Wonder years

Lordy, lordy

Sally's 40!

Methinks she's sad

But we're glad

Still a cutie

What a beauty

Happy birthday! 

Burma Shave 

This intriguing story was shared with the early-morning commuting universe on signs planted at regular intervals in the grass along Northside Drive, from Woodward Way to Collier Road. I was a confidently youthful and certainly immortal 28-year-old, on my way to the ATL airport for a three day trip. By the time I reached 75 South, I was practically crying for poor Sally, turning what had to be a horribly dismal forty. Happy birthday, with my deepest condolences.

About five minutes after that day, I turned 30, the occasion marked with a lovely but slightly awkward surprise celebration, courtesy of a thoughtful and sneaky pal who had swiped my address book and invited every single person in it. I walked into a Peachtree Cafe filled with a dazzling panorama lifted off all the pages, from close friends to a handyman who had once installed a new back door for me. But I didn't bat an eyelash at the number of candles on the cake.

After that, life was apace with flying and getting married. Eventually, on two occasions, I was at Piedmont Hospital gazing over at a bassinet with dim expectations about successfully raising the tiny occupant. Walking out the hospital door launched a busy life, sweet years, all lightning fast. While the children's birthdays were always hugely anticipated very, very big deals, the ever increasing numbers attached to mine passed without any notice at all. 

During the time I was busy with all that, somewhere in the background the pages flew off the calendar. One day I dropped my toddlers off at preschool to learn and play, and just a minute later, I did exactly the same--only it was college. And now I have all the time in the world for retroactive birthday contemplation. 

So I have found my own little understanding about how life works: we all take turns. This phenomenon is all around, and one doesn't have to look very far to see it. Everyone, everywhere is somewhere traveling along through the chapters of life. While looking at others ahead has always been pretty mystical, looking at those traveling behind sometimes make me wistful. 

When I was a brand-new flight attendant, the girls flying Honolulu--the famous Hawaii 5-0--were from a distant universe far, far away and scared me to death. Immortal 28-year-old me driving to work observed a miniature mourning period for poor anonymous Sally turning 40. And, of course, I once believed the time spent raising children would last forever. Clearly, I spent a lot of years being wrong. 

My world is filled with adults in all sorts of nebulous ages--along with babies, toddlers, children, teens and their parents, parents like me, parents not like me, and hordes of miscellaneous others thrown in just for fun. Every day offers a new kaleidoscope of people living in the middle of life's great chapters. The funny thing is, I can find myself in the moment with every single one, each serving up something special. 

And while I get that I'm not 28, 30, or 40 and ignoring candles on cakes, I still haven't found the gloom that is supposed to meet me here somewhere along this way. During the busy children-filled years in life, there wasn't a tiny second to look around for the doom. And now, where there is an abundance of time available for saying hi to the grim, I just haven't seen it yet. 

I hope the birthday candles will continue to remain fairly insignificant, that all the singles, newlyweds, moms, dads, babies, children, teenagers, and the vastly assorted-aged adults who dot my landscape will continue to let me enjoy their chapters in progress. And I hope that the lovely phenomenon of taking turns continues to enrich this life, mystically and--ah, yes--wistfully. 

**Extra super rare birthday pic from the olden days**

Life on Mars

It really doesn't seem so far back to a wonderful season when we had a house at the beach, an excellent location for the summer and preschool breaks. The setting was everything one could ever desire in some of the best years of life, and it came complete with the most fascinating neighbor. While I stayed overwhelmed by sippy cups, naps, and dragging a wagon carrying three-year-old Annabelle and five-year-old William to the beach, the woman next door glided through what appeared--to me, at that moment--an alternative lifestyle. 

Single and attractive Cathy owned the home next door and, in Delta parlance, we would say she worked 5 on/2 off as a busy publishing executive. She entertained, she traveled, and she had an ATL boyfriend who dropped down on the weekend. While I was perpetually bedraggled on the daily little-child hamster wheel, a stylish and well-heeled Cathy breezed in and out. I never worked out her age because she was older than I and, at the time, all those numbers were nebulous to me anyhow. She had a career and a social life, and she always looked terrific. It was like a Martian lived beside us. 

Just like the beach house, the naps, the wagon, and, sadly, the sippy cups went away. Time flew by, and the little three-year-old and the five-year-old achieved enough birthdays to make them semi-adults, now living it up away in college. And, just the other day, I had a miniature Damascus Road moment, realizing I can perhaps have a go at the Cathy lifestyle. It was a very startling thought. 

