On Gardening Leave
Is "Gardening Leave" the same as being "Put Out to Pasture"? If it is, should we be worried? Or happy?
Us back then!
Four years, three months ago, Curtis and I moved to Trinidad from Indonesia. Seven years before that we'd moved to Indonesia from Houston.
The day after April Fool's Day, loaded down with 6 suitcases, 2 carry-ons and lots of memories--especially of our dear Trini friends--Curtis and I boarded a plane bound for New York, and whatever comes after. . .
Why we were New York and not Houston or somewhere else Bound?
Several years ago, while my Creativity Group (or the GGs as we called ourselves) was working through The Passion Test, I came to the realization that I wanted-needed-a base, a home, a nest of our own.
So, we went searching for that nest and finally found one in a seaside village of Westhampton Beach on Long Island. It met all our requirements--the requirements of late mid-life: Withing 2 hours of an International Airport; good doctors, hospital, within walking/biking distance to all the necessities.
If you're wondering what "Renovation" means, this sums it up... sans the theatre/romance/fun subplot.
A better/worse/more realistic example...
Our Vene Mange "Mini Band" won 3rd place in Carnival 2016
We proceeded to make the nest our own
And then, little more ours . . .
Fast forward three years. . .
We knew this day would come. Curtis's Trinidad & Tobago Work Permit expired on March 31t. We'd been planning for it. Working toward it. We thought our builder was too...
This morning, as we were meeting with the electrician to decide where we should position the lights, outlets, switches, cables and wires needed to complete this reno, with detritus from our six suitcases & 4 carry-ons scattered throughout our crowded "nest" Curtis got the call we'd been expecting. As of today, Curtis is officially on "Gardening Leave," whatever that means...
Am I nervous? Excited? Scared? A little worries? Sure am!
Here's one thing I've learned these 4 years in Trinidad:
Trini hearts must beat with the rhythm of the steel pan. I'm sure of it when I see Trini's move and when I hear them speak. Sentences blend and bounce, ending with a upturn, a lilt. I try to recreate the accent but mine comes out sounding leprechaun.
Even courtesy greeting to passerbys dance. No quick, curt "Hi," or nod of the head. Joggers sweating and puffing their way up steep Lady Chancellor hill this past Saturday morning sang out, "Mornin' Mornin'" "G'day! G'day!" just as they had every other day. Morning greetings, regardless the age of the speaker, come twice.
Curious about the origin of this charming greeting custom, I'd looked it up when we first came to Trinidad. I recall something about how the custom stems from back when servants manners better be above reproach. (Although when I searched just now for that reference, I couldn't find it.)
I asked a Trini friend about the two-call greeting and she said she recalled her grandmother saying it was about not risking being considered rude. "Trinidad is a small community," she explained. "If you're not related to someone, you know someone who is. If it ever got back to our family that we hadn't been polite, hadn't greeted someone properly, we'd catch the devil. Better to say it twice and be sure to be heard."
Knowing this charming custom grew out of fear--fear of losing one's position or risking punishment--a "Better safe than sorry," mentality, should, I suppose, make me enjoy it less. On the contrary. I think there's something to this idea that if one has something important enough to say once, we should make sure it's heard. And if that means saying it twice, sing out!
So now, today, with Gardening Leave (and whatever it entails) about to begin, we're taking a cue from our Trini Friends: We're Ready! We're Ready!
"Gardening Leave" Playlist
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Mosquito, Don't Ya Know!
I should have known I was in for it when the 4th forms started giggling before they started reading... (read why later in the post).
Turn around is the best play!
My last school visit as a resident of Trinidad & Tobago was to Guayaguayare R.C School, and what a treat! Instead of me entertaining them, the students, each grade in turn from 1st to 4th form (ages 5-10), shared their stories with the other students, teachers, visitors from Bridge Foundation, and me!
As part of its "Read to Rise," early literacy program, Bridge Foundation works with students and teachers in some of Trinidad's most needy areas, including Guayaguayare R.C. school.
