It's not a bomb...

There was a lot of backlash when the TSA first installed full body scanners at many of the nation’s airports. There were concerns of privacy and how much the security personnel would see and what would happen to those images. I’m sure that many women were very concerned (with great reason), but I didn’t really worry about it for myself. I already had a pretty poor body image, so all I felt was a bit of sympathy for any poor TSA agent who had to cast their eyes upon my unrestricted frame.

In response to the backlash, TSA adjusted the image so that (supposedly) the shape is standardized and only the area where contraband is suspected will be highlighted.

Something like this:

Of course, we have the option to bypass the scanner and request a pat down, but I’m not a fan of strangers laying hands on me. It’s awkward and I never know whether to look really uncomfortable (which I am, but might make me look guilty of something) or to try and relax and go with it (which might make them think I’m enjoying it). It’s far too much pressure when I’m already worried about the twenty ton metal tube I will soon be trapped inside for a four hundred mile an hour rocket ride five miles above the earth.

So I always go through the scanner. I don’t worry about the potential radiation, although I probably should. I already have a cell phone to my ear for half my day and I live in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, where animals routinely grow extra legs and no one eats the local fish. It just gets to be too much to worry about, and I could already serve on the US Olympic Worry Team.

Now, after all the fuss about what the image would show, the tricky thing about the new full body scanners is that you have to get almost naked to go inside. Shoes off. Belt off. Coat, jacket and sweaters off. Nothing in your pockets (even a tissue). It’s only you and a thin layer of clothing.

I think I’ve mentioned before that one of the more difficult things for me is removing my belt. I’m kind of at an “in between” size right now. Not quite snug in one size, but too big for the next size down. Since I don’t aspire to the idiotic teen male trend of having my pants hang down to my upper thighs showing my underwear to the world, I keep my belt tight and my pants around my waist. Once my belt is removed and I step unsupported into the body scanner, I am required to raise my hands over my head (see photo above) and remain still. This is not so easy and I know it is just a matter of time before a video of me hobbling out of an airport scanner with my pants around my ankles ends up on YouTube.

This past Monday I showed up at the Knoxville McGhee Tyson Airport for my flight to Washington like I had done for the last three weeks and many times throughout the last ten years. Being an experienced traveler, I have learned to wear the same basic clothing when I fly. My logic is that once I found an outfit that gets me through security without issue, I will stick to that. It makes sense and in general, it works.

Monday I arrived and after checking my luggage and getting my boarding pass, I made my way to security. After a short wait in the serpentine control line, I started filling the gray plastic bins with my personal items: belt, wallet, cell phone, two tissues, boarding pass and shoes. In a separate bin I placed my laptop and then pushed them all into the conveyer for their fun ride through the tunnel of no secrets.

I then waited behind a slightly older gentleman who apparently had neither flown nor watched the news in the last ten years. He also did not appear to have the capacity to listen, since every two minutes there was a loud and clear announcement blaring through the entire area stating that you need to remove your shoes, belt, etc. He ignored all of those things, threw his oversize bag on the conveyer and marched proudly forward.

The TSA Agent sent him back to remove his shoes, watch, coat, cell phone, and clearly said “Do you have anything else in your pockets.” The man shook his head and said, “No.”

He stepped into the scanner and didn’t raise his hands. The agent pointed at the large sign inside the scanner (about 12 inches from the man’s face) that showed a clear diagram of a body with their hands over their head. The man put his arms straight out. It was brutally obvious at this point that the man was a career politician. No one else could possibly be so oblivious to their surroundings.

Once he finally grasped the correct standing procedure and the scanner ran, he was stopped and informed that he had something in his right pants and left shirt pockets. He stepped back through the scanner and emptied a few dollars in change, some car keys and his boarding pass into a bin and tried again. I wanted to suggest that this man must have been hiding something and in the interests of security he should submit to a full cavity search. Unfortunately, he was cleared on this go through and he began the slow process of gathering his belongings.

Swift and practiced, I stepped into the scanner and planted my feet on the painted yellow feet on the floor and my hands in perfect symmetry with the diagram in front of me. This should be quick and painless and I would soon be on my way to the gate.

The scanner bar made it’s quick half turn and I was motioned by a TSA agent to step out and wait to be cleared to proceed. It only takes a few seconds, twenty at most. I don’t even look back at the screen anymore because I am the model of travelling efficiency and I know that there can be no problem.

I knew something was wrong when the eyebrows on the TSA agent standing in front of me went unnaturally high. He looked at the female agent to my right and said, “We’re going to need a supervisor.” I watched as she lifted her radio to her lips and in soft, calm voice said, “Supervisor to One…we have a Groin Alert.”

I turned to look at the screen and the cut-out human diagram displayed there, and sure enough, dead center of the crotch was a bright yellow square.

Supervisors must be trained to respond rapidly to “groin alerts” because by the time I looked back a very tall and intimidating man was standing within inches of my face. He gave me a quick look up and down and then without a hint of humor, said, “Sir, do you have anything in your pants?”

There was only one correct answer in that instance, because TSA agents are not known for their appreciation of sarcasm, so I simply said, “no.”

“Okay,” he said. “Are you willing to go through the scanner again?” I quickly agreed to that option because I was almost positive that any other option might not be very pleasant.

I stepped back inside the scanner and silently prayed that whatever had set it off the first time was a technical glitch and would not happen again. The supervisor stood just outside the entry and said, “Sir, please untuck your shirt from your pants and pull your pants waist up as high as it will go.” I did as I was told. “Now sir, please raise your hands above your head.”

