Home is where the heart is

LAST FLIGHT TO YUMA

 

Going back, back home, should be easier, but isn't always. The LA airport was a mass of raggedy sportsmen, business men carrying shiny brown leather briefcases in one hand, computer cases in the other.
Toddlers, teens , fatsos, bean poles couldn't be counted even if I had such a stupid desire. Coffee leaked out of lopsided paper cups, staining the already worn carpet. I was alone, as alone in a crowd as I have ever been.

 

My boarding pass informed me my gate would be #36A. Easy? No it wasn't. Where, indeed,  was all of Royal American Airline? Security check glared at me. There had to be hundreds of people, pushing, trying to get thru the lines by cutting under the tapes, skipping, making claims for unknown reasons. My heart raced like a fool, afraid I couldn't lift my belongings, remove my shoes, jacket, and everything else. As I was within a few yards of reaching the containers to be filled quickly, the loudspeaker blared. 'Everything, I mean everything, out of your pockets, cash, driver's licences, boarding tickets, charge cards, jewelry.' I followed orders and put my driver's licence, Visa card in the tub, including the two one dollar bills I had not had a chance to give as a tip, paper clipped to my Visa card. I waited my turn to be x-rayed, hands over my head, felt all over and passed thru.

 

All I had to do then was get all of my belongings where they belonged. My eyes had been mostly on my puter that was removed from the traveling case, my purse that had my travel money, eye glasses, eye drops, Rxes and was not too upset when each tray came thru unscathed. HA HA. I first noticed my $2 was stolen, called a guard who laughed and quickly brought me a replacement.

 

Then I realized that my Visa card that had been clipped to the two bucks was gone. And that is when all hell broke loose. Employees came from nowhere, shouting 'CREDIT CARD'. I panicked, tears ran like the Nile down my face. Two of the searchers immediately emptied a large desk, belonging to some official, and piled all of my trays on top so I could go thru every single thing–including my pockets. They did the same, hugging me between their searches, begging me not to cry. That made me cry more. Truly, I knew how awful I looked, how badly shaken I was but somebody had my Visa card and might be in Oklahoma already.

The wonderful men stayed around me, methodically searched my puter luggage, my shoes, my many pockets again, unfolded my only sweater, shook it unsuccessfully. Just then, Jimmy John, the tallest, strongest looking black man I ever saw, came to check out the progress of his men. There was no spot he didn't examine, including my pant pocket that I had checked twice and several other men had been careful not to embarrass me had done. 

 

Jimmy John, quietly handed me a new package of blue Kleenex. 'Wipe your tears. You will be OK. You are doing fine,' he said to me so all could hear. His hand flew above his head and came down with a blue Visa card. 'Is this your card, Ma'am?' he asked. I checked it carefully and it WAS. Every man who tried to help me, came, one at a time to hug me again–and I thanked each of them personally even though my crying voice was still raspy.

 

Next stop was to find Gate 36 A. An ancient woman, her curled, wrinkled hand, beckoned me from her wheel chair. Other than searching for Gate 36A, I was free to help her. 'It's over there, Madam,'. Her voice quivered. It wasn't over there. Next to 36 was 36 D. Where was Royal American hiding A, B and C? Somebody goofed. Passengers were walking around in circles, tots chased each other, screamed for their mommies. My needed early seating didn't happen. First class flyers went on before the elderly, wheel-chaired people. In fact, ordinary healthy people got on before my wheel chaired old lady and I.

 

We became temporary friends. If she would earn even one more wrinkle in her 96 year old face, it would surely all come tumbling down. Billie had been a navy nurse during WWII and regaled me with stories that seemed impossible to have happened. She was saved at Pearl Harbor, was imprisoned in Okinawa and still has, to this day, more spunk, more interests, more friends than I have every had. Once she gets settled again in Yuma she is enrolling in school to be able to use a computer, search the web, the world.

 

An internal shame came over me. My Yuma waited for me to relax again, play golf, play bridge, invite guests for dinner. My grown family has the privilege of visiting me almost any time I am here in Yuma.....

And that means 'Carol, pick up the phone and tell me when you are arriving.  'I'm not going any place.'