Guayagyayare (pronounced exactly as it looks, with a Trini accent, yes I practiced heaps) is about 2 1/2 hour drive south-east of Port Of Spain. Reginald Holder, a Bridge Foundation staffer and long-time supporter before that, was kind enough to drive me down. (I'm thinking he and Anthea were worried I might not make it if I drove myself.) They might well have been on to something, some of the towns we passed through looked inviting and the beaches, spectacular. Here's a photo of the coconut palm lined highway in nearby Mayaro. That's the beach just to the left of the road, about 50 feet. (Now you see the temptation...)
Bridge's Founder, Anthea McLaughlin, is a former Jumpstart board member, so naturally, when she moved to Trinidad about 7 years ago, she brought Read for the Record® with her.
Jamie Tan from Candlewick Press hooking up the webcast on 10-22-15
Now it's an annual part of the Read to Rise curriculum. And this year it was huge! Through Bridge Foundation's efforts 92 Trinidad and Tobago schools and almost 30,000 children and adults took part in the shared reading experience. Including the students and staff at Guayaguayare and Mayaro schools. What's more, Bridge Foundation gave every student at this school a book, and 2 copies each to the 90 other schools! 30,000 students, that's about 20% of Trinidad's children!
Already acquainted with Norman, the 1st form students (4-5) were brilliantly equipped to respond to the prompt: When I got Norman, I didn't want to keep him.
(Can you guess which was Norman's fav?)
“Through Bridge Foundation’s efforts 92 Trinidad and Tobago schools and almost 30,000 children and adults took part in the shared reading experience”
Along with readings by celebrities who put a "Trini" spin on the story, Bridge partners created a slew of activities built around the theme of Pet and Sea-responsibility. Here's more about Bridge Foundation and Read for the Record® day 2015!
Which is where I came in. Reginald read that I lived in Trinidad, he told Anthea who got in touch with me. Three heads together over coffee came up with a plan for me to give a workshop to UWI 2nd year Creative Art students on picture books, which they would then use to help Guayaraguayare students WRITE AND ILLUSTRATE their own stories. The books are being created as we speak! And having met the students, I know they will be amazing! (I'll share some if I can.)
The really really fun part came after my presentation. 2nd form students, with hands clasped & sincerity gave a rousing rendition of their Trini version of There Was an Old Man Who Swallowed a Mosquito--
“It had the Zeeka Virus, don’t ya know...
He swallowed a lizard to eat the mos-qui-TO
That wiggled and jiggled down to his gizzard!”
Q&A session was hillarious! Of course one asked my age...and if my goldfish ever died, because their's did!
Bridge Foundation donated stacks of copies of Not Norman that will be given as prizes later. I was thrilled to sign them. Principal Burt Wiseman is fab and welcoming!
The grand finale was 4th Form's surprise. A recital of a brand new poem penned in Norman's honor!
I should have known their was something, er...fishy going on when they lined up looking like they were up to something. Turns out Bridge's resident poet, Shurla Blade, had composed a poem in honor of my friendly little fish, Norman. They could not stop smiling even while reciting. Imagine my shock & Surprise:
What do I get from school visits? Besides hugs and smiles--and being made to feel like a rockstar for a day? Images of those earnest, interested, bright children to hold, a reminder of who I'm writing for and why.
Don't Ya Know Playlist:
Pick A Winner
Volumes of thoughts by Great Thinkers have been published...How will thoughts of today's Great Thinkers be preserved?
My Mom's writing letter again... Some arrive with a bonus "Pick Your Own Adventure" component!
Remember letters? Those pages covered in thoughts, questions, memories set down in scribbles that most often didn’t, resemble any of those available in Word, with font sizes that, in my mother's case, flagrantly vary from 8 pt to 24 line to line, or word to word? (If yours is a post-1985 birthday, you might not…)
Writing letter fell out of favor with Mom, too, for scores of years, as did a lot of things… (Who knows, she might start some of those “other things” back up again, too... Let’s not think of the ramifications and implications of that, now.)
For purposes of this post, let’s return to Mom’s letters. She started sending them shortly after she started reading the Reno Gazette. I won’t say she started reading the newspaper “again” because I can’t recall my mother ever before reading a newspaper, or watching the news. Not since Walter Cronkite retired, anyway. (If yours is a post-1985 birthday, you might not be familiar with Walter Cronkite. For the record, Ron Burgundy might never have been if not for him.)
Will Ferrell's Ron Burgundy came after Walter...way after!