I quickly glanced around to see if anyone had their cell phone out filming my moment. I knew that without the extra snugness of my shirt being tucked in, my pants were considerably loose. I had no idea what would happen when I raised my hands. If nothing else, I could prove that I wasn’t carrying a weapon.

After a few attempts to raise my hands and feeling my pants start to slip, I finally pulled them as high as I could and spread my knees a little bit, hoping against hope that this bizarre yoga squat move would hold them up long enough for the scanner to run. The TSA supervisor gave me a strange look but hit the button to start the scanner. As soon as it was done, I grabbed for my pants and stepped outside, waiting nervously to see if my groin was still considered a threat to national security.

After what seemed like a half an hour, but was only about 30 seconds, the screen flashed bright green with the simple word OK on it. The TSA supervisor looked just as relieved as I was, probably because the next steps in the screening process would have been somewhat awkward for us both. He stood by me as I gathered my belongings and I asked, “I guess this happens a lot, right?”

“No,” he said. “Fortunately, it’s very rare.”

As always, lucky me.



.

Alive and Kicking

.

Connie told me last week that she has added something to her bucket list and she was going to make it a priority to see it through. Having seen the 2007 Morgan Freeman/Jack Nicholson film of that name, I knew what a “Bucket List” was and it didn’t really surprise me that she had one. She loves to experience new things and likes a little bit of adventure thrown in. Then she said that Taylor had mentioned something being on HER bucket list, and I was a little taken aback. Why does my 13 year old have a bucket list?


After various prolonged discussions about how we could make her bucket of dreams come true, Connie asked me what was on my bucket list. I had to think for a minute. Then I had to think for a very long time. I knew that I had never made a formal list of things to do before I died, but was there even an informal list floating around in the ether of my frazzled mind?

After giving it some thought during this last week, it struck me that the only thing sadder than not doing what you want to do before you die is to not even have a general idea of SOMETHING outside of our normal day to day existence that we would like to accomplish.

Starting from scratch, I was a little overwhelmed with the thought of filling an entire bucket…so I decided to start small and make a “coffee mug list.” I’m a big fan of coffee, and holding a steaming cup of java in a heavy mug gives me a high degree of comfort. Buckets are little unwieldy, and besides all that, I had a misfortunate run-in with a galvanized metal bucket as a clumsy toddler that left me with stitches over my left eye. Buckets haunt me.

The first thing that popped into my head when I asked myself, “What would I like to do that I haven’t done before” was: Take an uninterrupted nap.

I realized immediately the fault in my thinking because surely at some point as a child I had experienced a nap which was not broken up by a phone call, a crying child, a barking dog or the emergency need for me to replace batteries in the remote control. I reasoned that just because I could not remember something didn’t mean that I hadn’t done it, so I needed to set the bar slightly higher.

“Where would I like to go?” I asked myself. This question is a little difficult for me considering that I spend an average of 30 weeks a year away from home. When you spend that much time eating airport food and sitting in cramped “built for maximum occupancy” seats, the thought of sitting at home in your comfy recliner is more attractive than seeing one of the seven wonders of the world. (Combine my recliner with an uninterrupted nap and I may have found enough wishful thinking to actually fill a large dump truck, forget the bucket). After perusing the web and a spending a few hours watching the National Geographic channel, I still couldn’t find any place that I had an overwhelming desire to visit. I’m sure I would enjoy a visit to Ireland or Australia, Alaska or Brazil, but I’m also pretty sure that I wouldn’t feel all empty inside if I never go there.

I thought about other people’s lists. They seem to contain acts of adventure like Sky-diving, Zip-lining, bungee-jumping or swimming with dolphins. Considering that I can’t play most video games because I get motion sick and I also can’t swim, I pretty much had to rule out most of the standard “thrill” acts that make it on the lists. Living on the edge doesn’t appeal to me. I’m more of a “stay way back in case I trip” kind of person.

My blank list was getting more pathetic by the minute as the implication settled in that I seemingly had nothing to live for. What would people say about me when I was gone? Not that I grabbed hold of life and lived every moment, but that I existed…watching each hour pass from the safe cocoon of my comfort zone.

After berating myself for a good long while over what I couldn’t imagine myself doing, I had a brief moment of clarity when I simply asked myself, “What would make me happy?”

Now, that shines an entirely new light on these semi-morbid proceedings. I don’t need an impressive list of accomplishments to be happy. My joy comes from other things.

-I want my daughters to be healthy, happy and stable. I want them to find a good man who will love them unconditionally and worship them as they deserve. I want them to live the life that they were meant to live without the binds that hold so many of us back. I want them to find their inner peace and develop a strong personal relationship with their maker.

-I want to retire and spend mornings with my beautiful wife sipping coffee on the back deck until the sun becomes too warm and we have to switch to ice tea.

-I want to help my family achieve their goals.

-I want to travel some…but I don’t care about the destination.

-I want to be a better person.

Some of these items are out of my control, but I might be able to nudge them in the right direction a bit. This is my list of things that would make me happy, and now that I’m thinking that way, I’m sure I’ll think of more. I’m a very lucky man to have options. I’m not going to call it my “bucket list.” This is my “Cup runneth over list.”

The Big Deal

I think I’m pretty laid back as a father, which probably has more to do with the quality of my kids than with any specific personality traits I may have mastered. I don’t have to do a lot of yelling and screaming, and when I do it usually backfires on me and requires some type of humble apology and a pathetic explanation that I misunderstood what was going on. Fortunately, my kids don’t hold those mistakes over my head too often and they accept my groveling as part of who I am.

