, I went up to this person, and told him of my situation. We hugged, and will now share something the others in the group don't. I told him how I felt I had never learned how to be a wife, since I never really saw my mother as a wife. And how I have always expected people I love to abandon me.
My lawyer called yesterday, and said there are only two more documents that need to be signed and filed with the courts and then my divorce will be final. I am glad the process that has dragged on almost 18 months will be over, but I am still grieving the loss of this 25 year relationship. I will continue to attend the support groups as long as I live in Portland. I have learned so much about myself these few months I have been here on my own. I never want to stop learning and making myself a better person.
©23 January, 1998I now know when the moving company will be picking up my belongings. Next Monday. The good part is I will have a bed, tv, etc for the weekend. I can leave the few open boxes open, and fill them with last minute things on Monday morning. On the negative side, they couldn't give me a date for when my belongings would be delivered. The dreaded two week window. Hurry up and wait. I'm not very patient, but i am realistic. I'll make an adventure out of it, if i have to.
You also have to hurry up and wait at the airport. You're supposed to check in an hour early, wait in those long lines to check your baggage and get your seat assignment, then wait to go through the metal detector, then wait till they call your plane for boarding. At least airports are great places for people watching. I always look at the people waiting for the same plane as me, and hope that that motley group and i won't be waiting at the pearly gates together. So far, I've been lucky. If you are lucky, you won't have to wait too long before your plane takes off. Because being on the runway, for 2 hours, is not any fun. Trust me.
Another place you can wait and wait, is the doctor's office. I have read more magazines in doctor's waiting rooms than anywhere else. Of course, they are usually several months old. For whatever reasons, doctors don't think making you wait is wrong. Like your time isn't worth money. One time, when my children were younger, and we were living in Memphis, I had to make an appointment for them to see a *sick child* I knew Greg had an ear infection, but even though he had had numerous ear infections, and I knew what the doctor was going to prescribe, I still had to bring him in. They gave me an appointment at 4 pm, but they got out of school at 3:45. So I had to drive like crazy to get them there by 4, which I did. BUT then we had to wait for over an hour, till the doctor got to us. By that time, I was very angry. My kids were tired, hungry and wanted snack, and we were all in a bad mood. The doctor, who we had seen nearly every week for 4 years, walked in and it seemed like he had no idea who we were. That was it. I changed pediatricians the next day. I had just had enough.
Last night, Lowell called me to tell me when he will be flying to Raleigh to visit me. August 8th. Another wait. Hopefully, my belongings will have been delivered by then. I don't want to have to explain to him why there is no television. The kid lives for television. In one way, it might be a good thing. When he was with me at Christmas, he survived a whole week without potato chips. But no television might be pushing him a little too far. I hope i won't have to find out. It sounded like he didn't really want to go to Raleigh. I sure he feels the hurry up and wait... of having to go visit mom.
Most of my divorce process was hurry up and wait. It was a little over 18 months after i filed, the my divorce was final. File this paper, then wait. There was always a rush to get some document to the court, and then wait for his side to respond. When it finally happened, and I was notified the divorce was final, it was anti-climactic. It had dragged on so long, that it more not that big of a deal, just a relief.
The best time I ever had to hurry up and wait, was giving birth. The 9 months I was pregnant seemed to crawl. And yet, one day it was time. My contractions with Evelyn started at 9 pm. I got a few hours of sleep, and in the morning, they were still not close enough to require me to go to the hospital. The minutes took hours to pass by. And then it was time to go to the hospital. But still time to wait. Almost 9 more hours to wait, 9 hours of labor pains, contractions and waiting. Finally, i was 10 cenimetres and time to push. An hour of pushing, and still...... waiting. Forceps were used, and 12 minutes the waiting was over. All the pain and waiting and agonizing disappeared as i gazed upon my daughter's face.
So i sit here, waiting. No need to hurry. In a matter of days, I will be in North Carolina. And i will have to hurry up and wait for something else. The delivery of my stuff. My youngest's visit. The start of school. And who knows what after that. At least i am getting quite good at it. The good and the bad.
© 26 July, 1998When I made my travel plans for my visit to my daughter back in Massachusetts, I took into consideration my daughter's and my friend's schedules when making my return reservations. Evelyn, because she had to take me to the airport, and Michael, because he agreed to pick me up. Because Evelyn had classes on Monday, I had to leave late enough for her, and Michael had ministering to do on Sunday, and I wanted to be back in Prescott on Monday, I finally found an itinerary that would accommodate both of them. So my flight on Sunday out of Hartford was going through Detroit, and getting me into Phoenix at 930 pm. At least that's what it said on paper. Reality was very different.