Cronkite was the CBS Evening News Anchorman of my youth. For that matter, heaps of other pre-1985 era folks, too. For the record, he was the first “anchor of American network television's first nightly half-hour news program.” Cronkite ended his Anchorman career the way he did every night's broadcast: “And that's the way it is: Friday, March 6, 1981."
With a twist announcing he was handing over the reins: "I'll be away on assignment, and Dan Rather will be sitting in here for the next few years. Good night."
Mom’s letters arrive like happy little mailbox bursts, decorated with stickers, glitter, slogans, stars, ANYTHING that will stick to an envelope. I’m thinking they must brighten my mail carrier, Candye’s otherwise dull deliveries. (I’ll have to ask her one day.) I wonder who Candye thinks is sending the letters? (Reading other people's mail is a Federal Offence, so legally she shouldn't be reading beyond the address.)
Mom was sending Family History Letters. She wanted to record all about our ancestors before she died. She dedicated each letter to one family member, or decade, or event—as the mood struck her. She made copies of these memoirs and mail them to everyone in our immediate family and a few cousins and friends.
After a few months, we ran out of family history or mom ran out of memories, whichever. All I know is one day the history letters stopped and notes with magazine and newspaper clippings started.
After those drear Family History Letters, Mom’s Notes with Clippings come as a welcome relief. Now that she’s a subscriber, Mom reads the newspaper every day cover-to-cover and while doing so, clips out articles of interest and mails them to us. For grandson Bennett, she cuts out articles and photos of animals. For me, recipes she’d like to eat, beauty tips she’d like me to try (sparkle eye shadow, pants with peek-a-boo legs), human-interest aka photos of “new citizens” being sworn in dressed as hot dogs, and horoscopes.
Always her and my horoscopes: Virgo & Leo.
Receiving out-of-date horoscopes irritated me no end. Why?
- What good is reading out-of-date advice?
- Often, Mom cut off the Sun Sign so I didn’t know whose it was—Virgo or Leo or?
- Sometimes she cut off part of the horoscope—perhaps the important part…
Yesterday’s mail brought this horoscope--again with the date cut off:
“Leo (July 23-Aug 22). You’ll get the wonderful feeling that you’re in the right place and right on time, too.”
As I read that horoscope, it dawned on me that there was no “By accident” about it. Mom knows exactly what she's doing when she cuts off the dates. I called to confirm. Her response:
“Keep the good ones and throw away the bad. After all, who needs bad advice!”
I’m thinking she’s onto something. After all, who says, just because history or horoscopes are written one way, we can’t rewrite it?
How about you? Ready to choose your own horoscope?
And that’s the way it is…or can be!
Pick A Winner Playlist:
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Thanksgiving Playlist
So easy picking my playlist—song, actually—for this Thanksgiving. I’m counting my blessings ala Bing and Rosemary as I prepare our Thanksgiving Feast.
As I dice and slice and whip and bake, I am keenly aware of how blessed me and mine are to have all we have and live as we live.
That first Thanksgiving, a 3-day long feast which included fowl, 4 deer, shellfish, cranberries, maybe, but no mashed potatoes and definitely no pie as potatoes hadn’t been introduced to the New World yet, as the Pilgrims lacked butter and flour for crust, was a celebration of a successful 1621 harvest. It did not mean the end of hard times for the Pilgrims. Even as they feasted, I’m sure the Pilgrims were keenly aware, as am I, that one certainly of our uncertain futures is that there will be difficult times ahead. Knowing this makes me even more grateful to be able to celebrate our harvest today.
Happy Thanksgiving! And thank you.
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When Stars and/or Trains Align . . . or not
My baby takes the morning train. Don't know about yours, but this baby just missed her train--by 7 minutes.
So I'm sitting in the railway station, sipping a latte, waiting for the next train--which will depart in 145 minutes. I reached the station at 5:45, the train departed at 5:33. 12 measly minutes.
Google "Rail-Car" this pops up
I'm formulating the story problems in my head:
Or Color Your Own Train...
If my flight landed at 4:30, and it took me forever to get through the viper of an immigration line, and even longer in the customs line only to arrive at the Airtrain Station just as one was pulling out, what should I have done in order to shave 12 or 15 minutes off my time?