In the last couple of weeks we’ve had some situations that required me to pull back the mask of fumbling idiot and be “serious Dad.” Even rarer was the fact that I was justified in doing so. I know this to be true because Connie did not give me the evil eye while I was doing it.

The first incident occurred on a Saturday night two weeks ago when Shelby and Ashlyn invited a 16-year-old male friend from church over to practice music. As it turns out, there was no music practiced and soon plans had changed into going out to eat and seeing a movie. Life changes fast in the mind of teenagers (or twenty year olds, in the case of Shelby). Their mutual love of music was overpowered by their desire for buttered popcorn and a night on the town.

After some drama and debate over leaving little sister Taylor at home (why can’t they all just get along?), the gang of three left the house with the promise to call later to let me know what’s going on. A while later, while watching Disney channel re-runs with Taylor, I get a text from Ashlyn saying that they were “in Turkey Creek” to eat. For those who don’t know…Turkey Creek is a shopping and restaurant haven that is not in our town but is on the outskirts of Knoxville, about 15 miles away.

Now, before I describe my reaction, let me explain a few things. First, it might sound like that’s not a big deal. Second, it’s a big deal because I say it is.

My text response was this: I am not happy

This prompted a quick text response of “why?” by sweet, dear, oh so innocent Ashlyn and almost immediately a phone call by the same sweet, dear, oh so innocent child. “Why are you upset,” she said, completely unprepared for the hurricane of parental judgment about to befall her.

“Well,” I said, “you have driven to Knoxville without telling me that you were going. It’s Saturday night, so the roads are full of people who have just had a few glasses of wine or beer with dinner. And…you have a minor in the car whose parents think he is at our house or at least in our town.”

“His parents won’t care.”

“Did he call them for permission?”

“No, but they won’t care.”

“I would care…don’t try that with me in the future.”

“We didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“It’s a very big deal,” I told her. “I’m not just responsible for your well-being, but for his as well.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take responsibility.” She said, thinking that at seventeen she could bear that weight.

“No, you don’t understand,” I told her. “I own the car that you are in. I pay the insurance. If anything happens, I am completely responsible.” I let that sink in for a few seconds. “Not that his parents would do it, but if anything happened to him, they could sue and take everything we have. I am absolutely responsible!”

She got quiet and then said, “Sorry.”

I was too upset to let them off the hook, so I said “it’s easy to be sorry after you do something,” and then added “and I’m very disappointed in your judgment.”

That last part probably stung me harder than them. When I heard myself saying it, I thought about the times I had seen disappointment on my parents face. There was nothing worse. I’d have rather been beaten.

I thought of them riding in our van; the joyous mood of youthful fun that left our house had been sucked out by the vacuum of my anger. I didn’t want them driving so upset. In my always churning “worst case scenario” mind, I didn’t want what might be our last conversation to be so harsh.

“Now listen,” I said, calmly. “The main thing is be careful…and know that I love you.”

There was a brief pause, and I can only imagine the look on her face, because Ashlyn responded with “Geez Dad, I hate it when you do that.”

“What?”

“You get all upset about something and get us all upset…and then you say you love us, like it’s all over or something.”

“Oh,” I told her, “it’s not over. We’ll talk about this again. But I do love you.”

“Fine,” she said, in frustration. “Love you too.”

“Be careful then,” I said, “and text me when you get where you‘re going…and again when you leave. Then let me know when you get to the movie.”

“Fine,” she said, although her voice made it clear that it wasn’t. The call ended.

Taylor had listened to my end of the conversation and wanted to know the details, both out of some sisterly concern and also a barely repressed glee that the older kids who had abandoned her at home were now in trouble. I tried to use my explanation as a teaching lesson, telling her that she would do well to learn from the mistakes her sisters make, and hopefully avoid the same problems.

A little later I got a text: We’re leaving.

I responded: Okay, be careful.

Twenty-five minutes later I was surprised when the front door opened and the three silently came inside. “We decided to skip the movie and stay home,” one of them said. They did not look happy, but they did not look mad. In fact, my girls looked different than I had seen them before. They looked like they knew they had screwed up.

It was not a common thing for them. It was not a common thing for me.

When Connie and I talked about it later, we discussed the fact that one of the reasons that I responded so strongly and they took it so seriously is that they have not done anything remotely like that before. They had not done the typical, stupid teenage stuff that most teens do. They had almost exclusively been thoughtful, careful, dependable kids. This behavior, while not malicious, had been a serious error in judgment, and reminded us that they were still going to make mistakes.

Another mistake they made that night was wanting to talk about it when they got home. Since Ashlyn had talked to me on the phone, Shelby led this discussion, and although I had planned to stay quiet until their friend had gone home, I decided that if she wanted to talk about it, then talk about it we would.

She did start with an apology, and it was completely sincere, but when the excuses began I had to cut her off. I explained again that this was not a problem of trust. She didn’t have to tell me that she is a good driver because I know that. Being a good driver doesn’t matter when you’re suddenly staring into the headlights of a drunk driver. Even years of experience can’t prepare you for that.

I tried to explain that no matter how ridiculous my rules and demands might seem, I have only one goal and that is to keep them safe. If I die with the epitaph of “over protective,” but my kids are alive to see me buried, then I will have died a happy man.

It’s not always fun to be a parent. We somehow assume that our kids won’t make the same kind of dumb mistakes and make the same poor choices that we made at that age. We think that our wise guidance will keep them on the straight and narrow path of perfection. When they wander off that path it’s a bitter reminder of how often I stumbled off myself.