I'm not going to say anything about my delay on the flight to Hartford, but I spent a good two hours in the Minneapolis airport. My son and ex husband had left from that airport an hour before I was scheduled to arrive, so I didn't get to see Lowell. I arrived at Hartford at midnight, and Evelyn was there to pick me up, with her friend, Erin. She's more of a night owl than I am, and it wasn't a big problem for her to be up that late. We had a good time during our ten days together, but finally it was time for me to head home.
Sunday morning, I checked weather.com webiste for the weather in Detroit, Phoenix and Prescott. Detroit was cool but clear, and I wasn't worried about Phoenix. But the site said Prescott was expecting some snow that day. I wasn't terribly thrilled about driving up the mountain at night, but less thrilled with the prospect of driving in the snow at some point. I know better than to worry about things I have no control over, so I didn't really concern myself with the snowfall in Prescott. I figured if I had to, I'd stay in a motel overnight in Phoenix, and drive up during the next day.
Evelyn and Erin, took me to the airport. I told them it was fine to just let me off at the curb and waved them goodbye. I checked my bag, and went to gate 20 to wait for my plane's departure. I was carrying a shopping bag with me, something I prefer not to do, but I had too much stuff to fit it all in my checked bag. The plane was coming in from Detroit, but it was late. And then later still, so I went to the gate agents and they double booked me on a later flight into Phoenix, still throught Detroit. It would have gotten me into Phoenix at 1 am. Michael's a good friend and a dear sweet man, but I didn't want him to have to pick me up then. But I thought, at least I'd be in Arizona. Finally, the plane for the first flight landed, but it never left. There was a problem with the fuel cap and it not closing properly. I saw there was a flight between the two Detroit flights that went to Minneapolis. I would get into Phoenix at 11 pm. So I switched my flight to that one, figuring I could maybe spend an hour with Lowell. I'd get into Minneapolis at 7:55 and not leave for another hour. I called the house and they said, sure, they'd meet me at the airport.
I had to go claim my checked bag from the carrousel, and go back through the metal detector. With the rest of the passengers on the cancelled Detroit flight, I stood and waited for my bag. I got to talking to this man who needed to get to Toledo the next day, because he had a job interview. I was watching the clock, because I only had 45 minutes to get my bag and to when the Minneapolis flight left. Finally, my bag came, and I wished the man good luck and rushed back to the gate. I put the shopping bag I was carrying on the belt first, then my suitcase and lastly my purse. The guard asked if she could look in my suitcase, and I said in a stressed out tone of voice, of course, but I needed my purse to get the keys that would unlock the locks I had on my bag. She misinterpreted me, and demanded to look into my bag, and I said fine, just let me get the keys out of my purse. She asked me if I had anything round in my bag, and I said, yes, rocks. When Evelyn and I were at my beach in Maine, I'd gathered a nice collection of rocks. While still watching the clock, I opened the top part of my bag, but couldn't find the rocks. All my clothing was out, and I shoved it back in and opened the bottom part. I found the rocks, and she was satisfied, and I continued back to gate 20.
That flight was boarded by the passengers crossing a marked path on the tarmac, and we sat on the ground. I called the house, and told Fred I was going to be late. Then I was too late for the flight to Phoenix. I am not sure how many cell phone calls went between me and Minneapolis. They let us off the plane, which had a starter problem, once again using the tarmac. They felt they could get another starter there soon, and we'd be on our way. I got in a line to talk to the gate agents and said that since I wouldn't make the connecting flight to Phoenix, I'd like to spend a few days in Minneapolis. The two men were so frazzled, having dealt with the Detroit flight being cancelled and dealing with those annoyed customers, and now this one, they agreed. I noticed the man I'd talked to earlier at the luggage carrousel, and he was waiting to board the flight to Detroit. We chatted briefly. I wonder if he got the job. We were still hoping to fly to Minneapolis that night, but when they announced the boarding of the second plane to Detroit, the gate agent regretfully announced the cancellation of my flight to Minneapolis. So once again, I collected my bag at the carrousel and went upstairs to make arrangements for a hotel and a flight to Minneapolis. I stood in yet another line, talking to a family who lived in Albert Lea, Minnesota. They were concerned about their farm, and who would milk their cows. The boy wasn't too unhappy about missing a day of school. I was booked me on a flight to Minneapolis that was scheduled to leave at 6 am. Eventually I found the shuttle that would take me to the hotel. I felt as though my shopping bag was glued to my hand. I had spent approximately 6 hours in the Hartford Airport and had gone nowhere.