- Jumped the queue?
- Sprinted up the escalator?
- Not used the washroom?
- None of the Above
- All of the Above
There's a food court of sorts at Jamaica Station. It consists of 3 shops--one being the "Air Bar" (Opens at 11)--and a section with tables and chairs. I have jingle in my pockets, my IPad in my bag and the timer set on my phone. I'm one of the lucky ones. All around me, people surrounded by bags sleep with their heads on the "Customer Only" tables. Judging by the look of them--mouths open, slumped, if they were customers, it was hours ago. I wonder which train they're waiting for...or if they know? Or care? Or are?
While I sip my latte, I'm thinking of the hours this delay is costing me. If only I'd checked the train times sooner—last night in the departure lounge. If only I'd know the train left at 5:33...
Would knowing have made a difference?
Most definitely!
Would I have been able to catch that earlier train? Who knows . . .
I do know is what I would have been doing if I had known the train’s departure time:
Instead of stretching my legs, clicking through messages, and wondering about all the other people waiting with me in those lines, my insides would have been buzzing like a hot switchboard, I would have been feeling like the lady a few bends of the queue back who bellowed out, "Hey Number 15! 17! 22! Get to Work! You are on the clock! Stopping chatting and take care of business!”
In my case, ignorance was bliss and no busted brain vessels.
Noooo this is not my latte. Mine was in a paper cup. Good news, click the pic and it will take you to a site with more cool latte art and a How-To U-Tube.
In the meantime I'll sip my latte, and be grateful the NY Deli only had everything bagels--with rye seeds--so I am not tempted to order one (with extra cream cheese) and do another story question:
If I were two people and one of me had managed to leap immigration & customs lines, my suitcase had rolled down the baggage carousel sooner than later, I hadn’t stopped to use the washroom, I had caught that earlier Airtrain in time to make the 5:33 train, that one would be seated at my computer sipping coffee and clicking on my computer, what would the other of me be doing?
The other of me that didn’t catch the 5:33 morning is sitting in the station, sipping a latte and clicking on my IPAD while waiting for the 8:03 train to Ronkonkoma. Coffee vs. Latte, Computer vs. IPAD, Coffee-Latte, Computer-IPAD...
When Stars and/or Trains Align Playlist:
- My Baby Takes the Morning Train by Sheena Easton
- Homeward Bound by Simon & Garfunkle
- Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is? by Chicago
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That Three Letter Loophole
“I try to…really I do… But…It’s just that…”
Almost every time I hear that word “try” (except when I use it, of course), the same memory springs to mind. I can’t recall where I was or when it happened:
"Try to lift it."
A man, perhaps a teacher or dinner companion, placed his hand on top if mine and said, “Try to lift your hand.”
I lifted my hand.
Shaking his head, disapprovingly, the man pressed my hand back down onto the table. “I said, ‘try to lift it.’”
Puzzled, I lifted my hand again.
He pushed it down again. “I didn’t say ‘lift your hand,’” he said. “I said ‘try to lift it.’”
Try. The three letter loophole.
Yes, this includes Mount Everest.
I tried to climb Mount Everest once—well, up to the Base Camp anyway. The plans were set. We had our gear. We had been training. But, at the last minute, our VISA requests were denied. It was a good try, and at least I tried. Spit in one hand, try with another, what do you get? One either climbs the highest peak in the world, or one doesn’t. One might start climbing and not reach the top. But that is not trying, that is climbing—doing. And yes, it is semantics. Some might say I’m “splitting hairs” even. That three letter loophole.
I do things. Lots of things. Most importantly, for purposes of this essay, when I say I’ll do a thing, I do it. For example, I said I would brush my teeth twice daily; floss; pay bills; babysit my grandson; eat leafy greens, and I do (except on rare occasion).
I try to do things, too: Return extra pounds to whomever owns them; exercise daily; stop using the word “cute”; call my mother . . . Try-schmy. Nobody ever does anything they “try” to do.
We do what we do. (Sally Bowles singing Mein Herr popped into my head as I typed that. I tried to resist, but…)
Where is this leading? To a confession: Since the beginning of the year I have been trying to finish several manuscripts. I’ve tried, really I have. And although I do spend several hours per day writing and/or on writing-related activities, despite all my trying, I have yet to succeed. After 10 frustrating months I have finally come to a decision: I am going to stop trying!