So, I’ll try my best to teach them. I’ll pray for them and ask that they be protected from both their own mistakes and the mistakes of others (including mine). I’ll reprimand them when they do something wrong, and hope and pray that I will always have the opportunity to do that. They aren’t perfect, and neither is their father.

And even if they don’t like it, I’m going to tell them that I LOVE them after I get through yelling.

Hoops

(Part two of the backpack saga begun in "Lost")

Our drive to the airport was uneventful and just like the driver had promised; we came to a stop in front of the airport at 1pm…exactly 30 minutes. I paid him his fee and a generous tip, grabbed my bags (after carefully checking that I had everything) and hurried inside.

I had flown the 1:40pm direct flight from Reagan National Airport to Knoxville’s McGhee Tyson Airport many, many times. Rarely did it leave exactly on time, and almost never did they begin boarding thirty minutes early like they say they will. Still, despite my good fortune in finding my back pack, I did not feel I could push my luck. There was no time to waste.

I turned the corner to find that there was only one person in line at the First Class check in counter. Let me stop here to make a brief explanation: One of the few benefits of excessive travel is the accumulated appreciation of airlines and hotels for your return business. The more you fly, the higher your status rises within their particular program. For several years I had been a Gold member with USAir, but this year, for some reason, I was bumped up to Chairman…their highest level. This sounds much more extravagant than it is. My primary perk is getting to step up to the First Class check-in desk (which I was also able to do with Gold level) and bypass the longer lines. The First Class desk is more about status than seating. The small commuter jets that fly back and forth to Knoxville do not have “First Class” seats, so usually I end up sitting in the back near the smelly bathrooms. It’s extremely glamorous.

I used the available self-service kiosk to confirm my seat and print my ticket, but then had to wait for the agent at the counter to check my bag. The person in line in front of me was not happy. Apparently his flight had been delayed from its original departure point due to mechanical problems. Personally, I have never understood why people get so bent out of shape about Airlines having to fix an airplane before flying. I hope I am never in so big a hurry that I am willing to get on a plane that isn’t in near perfect working order.

This gentleman wanted an explanation for the delay and some kind of compensation for his time. The extremely patient lady behind the counter tried to calm him down while also explaining that since he had made his connection to his next flight, there was nothing the Airline could do. I wanted to tell him that his complaining might cause me to miss my flight and would he compensate me for that, but I remained silent. I had my backpack. I was happy.

The man finally walked away, sulking and growling under his breath. I put my suitcase on the scale and quickly showed my ticket and photo ID. “You’re a little overweight,” the lady said. The words stung like a slap. I couldn’t help but be offended, despite the fact that saying I was only a “little” overweight could have been considered a compliment. I started to say something when I saw the digital readout on the scale reading 56 lbs. The weight limit for checked bags was 50 lbs. each.

I took a step back and realized that I had placed my carry-on duffel bag too close to the scale and a corner of it was adding extra weight. I moved it aside and the weight dropped to forty seven. I smiled and apologized, hoping that the agent had not noticed the red on my face when I thought she was making a personal comment about my size.

Once my bag was checked (with the assurance of the agent that it would make it on the plane), I rushed down to the security checkpoint. If there is one thing that I have learned from my years of air travel, it’s that you never know when there will be a long line. I’ve been there at the same time on many different days and sometimes it’s insanely crowded and other times it’s a ghost town. I had two minutes until boarding time, so I was hoping for the ghost town.

There were no tumbleweeds or boarded up storefronts, but the lines were shorter than I had seen on many days, and best of all, each of the six security lanes were open. I jumped into a line with about five people in front of me and smiled at the thought that I just might make it. After each person stepped up to the TSA agent and presented their ticket and ID, they were moving quickly and efficiently up to the conveyer belt. There did not seem to be any “amateur travelers” in this group. Everyone was taking off their shoes before going through the metal detector. Those with laptops were removing them from their cases and putting them in a separate bin. It was like a training video on proper airport behavior.

An attractive, but stern looking redhead stood in front of me, wearing a dark, blue business suit and a look that said that she might be late for her flight as well. Just as she handed the agent her ticket and ID, another agent came past us and began sliding the doors closed to the two security lanes we had expected to use. The woman grabbed her ticket and rushed forward, but it was too late. The door was open only enough for the agent inside to put his face through and say, “These lanes are closed, please use one of the other open lanes.”

“Are you kidding me?” the woman said, although I think I was the only one listening at that point. The agent who was now checking my ticket and trying to decide if the face on my ID matched the one on my head did not seem to hear her or care. I’ve learned not to argue or question TSA agents, and I think they’ve learned not to care if anyone is late for a flight.

I stepped forward, ticket in hand, and tried to decide whether to choose the two lanes on the right or the two lanes on the left. I couldn’t tell that the lines on either side were any shorter, and so I chose the right. The redheaded lady made the same choice.

Because we had been in line together, I think she thought we were bonded in a common goal. “Do you think we made the right choice?” She asked.

“Probably not,” I responded, laughing. I didn’t really seem to care as much as her. I had my backpack. I was happy.

We moved forward slowly until I could peer around the corner and see the conveyer belt, x-ray machine and metal detector. Then the line was stopped cold. At the front of the line was an older gentleman in a wheelchair. Two TSA agents were beside him, trying to figure out how to get him through the security system. First, they tried to get him to stand up so he could walk through, but after a few wobbly moments, it was obvious that it was not going to work.

I had to wonder what was so important that it required this man to fly somewhere; when his portable oxygen tank, wheel chair and physical debilitation made it seemed more appropriate that he should be under a doctor’s care. I was, however, impressed by his determination.

