By the time you read this I will be airborne, on a flight from Orlando to Halifax.
Wondering at exactly what point airline travel went from something vaguely glamorous, to something considerably below traveling by Greyhound bus on the midnight run.
I have flown a lot lately and flown a lot in my career.
Do you remember meals?
Silverware and linen napkins and a choice of beef (always with some kind of mushroom), chicken (always some kind of croquette) or kosher (best quality choice in my experience).
Remember when the attendants were polite? (OK I may be talking about Air Canada here, efficient but in my family a.k.a. Air Crabby - WestJet is excellent - cheerful as hell but still no food).
Remember when you just boarded, not stood around on one foot trying to look cool while you held up the line putting on your shoes?
Remember leg room?
I personally think flying messes with your head.
You should feel the distance between places.
One of my great pleasures of life is the drive down from Nova Scotia to Florida - from cold and maybe a few snow banks, from little trees to big trees, to damn it, spring flowers, to leaves out and then to palm trees.
Man is that exciting.
I love road trips.
I love the time to knit and the snacks.
I love driving by houses and wondering about the lives lived there.
I love trapping my husband in the car so I can have meaningful conversations of the sort that leave women feeling greatly relieved and satisfied -released - and leave men saying things like "OK just what is it I am supposed to be doing from now on?" after their minds have been wandering thinking about truly interesting things like how many miles to the gallon they might be getting.
I love being told the best thing I can do is just sit and knit.
But this time I have to fly to get home for my pre-op. The convoy, which includes the above husband enjoying the peace, Mr. R., and a motorcycle entirely wrapped in garbage bags of fabric will arrive three days later.
I also have to follow-up on few things.
Like the news that my next door neighbour, the grass dusting one, is having a back yard wedding on Saturday and has requested my son get the starlings out of our garage so none of them fly out and poop on the heads of her guests.
Just in case.
I figure she hasn't taken a very good look at my son if she thinks this is a project he will be executing with any efficiency between now and Saturday.
While I have been away the house has been occupied by my youngest (see above) the surfer dude, part-time consultant (engineers etc. yes they really pay him) real estate magnate ( he has a couple of rentals that he can afford to have because he lives in my basement) and by my daughter's brother-in-law who is in town for a season for work.
This is a big cultural thing where no one would ever dream of living with anyone who is not a relative. That's a subject of another post, a doctoral dissertation, or perhaps and episode of Dr. Phil.
At any rate.
The news drifting through the system my way has included lines like "Does your mom know there is a tree trunk in her living room?"
In short it's time I went home.
Even on an airplane without silverware.