As of today, I am doing. One hour each day I am going to write. No excuses. No hall passes.
Mom’s Three Day Rule:
“If Mom’s three day rule worked to help her quit smoking, surely it will work to help me get back to creative writing.”
My mother always says it takes three days to make or break a habit. “Three days to make & three days to do & three days to set” she says (which is actually nine days, but somehow breaking it into 3 parts makes it easier.) If Mom’s three day rule worked to help her quit smoking, surely it will work to help me get back to creative writing.
And if, like me, there’s something you’re ready to stop trying, and start doing--and yes, I am talking to YOU! Writers who might be gearing up for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). And YOU, too! Everyone else who wants to stop trying. Why not join me? Let’s do it!
To Do List:
First Gather Tools. We’re on a Hero’s Journey and heroes needs tools!
- Calendar: Hang it in a prominent place.
- Happy Jar: Choose a happy jar/vase/pail to serve as your “Reward Jar.” Keep it on the smallish side so the vast emptiness of the vessel won’t be discouraging. (You can always upsize.)Decorate it, if desired.
- Reward Token: Decide on a reward token of choice. It might be money, chocolate, toffee, jewels, lotto tickets, marbles, shells (or a combo of several).
See my Happy Jar? It's smallish, the 30 days of Doing size. I can upsize!
The Plan:
- Set: “To Do” Goal.
- Commit: I will Do It each day. (Fill in the Do IT with your Do)
- Track Progress: None of this X stuff; mark progress with a smiley face (mine’s red) on the calendar each day you DO IT!
- Reward! (No hard work should go unrewarded): Each day of Doing It earns one token
- Accountability counts! Miss a day/Lose a token. Take one out of your Happy Jar (No, you may not eat it!) Most importantly, tell yourself: Tomorrow, I’m back! I will Do It!
Do It for 3 days, then 3 days more, and three days after that, just think what we will have accomplished!
Three Letter Loophole Playlist:
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Seeking Perfection
Healthy or not, I am a perfectionist. It is not a trait of which I am particularly proud. Yes, perfectionism has its place. In the operating room, in space, in manufacturing plants, and the like, we hope and pray whomever is doing the work pays strict attention to details. However in this imperfect world, living as or with a perfectionist is far from easy. For all of my adult life I have been battling against the need to be perfect. “Easy does it,” “lighten up,” “does it really matter?” I am constantly reminding myself—some times it works.
Sometime back, I was at the Ubud Writer’s Festival with my friend Laura. We had an hour between sessions and as girls do, went shopping. Laura was tired of her clothes and hoping to find a couple new items to perk up her closet. I was along for the ride. And, as sometimes happens when one isn’t looking, I found a delightful new dress. It was fun, unusual, and felt like a dream. The armholes were a little too large—aside from that it was perfect. “Wrap it up and charge it!” I told the sales team, just as Barbara Streisand sang in Funny Lady. “How lucky can you get!”
When I was packing to come on this trip, that dress caught my eye. Until that moment I had absolutely no intention of taking it with me. The dress is sleeveless and linen, definitely not an easy-to-wear item. But there it was swaying, fluttering at me from the closet rod calling “Take me! I’m fun! Think leggings and loafers. Think how trendy and cute you and I could be together!”
“Easy does it,” “lighten up,” “does it really matter?” I am constantly reminding myself—some times it works.””
I really really wanted to appear hot and trendy and cute. There was just one slight problem—those too big armholes. Trendy is not possible in too big armholes.
This is how I usually roll...
One fabulous thing you learn from living long enough is that you can get anything done if you know the right person to ask. A few days before leaving, I speed dialed my seamstress and told her about my fashion emergency. She nodded. “Ah, yes, those armholes are much too big.” Clucking around the pins in her teeth, she pinched the fabric in just so; assuring me she could quickly take in the sleeves and have it ready for me to tuck it into my suitcase.
I’m trying something new for me this trip. Something called “Packing Light.” I was going to be traveling for almost 3 weeks, but only planned to take five—no six—outfits, including what I wore on the plane.
This is my idea of "Packing Light" delightful!