The redheaded lady was not impressed. She whispered, “Why is this taking so long?” I did not answer. She could see the older man as well I could, so the answer as to why we were not moving should have been obvious. I was more concerned with who the man was travelling with, because it was not readily apparent, and from the look of things, he had no business being alone.

After coming to the realization that he would not be able to make it through the metal detector without his wheel chair and oxygen tank, TSA finally rolled him through the bypass gate on the side and took him on for further screening. The line began to move once again.

I got to the conveyer belt and swiftly placed my shoes, laptop and cell phone in bins and put my duffel and backpack through the x-ray machine. As I stepped through the metal detector the alarm began to beep and I did a quick pat down of pockets to make sure I had not forgotten anything. I found nothing and shrugged at the TSA agent who was looking at me with sullen suspicion. “Are you wearing a belt, sir?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, “but I wear this belt every time I come through here. I was wearing it last Friday when I came through this security line and it was fine.” As I finished talking, I knew I had simply wasted my breath and more time. You don’t argue or try to explain anything to TSA agents. They do not care.

“Take off the belt, sir.”

I stepped back through the metal detector and grabbed one of the small white bowls they have for change and small items. I pulled off my belt and wound it around my hand so that it would fit nicely in the bowl and sent it through the machine. When I returned to the metal detector, the TSA agent pointed me to the larger machine next to it. “Go through the body scanner, sir.”

I had been fortunate enough to avoid the newly installed body scanners for the last couple of months, but my belt had betrayed me, so I stepped into the large plastic tube and put my feet on the yellow painted feet outlined on the floor.

“Raise your hands over your head and don’t move until I tell you,” said the TSA agent controlling the scanner. My next thought was, “How loose are my pants?” I was pretty sure that the final straw for my day would be the humiliation of my beltless Khaki’s falling to my ankles in front of hundreds of people at the Reagan National Airport while my off in the distance my flight lifted peacefully into the skies on the way to Knoxville.

I took my fingers off my belt loops and slowly raised my hands over my head. I held my breath and hoped I wouldn’t feel a sudden cool draft of air on my legs.

“You’re clear,” the agent finally said, and I dropped my hands quickly to secure my pants and shuffled over to where my bags and personal items were waiting. I grabbed the belt first and cinched it tight around my waist, then carried everything over to a nearby bench to get out of the way. As I sat down to put on my shoes, I heard my name being called over the loudspeaker. “…please come to gate 35A immediately for final boarding of flight 2553 to Knoxville.”

I gathered my stuff and hurried through the crowds in the terminal, making one brief stop at the water fountain to take my motion sick pill, which I was grateful I didn’t forget. I ran down the moving steps of the escalator that led to gate 35A, finally reaching the gate agent, who looked up and smiled. “Mr. Warford?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry I’m late…it’s been a crazy day.”

“Don’t worry about it. We knew you were here. And we wouldn’t leave without you.” She took my ticket and scanned me into the system. She handed my ticket back. “You have a great day.” I had been sent another angel.

Gates 35A and B are not gates in a typical way. They are doors that lead out to shuttle busses which then take you to a waiting zone of midsize commuter airplanes. Some people are thrown by this when they leave the airport for the first time, but I was very used to it. I did my walk of shame (reserved for the person who has made everyone sit on the bus while the announcements are made to get the lost and late to check in) and climbed the stairs into the shuttle.

The shuttle was not full, but the only empty seats were in the back. Unfortunately, these were completely blocked by the people sitting in the front two rows who were (to put it kindly) “over extended” into the aisle. I’m a big guy, and I’m pretty aware that I’m a big guy. I know my limits and what space I can fit through (and how much space I take up). The people who were blocking the aisle-way of the bus did not seem to be aware of the space they inhabited, because they looked at me with the childlike expectation that I could somehow slip right through the half inch of daylight between the person on the right and the person on the left.

“I guess I’m standing,” I said, and waited for the driver to come on board and take us out to my carpet ride home. As he did, I happened to notice that I was at least a foot and a half in front of the infamous yellow line (the one that all riders are supposed to stay behind), but thankfully he didn’t say anything to me. He just sat down and started driving.

I was the first one on the plane, thanks to my position on the bus, and I would have hugged the flight attendant, but I was afraid it might get me arrested. I collapsed into seat 12D, just in front of the bathroom, and was asleep before we crossed the Potomac. I was happy. I had my backpack. More importantly, I was finally on my way home, where the four angels God has blessed me with awaited me…and there’s nothing better than that.

Lost

It had been a horrible week. Stressed and exhausted…I was worn down by lack of sleep and a brain addled by too much second guessing and a plummeting sense of self-worth. I’ve often heard the phrase “running on empty” and by Friday of that week I felt as hollow as a cave...and just as dark and dreary.

It was my sixth straight week on the road. Week after week in a different hotel, meeting with different people and feeling further and further from my family and the warm comfort of home. I’d been doing this kind of travelling for a long time, but I’d hit a low point. I did not like myself that week. I did not like the world I was living in.

Friday morning did not feel like going home as much as it felt like escaping. I quickly packed my suitcase and duffel bag and put my laptop in my backpack. I could not get out of there fast enough.

The Twinbook Metro stop on the Red Line of the Washington Metro system is just across the street from the Rockville, Maryland Hilton. I had walked out the back of that hotel many times in the last ten years and rolled my bags the hundred or so yards to the Metro entrance. From that Metro station it is normally a 45 minute train ride (with a change from the Red to Yellow line) to the Reagan National Airport. I could do it in my sleep.

