poetry

The Illusion of Travel Control

My daughter’s flight was postponed again. What started as a clean six-day babysitting stint for granddaughter Ellie (and Grandpa Andy) has quietly stretched into eight — and honestly, I’ve stopped checking the flight tracker. When they land in OKC, I will know.

Nobody made a bad decision here. This was a collaborative disaster — a joint venture between Mother Nature, Spring Break crowds, and whatever dark energy the TSA stirred into the blender this year. Credit where it’s due: it takes a village to strand a family.

They were already down badly before the delays started. The baby’s ears hurt, and she wailed the whole first flight. Their Orlando-bound plane got rerouted to Jacksonville due to the weather. At that point, the vacation feeling exits the chat. Their luggage allegedly went to OKC, but actually took a personal detour to DFW and got a motel there. Hotel scrambles. Gate changes. A baby who does not care about any of this and simply wants her schedule honored.

Parenting is a full-contact sport under ideal conditions. Doing it in an airport terminal, without your gear, running on cold coffee and evaporating optimism — the difficulty multiplier goes sideways fast. I’ll retell their specific calamities once they finally drop off Ellie, if they can describe it without breaking into a cold sweat. What I know already would have had me snapping at anyone who got between me and my seat.

We Were Always a “Let’s Get This Over With” Family

My wife and I were never emotional travelers. Survive first, process later — that was always the policy. And somehow, across twenty-something years of family road trips, we processed a lot of flat tires.

We once drove from Texas to Ohio and caught a flat before we’d even cleared Tennessee. AAA swap, plug at a tire shop, McDonald’s to distract the kids with breakfast — standard chaos protocol. We hadn’t even left the parking lot when a second tire quit on us. We ended up in an elaborate multi-mechanic shuffle that eventually got us to Ohio, just a few hours behind schedule and significantly more familiar with local auto shops than any tourist should be.

Then there was the Carolina trip. We spent a night hunting for a hotel on the West Virginia Turnpike, finally falling into bed around 2:00 AM — only to wake up to another flat. The highlight was the tow truck driver who couldn’t fit all four of us in his cab. His solution? Hoist the van onto the flatbed with us still inside. We spent the ride elevated above traffic, waving at passing cars like we were the grand marshals of a very sad parade.

Even cruises weren’t safe. We disembarked in Galveston, ready to head home to DFW for laundry and yard work, when one of our tires embraced a nail with the quiet resignation of something that had simply had enough. We spent the next couple of hours eating Mexican food and watching the Olympics on a big screen while the tire got mended. Honestly? Not the worst afternoon we’ve had.

The Illusion That Makes It Bearable

Here’s what I keep coming back to, though. Every one of those tire stories was ours. We drove into them. We loaded the kids, took the route, made the call — and when things went sideways, we were the ones considering pulling out the jack before remembering our AAA membership.

Granting full trust to an airplane hands all of that to a system you can’t negotiate with. When it breaks, you’re just cargo in someone else’s problem. My daughter couldn’t reroute. Couldn’t drive around the weather. Couldn’t do anything but stand at a gate with a wailing infant and wait for a screen to change.

Yes, they skipped the long haul to Ohio. But when you’re watching the adults hit a wall while trying to keep a baby content in a terminal, those West Virginia flat tires start sounding less like disasters and more like a reasonable trade.

At least when you’re stranded on a turnpike, you drove yourself there. Her parents may need a while before they’re ready to find out if the skies are actually friendly. Ellie, for her part, would probably have been fine either way.

A Month In The Life of Our Trash

When we lived back in Texas, life for our trash was short. If it had a life of longer than a week, it was only because it was a “recycle” that just missed the weekly pickup. All other trash including big and small items were picked up twice a week. Obviously, there were certain things that were not taken: chemicals, liquid paint, and propane tanks. Beyond that, our Texas trash crew were rarely discouraged from feeding anything into the mega-mawl of destruction. (a.k.a. The business end of the garbage truck) With 2 pickups every week (one a recycle), we did not know how spoiled we were.

Oklahoma handles there trash differently. (At least OKC does.) Immediately, we see the two big trash cans with wheels on the side of our house. The sidewalk the cans live seems to be a home made specifically for them. The gas meter dwells right next to them…in the middle of the sidewalk. For weekly trash days, the only trash collected is trash/recycles that fits within these rolling trash cans. Friday is always our trash day. Every other week is a recycle week. If one finds they are experts on creating trash, it appears a requests can be made to add an additional “weekly” trash can to your family.

On the 23rd of December (when this post was started), I was excited for a special day in our trash disposal experience. It is the first day we are supposed to be able to dispose of big items. This special day is the 4th Monday of every month. (Not sure of any Memorial Day or other exceptions.) When I put these items out the night of the 22nd, I calculated which side of our driveway would be the best place to place them. With a mailbox and a circular driveway, the trash has to go somewhere on either side. My calculation last night did not take into consideration the neighbor’s four cars. With the cars expanding beyond the driveway at some point during every day, I did not account for their parking on the street. As soon as I noticed this possible impact on my trash pickup, I moved everything to the other side of the driveway on the morning of the 23rd. Now, I wait…

I had to wait a few days. The rain the night of the 23rd was heavy. The pieces of the particle board desks took all of the rain in stride. The cardboard was a different matter. Its days of usefulness were behind it. I patched things up to assure easy pickup. Then, I waited again.

I knew Christmas day would be a bust. The only positive from the whole experience was when I took my morning walks. There were other who had trash still sitting out waiting to be picked up. I was not alone. My understanding of the pickup directions was identical to those who have lived here for more weeks/months than I.

Finally, the day after Christmas came. On today’s walk, I passed the other house on our street that had a substantial pile of non-standard trash. The home owner was standing outside barefoot while wearing his black nasal strip. (He must have forgot he was wearing it.) We sympathized with each other. He assured me he would call the city soon if his pile of cardboard boxes (Maybe he just moved in..?) were not picked up.

After finishing my walk an hour later, a magical sound greeted my ears. It was the sound of hydraulics compressing miscellaneous materials into a smaller space. (a.k.a. a garbage truck) They were coming up the street from “barefoot and snoring.” It was a beautiful sound. The garbage workers didn’t seem to enjoy my picture. But, the picture proves I don’t make these things up…at least mostly not.