And best, for once the weather was cooperating—everywhere was hot!. I managed to pack everything I needed into one suitcase and one carry on—and stayed within the weight restrictions.
First thing I did after arriving in NYC, was head to Macy’s. I’d been so busy packing light I had forgotten to pack the most important thing—my pillow. I don’t travel any place without my squishy pillow.
Along with a new pillow, and set of pillowcases—watermelon colored since I was buying them I decided to go for the gusto—I bought a pair of gray leggings to wear with my jaunty new dress.
I was so excited to try on my new outfit, I pulled it out that first night, to wear the next day.
My new dress, the one that has fallen so nicely and felt so good in the store . . .
the same dress that, aside from the too big armholes, had been fab when I tried it on for the seamstress . . .
. . . was so TIGHT, I could barely zip it.
My slip wasn't that thick, was it? (I always get puffy when I fly and gain a few pounds when I fly….but this much?) How many calories could 24 hours of airplane food have? I looked hot all right—like a boiled hot dog; grey, puckered and about to burst.
I ripped it right of. But...
Several times during the day--maybe more, my thoughts returned to that dress. (And yes, it stopped me from having gelato.)
It bugged me so much, about 3:00 am, I woke thinking about that dress. How could it have looked so great one day and so bad the next? Can a dress shrink in flight the way bottles expand and contract with the change in cabin pressure? Can people expand from the changes in cabin pressure? Or….Could this somehow connected to those armholes?
Shortly before 6, I finally gave up pretending to sleep. The suspense was killing me. I slipped out of bed, tiptoed to the closet, pulled out my dress and carried it into the bathroom. I turned on the lights and turned the dress inside out.
Yes, my lovely, speedy seamstress had indeed made the armholes smaller. And in the process, had taken in both side seams. Ah hah! So it wasn’t all me! The dress had shrunk! Feeling decidedly less puffy, I removed my handy-dandy sewing kit from my toiletry bag, took out my seam ripper and scissors and set to work. My thought was to simply remove the new stitching and the dress would be fine. So maybe the armholes would be back to the former, too big selves. I could deal with it for this trip.
Having learned another lesson about leaving well enough alone, the perfectionist in my may well have been able to cope with the too big armholes in exchange for hot, trendy dress, or not. We will never know. For, as it turns out, my seamstress is quite the perfectionist herself. Not content to do a quickie job, while making the armholes smaller, she had not simply stitched seams down the side, she had re-sewn the seams from the outside in and from the inside out, so rather than having a raw edge on the inside, the seam, from both sides looked finished—and used about an extra inch of fabric.
After at least an hour seated on the edge of the bathtub, picking out stitches I pulled the last thread, opened the seam and gasped—she had cut the seam allowance. Both side seams of the dress are now completely open, from the hip to the armpit. So much for hot, trendy, and cute… or perfect!
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Preflight: The Impetus for Change
Chances of flight delays must increase exponentially the more one flies. No doubt someone has calculated the statics. Still, I'm always surprised and irritated (to put it mildly) when it happens to me.
“Remember when flying was glamorous and sexy, even fun?”
“Remember when flying was glamorous and sexy, even fun?”
Chances of flight delays must increase exponentially the more one flies. No doubt someone has calculated the statics. Still, I'm always surprised and irritated (to put it mildly) when it happens to me.
We were dutifully lined-up for boarding when the United Airlines Rep casually announced that our non-stop, direct flight would now be making an unscheduled refueling stop that would tack 2+ hours onto our journey, because the fuel pump feeding one of our engines wasn't working, I took it in stride, really. . .
Imagine Matching T-Shirts
As it happened, the flight was packed with pre-teens headed for Summer Camp.
Think Camp Walden “Prank Scene” from Parent Trap (Haley Mills version, of course)
My seat, a dreaded middle seat, was mired in the midst of them.
Watching and listening to young teens bantering and bouncing, I speculated that the decision to schedule a pitstop rather than order a plane change might have been based largely on the thought of having to accommodate a busload of unescorted minors. A Rosalind Russell type exec from another Haley Mills classic, The Trouble With Angels, sprang to mind.