When I reached the platform, I expected to check the monitor and see that a train would arrive in the next three to five minutes, but that was not the case. The monitor listed the next train arriving in 9 minutes. 9 minutes is an eternity on a train platform…at least when you are desperately ready to go home.

I found a piece of wall and leaned against it, dropping my backpack to the ground and pulling my suitcase and duffel close against me. It was 11:30am and my flight was scheduled to start boarding at 1:10pm. I should still be fine, I thought. As long as I’m there by 12:30.

I didn’t check my watch, but it seemed much longer than nine minutes when the train finally rolled to a stop in front of me. I recalled the previous week when I had missed a train because I politely stood back and let others board in front of me. The doors had closed and left me on that platform feeling charitable, but also slightly foolish. I did not have time for either on this day. I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and hurried through the open doors of the train.

Oddly, for being so far outside of the city, the train car was already nearly full. With my large bag hindering me, I was forced to stand in the space near the door. I thought of the long, swaying ride ahead of me and that little voice in my head that loves to make things worse whispered, “you know that you will probably get motion sick.”

At the next stop I moved back to make room for the half dozen or so new passengers who squeezed their way into the car. As the door closed I looked down at my suitcase and suddenly had the uneasy feeling that something wasn’t right. I took a quick inventory and immediately realized that I was missing my backpack.

My brain was tired, but it put the pieces together anyway. I had left my backpack leaning against the wall on the Twinbrook Metro station. I was in such a hurry to get on the train that I did not stoop to pick it up. I felt like I had been punched in the stomach.

I turned pale with panic and beads of sweat popped up on my brow. Inside my backpack was my personal laptop, with family photos, videos, slideshows and attempts at writing. I tried to remember when I had last done a back up and wondered what had been lost forever. It was gone, many internal voices were telling me, and it was my own stupid fault.

A few minutes later we pulled into the next station. I staggered off, probably looking like a wild-eyed lunatic to anyone nearby. I quickly devised a plan of returning to the Twinbrook station while simultaneously assuring myself that it was pointless. Too many people come and go in those stations, I told myself. The backpack was gone.

According to the monitor, the next train heading back the way I had come was due into the station in three minutes. I started pacing, pulling my heavy bag behind me and muttering words like “idiot” and “moron.”

There were not many people on the platform, which was fortunate, but I did notice one young man who was looking my way with some concern. I thought at first that he might call security but instead he approached me and asked, “Is there something wrong?”

I told him my tale of woe and regret and he calmly listened. I’m not sure how much sense I was making because my breaths and words were choppy, my lungs felt like they had been reduced to the size of golf balls. Being rather cynical about human nature in general, I was surprised at his look of sincere concern. I was even more surprised by what he said next.

“It will be okay. I’m going to pray that it all works out.”

I meet a lot of people when I travel. Most do not inspire confidence. It’s not that they are bad people, but it’s exceptionally rare to meet someone who offers genuine compassion. Most of us put up walls in public. We wear masks to hide ourselves from others. We don’t want to get involved in someone else’s problems.

The train arrived and the young man followed me onboard. He started asking me about my life; where I was from and what I did for a living. He asked about my family and we learned that we had both grown up near Louisville, Ky. As I answered his questions, I felt my breathing returning to something that resembled normal. The pounding in my chest began to ease and the screaming in my brain calmed down.

He apologized when we reached the next stop, saying that he had to exit but wished he could stay and find out what happened to my bag. We shook hands and I thanked him, telling him that I appreciated his efforts to calm me down and regain my senses. He turned back just before he stepped out the door and said loudly, “I’ll keep praying…it will be alright!”

I sat down and thought about what he said. It would be alright. The laptop was almost certainly gone, but it was just a thing. It was frustrating and I knew that I would spend many hours wondering what exactly I had lost since the last backup, but it would be alright. People go through much worse.

We arrived at the Twinbrook station and I stepped out into the cool crisp air. I took a deep breath and made my way down the platform toward the wall where I had been leaning. I checked the time and confirmed that I had been gone for nineteen minutes. I whispered a little prayer, “God, please let it be there.”

I turned the corner and there was nothing but empty wall and empty floor. The bag was gone. I was disappointed, but not surprised.

I glanced around to see if it had been moved or if by chance someone was carrying it, but it was simply not there. I debated my options. It was past noon now, and my time to get to my flight was getting tight. If a train came soon, I could still make it. However, if there was any chance of finding my laptop bag, I felt I should risk it. There was always another flight back to Knoxville.

I decided that it was worth the time to check with the Station Manager, just in case there was a Good Samaritan on the platform that day. I have to admit, my confidence level was low. I have a tendency to live in worse case scenarios, so I was fairly certain that my effort was pointless.

Inside his glass booth, the manager was on the phone, so I waited. It didn’t sound like a business conversation, but I didn’t interrupt. It’s not that I was overly patient at the time, but I didn’t mind prolonging the bad news.

When he hung up the phone, I knocked on the glass and he opened the door with a frown. “Can I help you?”

I stammered a bit and finally spit out, “Did anyone turn in a black backpack?”

He looked at me suspiciously and said, “What’s in it?”

I exploded with a list of contents like a kid giving his Christmas list to Santa, “A blue Acer 17 inch laptop, a cell phone charger, a USAToday newspaper, four black thumb drives, a set of keys on a blue metal key-ring, a bottle of motion sick pills…”

He held up his hand to stop me. “I guess this is yours then.” He reached under his desk and pulled out my backpack. I nearly cried.