I called Evelyn and told her what was going on, and she said she and Erin would come back down there and meet me at the hotel. I was hungry, tired and more than upset. But I had handled everything and didn't cry, so I was proud of myself. Evelyn took me to Burger King and we went back to the room so I could eat and we could talk. I was concerned about taking the shuttle back to the airport. There was one at 5, and not another one till 5:30, so I prevailed on Evelyn's good nature, and she agreed to stay over and take me in the morning. None of us were too happy when the alarm clock went off at 4:30 am, but I was glad I had Evelyn to take me to the airport, as when we came down at 4:45, there already was a small group waiting for the shuttle. Once again, they left me at the curb, and I told Evelyn I sincerely hoped the next time I called her, it was from somewhere other than the Hartford airport.
I checked in my bag again, wondering what on earth I was doing awake at 5 am. I got a carton of chocolate milk and went downstairs to my favorite gate at the Hartford Airport, #20. The doors were locked. Even the security people don't get there and to work that early. Finally, I went through the metal detector, and sat down at the gate. I recognized many faces and chatted briefly with the family from Albert Lea, who'd gotten a neighbor to milk their cows, and the girl I'd briefly sat next to on the plane the night before. There was a plane leaving for Detroit at that same time and they boarded that one first, and once again, the Minneapolis passengers got to walk on the tarmac. There were not many of us, and I looked forward to having an uncrowded flight for a change. I had a whole row to myself. We actually took off, and it seemed as though finally I was on my way to Minneapolis and eventually home in Arizona. I started to close my eyes for some sleep. I heard the pilot say, flight attendants prepare for landing, and I opened my eyes, thinking I surely couldn't have slept that long.
We landed back at Hartford, safely. All around the plane were fire engines and other emergency vehicles. The pilot announced the smoke detector in the lavatory was malfunctioning, and that some passengers had smelled smoke. Some people got off the plane immediately, but I sat there, and once again, phoned Minneapolis. Fred was going to pick me up at the airport, but I had no idea when I'd be getting to Minneapolis, so I told him I'd take a cab. I thought to myself ironically, I sure hope I get there before my flight on Thursday to Phoenix. When I saw the fireman on the plane, that was enough for me, and I got off the plane. Crossing again on the tarmac to the terminal and gate 20..
I again waited in line to change my travel plans with the gate agents. I got an aisle seat much to my surprise on the 8 am flight to Minneapolis, which the attendant told me was overbooked. This flight too was delayed, because of a problem with the hydraulic system, but they were able to fix that in a relatively short amount of time. While we were waiting to board, they asked for volunteers to give up their seat in exchange for a $300 travel voucher. I considered it, since it didn't matter what time I got into Minneapolis. I would still have to take a cab to the house. But I decided against it. I'd already spent 3 hours in the Hartford airport and it wasn't even 8 am and I wanted to get out of there. Then they offered $500, and that didn't interest me. We boarded this plane through the jetway Once we were on the plane, they said they needed 2 more volunteers and they would get $1000 travel voucher. A man behind me nearly flew to the front of the plane to take advantage of that. Coming back to get his carry on luggage, he announced to those sitting there, he was moving to Minneapolis and this would cover his wife and kid's airfare. Finally we were ready to leave. We left the ground with no problems and finally I was in Minneapolis.
Up in Prescott, I found out they had 10 inches of snow by Monday morning. In Minneapolis, it was in the 60s and 70s the three days I was there. Soon it was time to leave for Phoenix. That night, a cold front came through and the temperature dropped some 40 degrees and we woke up to a light coating of snow. Traffic was slow going and Fred and I had a pleasant yet impersonal conversation. I checked in at the e-ticket terminal, and was immediately directed to the reservation agent. She looked at the note the gate agent in Hartford had added to my flight information. She checked me in, and I left my bag and went again through the metal detector towards my gate. I had shipped some clothes and other things to Prescott, but I still managed to need my shopping bag. I was not at all surprised when the gate agent announced this flight would be delayed. The plane was sitting at gate 31 and frozen to the jetway, which was broken. The plane was going to leave from gate 35. I would have laughed, except I was sick of airports. I called Michael to let him know I would be later than the 11:30 I'd told him, and not to expect me before noon. Finally we boarded, but then we had to wait in a line for de-icing. That took about 25 minutes. Then we took off, and three hours later arrived in Phoenix. It only took me 6 flights, 2 cancelled, one I didn't need and the three I did need to get home. I think it's going to be a while before I fly again, and a while before I can laugh about this.
©12 March, 2000There are more stories I have written to read. Please remember these are my original
stories and thoughts, and to copy or otherwise use them without my permission is a
copyright violation. I would love to hear your random thoughts
on any of these stories.