However, when the stop over resulted in an even longer delay because other passengers were not so complacent about flying on a jet with a faulty fuel pump, and the "paperwork which needed signing" took longer to sort out that expected, and something or else other resulted in every slim chance I once had of making my connecting flight being blown, I was done.
Along with food, drinks, showers & restrooms The Club reps can help.)
When we landed, I did what I had to do. After calmly waiting my turn to disembark, I scooted past the crowd waiting to find out what the heck they were supposed to do now? And made for the United Club.
(Now a plug for Club cards: In case you don't know it, what those airline premium credit cards buys you is access to The Club.)
Scared what I might say—scream---had I chanced trying to explain what had happened, I simply handed the United rep my boarding pass. The rep glanced at it and knew exactly what had happened. Then quickly, cheerfully, swiftly she rebooked me on another flight. Happy to have the flight rebooked, I dared the unthinkable. I asked for more: "May I have a window seat?"
“Upon hearing my request, she did the unheard of. She smiled.”
To be fair, United Reps deal with flight changes, seat requests, rebookings all day long. It's their job. And most of them do it pleasantly. But rarely, if ever in my experience, had a Rep rebooked or even completed a flight check-in with such delight. As this Rep clicked and rebooked and changed my seat and reissued my boarding pass manner suggested that there was nothing she would rather be doing that helping me. (It was so surprising, I pulled out my glasses so I could read her name badge: Chris Orr.) I couldn't allow such remarkable behavior go unnoted. As she was finishing the flight changes, I thanked Chris, making a point of saying how much I appreciated her pleasant, cheerful attitude.
Looking a bit surprised, Chris thanked me for the complement, saying it was her job. "Not everyone doing your job, does it so pleasantly," I remarked, adding how I fly often, and have had more experience that I like to recall with flight rebookings. She smiled then explained:
“It comes from being kidnapped. It made me change how I want to live.”
"Kidnapped?!!"
Chris then relayed a harrowing tale of her and a travel companion’s holiday gone bad in a big movie way. Of being abducted, blindfolded, beaten, tortured, driven out into the desert and almost dumped for dead. Of her broken nose and ribs, of being threatened with death and believing it. How, while their attackers were busy beating and torturing her, her companion, sneaked to the front of the car, snatched back his backpack—stuffed full of all their belongings, cameras, passports, wallets, and booty: rings, necklace earrings the kidnappers had pulled from her ears—and hid it in the darkness of the floorboards between his feet. How faced with certain death, her will to live was so strong and rage so intense she kicked open the door of a moving car, kicked so ferociously she busted three bones in her foot in the process, then she and her companion hurled themselves out onto the road, miraculously landing and rolling instead of being run over. How scraped and bloody, dehydrated she ran literally blinded, having lost her contacts, behind her companion, into a night market. How he bound her to him by looping his belt around her wrist. How in the market, with their kidnappers chasing, desperate to recover the backpack in pursuit, they ran. And instead of helping, wallahs hollered "thieves" and tried to stop them. How despite the belt, the two became separated, how she blindly ran on anyway until she ran around a corner, down a street and smashed into someone big, huge…
And it was him. And together again, they hailed a taxi. And even the taxi driver, seeing them hurt, battered, bloody, sensed their distress, their vulnerability, and so tried to gouge them for more rupee and more. How when they began recognizing their surroundings, knowing they were close to their hotel, they finally just tossed coins at the driver, and when he scrambled to collect the money, they jumped out and ran.
Now, years after, that kidnapping is with her. So vivid, she recounts it in detail on request. But rather than weighing heavy, like a cross to bear, Chris treats it like a totem, a gratitude rock, a reminder that life is a choice, a gift.
I boarded the flight Chris had rebooked and slide to the window seat she’d so cheerfully found, wondering: Is that what it takes? Does it take being kidnapped or otherwise beaten down somehow, and so badly, that we are left with one choice: fight with all we've have in us or quit? It that what must happen to make us realize it is our choice?
Photo by John Virgollina from interview with NY State Poet, Marie Howe
Where we walk may not be ours to choose. But how we walk is our choice.
Like Chris, I choose joy.
Preflight Playlist:
- Parent Trap, 1961 version starring Haley Mills
- Come Fly With Me, sung by Frank Sinatra
- Coffee, Tea or Me by Trudy Baker, Rachel Jones & Donald Bain