I thanked him about five times and said that I wished I knew who turned it in so I could thank them too. He said it was a Metro staff person, so I asked him to please offer my sincere appreciation to that worker. I walked away feeling twenty pounds lighter, despite the weight of my twelve pound bag once again hanging on my shoulder.

It was too late to catch the train. If I had a chance to make my flight, I had to get a taxi. I grabbed my bags and ran back across the street to the hotel. I made my way to the lobby and out the front where cabs were always waiting. Except that day.

I was almost resolved to miss my flight when I saw one of the black sedans from the Limousine service pull up to the front. As soon as the driver finished helping their passenger with their bags and received his payment, I grabbed him. “Can you take me to the airport RIGHT NOW?”

He looked at me slightly confused, but I am very used to getting that expression from people. I explained further, “My plane starts boarding in forty minutes, can you get me there?”

He nodded and said, “Thirty minutes…unless we have traffic.”

I threw my suitcase and duffel bag in the trunk and hugged my backpack close against me as I settled into the backseat of his comfortable Lincoln sedan. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Whether I made the flight or not, I could relax for a while.

My mind raced through the events of the morning but stopped on the young man I had met on the platform. I wished that I had gotten his e-mail so I could thank him again and let him know that his prayers had been answered. I also wished I could introduce him to my oldest daughter.

It struck me that despite my own best efforts to ruin my day; I had been sent some guardian angels. The young man calmed me down when I was ready to lay down on the tracks…and the station workers did the right thing, reminding me that the better part of human nature actually is honest. These people not only helped me that day with a lost backpack, they helped soften an increasingly cynical heart, which truly is a miracle. I had much to be grateful for.



***In case you’re wondering…yes, I did make my flight, but not without a few more hoops to jump through. By that point, I was taking it all in stride. Things that would have frustrated me before just gave me a chuckle. All it takes sometimes is a slight adjustment in your perspective.

Intruders

About a week before Halloween, the year after our encounter with the bat, I was awakened from a deep and peaceful sleep by a loud noise from within our home. Sitting straight up in the bed, I looked at the clock and saw that it was just past one a.m. Connie had heard it too and grabbed my arm. “What was that,” she said, in a frightened whisper.

“Shhhh...” I hissed, and listened carefully to the silence we were now drowning in. It was one of those ridiculous moments when you want to hear the noise again, to confirm that it really happened, but also didn’t want to hear it, because that would prove that something was making the noise.

I swung my legs off the bed and set my feet quietly on the floor. The noise replayed in my head over and over and I tried to make my best guess as to where it had come from. When my mind cleared from its sleepy fog, I reasoned that the sound must have originated downstairs. It was not the sound of breaking glass, but could have been something knocked over as an intruder stumbled around in the dark.

I slowly made my way out of the bedroom and into the hallway; my hands reaching out along the way for something to use as a weapon but finding only a hairbrush and some jewelry on top of the dresser. I tried to remember where my baseball bat was and then recalled that it was in the storeroom downstairs, along with anything else I might conceivably use to protect myself and my family.

I cautiously opened the door to the basement a few inches and listened. At first I couldn’t hear anything, but then I could make out a strange break in the silence. It didn’t register as a recognizable sound, but more like a soft change in the tone of nothingness.

I slipped my hand through the doorway and flipped on the switch for the light on the steps. I half expected to hear footsteps and the hurried rush of our intruder to escape, but there was nothing. I knew that this could be either very good or very bad news.

At this point I had the option of calling 911 or investigating for myself. With no weapon and having little or no skills at martial arts or hand to hand combat, the logical thing would have been to close and lock the basement door and call the professionals. I, however, in an extremely rare moment of perceived masculinity, decided to live free and die hard. My name is Bruce W. after all.

I moved carefully down the first few stairs, cringing with each alarmingly loud creak of the wood beneath my feet. There were six stairs down to a landing and three more stairs after turning a blind corner before reaching the basement. If someone was waiting on those lower steps, I would have little time to rush back up the stairs to lock the door.

I listened again and the odd, broken noise was louder. If I could describe it, I would say it sounded like someone with asthma taking a long, wheezy breath. I froze. The sound was almost identical to the breathing noise that Jason Voorhees made behind his mask in the Friday the 13th movies. My mind tortured me with the words that followed his intense respiration on film…”kill, kill, kill.”

Then my nostrils flared at a sudden, pungent smell that I didn’t expect. It was a hot smell, not like wood burning or fire, but like burning hair. It was strong and getting even stronger.

I slid down the wall and peeked around the corner, not sure what I might encounter, but very relieved to see the sliding glass doors that led outside were closed and locked, glass still intact. The breathing sound continued to grow louder and the stench was beginning to smell like burning rubber. My heart beat furiously in my chest and my own breathing was becoming somewhat panicked.

I moved onto the landing and stepped down, but stopped short of the last step. The light switch for the basement family room was just around the corner and I twisted my arm around blindly to find it. I half expected someone or something to grab my hand in the dark, which would have surely caused me to drop dead of a heart failure or at the very least awaken everyone within a five block radius with my high-pitched siren scream.

I found the switch and with a deep breath flipped it upward, bathing the area in the warm glow of soft white bulbs. The noise and smell did not alter or stop; and whatever was causing it apparently had no fear of me or any weapon I might be bringing with me down the stairs. I considered yelling out some manly threat like, “I’ve got a gun,” or “the police are on the way,” but I was pretty sure that the fear in my voice would come out sounding like Barney Fife or a six year old girl, so I stayed stoically silent.

