Back In The Saddle

So to speak, anyway.

The flights to the Midwest last Thursday were uneventful, although the heat and humidity which greeted us in St. Louis nearly made us go back onto the plane. But it was past midnight, and we'd already reserved a room at a nearby motel.

Unfortunately, my memory of which hotel would be a good choice was ... well, let's just say I chose poorly. It was straight out of a Mickey Spillane novel, complete with a blind desk clerk, and fixings for a coffee service in the room ... but no coffee maker. There was a fresh coat of paint, but many broken pieces of trim. The door locked, but didn't keep out any noise, like the janitors who began dropping galvanized buckets and various mops and brooms just after 0600.

It was a facility designed long ago by someone who'd read about motels, but had never actually seen one.


After a quick 5 1/2 hours sleep and a passable breakfast Friday morning, we were met by an old friend who provided us with a vehicle for our travels in Missouri.

The memorial service and the family gathering on Saturday were very nice. There were all three daughters of Mom's late sister; I hadn't seen the two younger ladies since 1984. I was surprised, in fact, by how the gathering of relatives pulled at me so strongly. I wanted nothing more than to just sit down and visit with the whole clan, but responsibilities kept me hopping back and forth between them and two other groups.

The return flights last night were affected by heavy smoke from the wildfires in British Columbia. The first leg, from St. Louis to Seattle, was nearly 90 minutes late taking off. Air Traffic was only allowing one plane to land in Seattle every five minutes, IFR only, which backed traffic up quite a bit.

Since we had arranged connecting flights with a 95-minute layover, there was a bit of tension about catching that last-flight-to-Alaska of the evening. And Sea-Tac Airport did what it does best: changed both the arrival and departure gates while we were in-route.

We arrived at the departure gate two minutes after the connecting flight was to have departed. But with divine help (and I mean that literally), the airline decided to delay that plane's departure for 30 minutes so we could all make the flight. Because of that delay, nearly everyone made it.

However, that fact wasn't announced. We had no idea that they'd wait for us, and the airport subway ride from one terminal to the other was accompanied by cries of "must go faster, must go faster" and "we can't possibly make it on time" ... and much prayer.

Once in the departure terminal, the muttering and prayer was replaced by running. Lots of running, which was neither wanted nor graceful. But we made it, and only after getting onboard did we become aware that the flight was being held for another 40 people from our flight who hadn't yet shown up.

The plane's captain announced his intention to "fly fast", got us to Anchorage on time, despite the half-hour late departure. So were were home and in our own bed (yay!) by 3:30 a.m.



My sister, who lives in the town where Mom lived, will bear the brunt of the responsibilities of settling the estate. I'll help as much as possible, but we're separated by 3,000 air miles or 3,750 driving miles. That complicates things a bit, but it's not insurmountable. Just the same, I would appreciate prayers for her, from those who are the praying kind.

There's a void where Mom (and Dad, who died in 2011) used to be. It feels ... weird, to have spent several days in her house, and her not there. Her presence was everywhere, of course, and that made the visit a little surreal. And I know my experience is not unique.

So now to remember where we were and what we were doing, when the trip came around. The answer is both easy and hard. We pick up the traces, and get on with the living.