Gathering all my nerves, I peered around the corner to see what horror awaited me. My eyes scanned the room for shadowy figures or grotesque monsters and finally settled upon two furry lumps lying calmly on the green felt of our pool table.

The grey tabby looked at me like I had just woken her from a peaceful slumber. The black cat was more alert, but taunted me with a “what are you doing here?” look on his face. If not for the loud, hissing breathing sound still emanating from somewhere in the room and the stench burning my eyes and nose, it could not have been more peaceful.

Let me stop here and explain a little bit about the cats. It’s no secret that I am not a pet person. This is not to say that I don’t like animals. That is not true. I enjoy visiting zoos and love a good horse movie. I think aquariums full of fish are really swell and I was a big fan of the Lassie shows as a kid. I like animals just fine. I just don’t particularly want to have a pet.

I’m can’t remember how we got those two particular cats, but I know that I had nothing to do with it. Like most of our horrible experiences with pets I’m sure it started off with someone’s best intentions. You know the kind. They always say things like, “Every child needs a pet, blah, blah, blah,” and “those allergies are all in your head.”

As usual, I went along for the ride (mostly in the backseat, and sometimes in the trunk).

Anyway, the cats were not guests in our house for a very long period, and their untimely demises (which I assure you were not of my doing) are now the stuff of neighborhood legend, but in their brief stay we seemed to have had a mutual agreement to stay out of each other’s way. Most of the time, it worked out just fine.

I stepped down and walked over the table, relatively sure at this point that no one was lurking in a corner to get me, but still completely perplexed over the continuing noise and the overpowering smell. The cats watched me with their wide, glassy eyes and I asked them, “Okay, what did you do?”

And then I saw it.

Behind the pool table, lying on the floor, was our ironing board…and beside it, hissing loudly and burning its way through our carpet and the foam pad beneath, was our iron.

I grabbed the hot iron and pulled it from the sticky, melted mess of the carpet and pad. Thank goodness for the cheap material of the low cost floor covering because a good shag rug would have probably burst into flame rather than melt into black goo. We were very lucky.

One thing I know is that Connie is very vigilant about turning off the iron when she uses it. Most of the time she unplugs it, but she always turns it off. Anyone who’s seen my wrinkled shirts knows that I rarely iron, so that left me with one explanation. Obviously one of the cats had jumped on the ironing board and toppled it over. When the iron hit the floor the switch had somehow turned on.

After unplugging and safely putting away the ruined iron, I gave the cats one last disappointed look (which they totally ignored) and made my way back to bed. Connie looked relieved when I walked back into the room and asked what had happened. It was too late and I was too tired to go into detail, so I just said “stupid cats…” before collapsing into bed and pulling the blanket over my head. She knew me well enough to let it wait until morning for the rest of the story.

Going Batty

It was a dark and stormy night…

Actually, no…it was dark, but the sky was clear and the air was crisp and cool. It was a beautiful October evening; the night before Halloween 1996. I swear upon the grave of Daniel Webster that the story I am about to share is true.

It was a little after 9pm. We had just tucked our Shelby and Ashlyn into bed and Connie and I had settled onto the couch to watch a little television. I can’t remember what we had planned to view because within minutes of sitting down, the phone started ringing. I stepped into the kitchen to answer the phone and barely started the conversation when I heard Connie scream.

Our kitchen at the time had a door on one end that opened into the hallway that led out of our living room to our bedrooms. The other end was open to a small dining nook and back into our living room. Essentially, you could make a circle through our kitchen into our living room and back.

As I looked up in reaction to the frightened yell of my usually calm and rational wife, I heard the strange flap of wings and came face to fangy face with a large bat. It swooped past my head and flew through our kitchen, making a wide turn through our living room and back past my face again.

This was not one of those little bats that you see flying out of chimneys and caves at twilight. I’ve seen those before. I don’t like them, but I’m not completely freaked out by them. This was what I call a “movie” bat. The wingspan was over a foot wide and its head looked to be the size of a tennis ball. It looked like the thing that Gilligan turned into in that weird vampire episode I watched growing up.

I know what you are thinking. I am obviously exaggerating the size of what was simply a regular bat. Or maybe it was even a bird that I mistook for a bat. In the hysteria of the moment, I could have only thought it was a bat. That is logical, and if I were alone when it happened, I would tend to agree. However, as I said, my very logical and clear headed wife can confirm my story. It was a bat. It was big. And it was in our house.

I hung up the phone (after politely saying I would have to call them back) and told Connie to run back and close the kid’s bedroom door. Crawling quickly through the flight zone, she did just that, and locked herself in with the girls.
I dodged the next pass of the bat and ran to the front door, unsure of what to do except hold the door open and hope that it would fly out on its own. From behind the glass of the storm door I watched as it circled, again and again, and wondered how long I could wait. Looking once again at the wingspan and the pointy ears on its massive head, I decided I could wait a good, long while. It was a beautiful night and I decided that the fresh air would do me good.

After twenty minutes of watching and carrying on an anxious conversation with Connie through the window of the bedroom where she was trapped, I saw the monster bat finally fly through the opening and disappear into the night sky. I hurried inside, closing and locking the door.

We checked all the windows and access points (upstairs, downstairs, attic, and basement) and could find no obvious point of entry for the creature. We never found a sign of its existence. No scratch marks on the walls, no little bat droppings. We had no idea how long it had been in the house before it made its presence known. It could have been hiding under our bed or in one of our closets for days or even weeks. It was more than a little un-nerving.

The mystery has never been solved.