In order to try for gliding in my life, I had to go back 22+ years to consider what exactly I did with my pre-children self. Committed to the Delta jets three days a week meant I went a lot of places--with old friends and new--served up on a silver platter known as the jumpseat. Every work day delivered all sorts of people in vast and far-flung locales with effortless social interaction included in the deal, all down to show up and sign in. 

And in the world of children there was little opportunity to ever be lonely or bored. All along the way, we were in countless beneficial situations meeting new friends—both little and grown--through school, church, and sports. William and Annabelle provided a ticket into worlds filled with fantastic people, and these experiences continue to pay dividends to this very day. Again, it all unfolded by simply walking out the door. 

So now I have to sort out how to drag these two best parts of the past up here into the future. Somewhere along the way, social media was crowned king and can easily fool me with the illusion of interacting with others brought by this way of signing in. I don't have to get dressed up (at all), and I can quasi-socialize to my heart's content from my sofa. 

The crazy thing about this modern life is if I can't be bothered to get up and go places, the world available 24/7 online has no problem coming to me. A reasonable facsimile of just about anything one can imagine easily appears on command. Recipes are served up, shopping is a breeze, help and advice (about anything) are just a google and, if I don't feel like getting up and out for church, it can appear right in my lap. 

However, it recently dawned on me that real live fellowship and shared experiences with others have always been the finest part of life. And, once upon a time, it was second nature to go about making them happen because it was just how things worked. Seeing friends' daily life photos online from occasions both big and small now makes no one seem terribly far away. But, then again, they're not here on my sofa sharing life and time, either. 

Dropping by to visit friends in their homes for no special reason was once a particularly sweet and regular part of life, and I always looked forward to the ritual debrief phone call when friends returned from trips. Receiving notes, cards and invitations in the US Mail were ever-pleasant surprises. All of these occurred back in that dark age when communicating with each another meant one had to do some work. It was a different world. 

In 2018, It's exciting to see what's possible out there--the 5 on/2 off work I once believed to be other-worldly is quite interesting and, surprisingly, there are still countless opportunities presented every day that are new and exciting. While the omnipresence of everyone and everything courtesy of the virtual world is certainly beneficial, the finest arrangement of my life today should bring with it the best parts of the old school, too. 

With great curiosity, I always watched our neighbor Cathy coming and going in what appeared to me a full and enviable life. And courtesy of the children William and Annabelle, great people came my way in engaging settings. The significant lesson from all of these past moments is the walking out the door part. The richness in life that has been around forever is attainable, starting with showing up somewhere else amongst others. And it all begins with effort. 

Home again

On the 2003 birthday party circuit, it was a quality stop in an expansive driveway just down the street. Our neighbor Peter was turning six, and one big inflatable slide (featuring water) was the perfect centerpiece for a crowd of appreciative little party guests in swimsuits. In the midst of bright sun and squealing, I met Patty, the birthday boy's aunt, who had come down from Chattanooga for the festivities. We had a spectacularly mundane conversation that primarily centered around—what else—our children, and we might have touched a tiny bit on Chattanooga.

Many more happy birthday parties and a whole lot of life's peaks and valleys followed that warm August morning on Dawn View Lane, and late one afternoon in April, 2009 we left that street. The family growing-up home home was in the rearview mirror, and there were a million unknowns ahead. Surprisingly enough, we eventually landed in Chattanooga, and in a vague yet endless sort of way, I wondered if we would ever get to have our own pretty home again. 

So I found a new pastime in the contemplation of tasteful and inspired homes of all varieties--old and new--cottage, condo, contemporary, colonial—I was made to think about all of them. And somewhere along the way, there was a Damascus Road real estate experience when I finally worked out one simple truth: 

For every home around—large or small, beautiful or kinda not—someone, somewhere of some generation worked and/or works hard to make it all happen. 

And this latter-day revelation came about because I thought a whole lot after we landed in a somewhat dowdy little rental with popcorn ceilings and brown formerly-plush carpet that had been trampled by the footprints of hoards of humanity. 

But while our place was somewhat aesthetically challenged, it was perfect for this season because it had an amenity like no other—the finest next door neighbors who made the whole deal worthwhile. In over seven years, we shared Signal Mountain life while they routinely got me out of thousands of jams. The big benefits showcased here were home contemplation and location, location, location. It was all worthwhile. 

~~~~~

Way back on Dawn View Lane, the little version of Annabelle spent countless hours playing cheerleader with her two best friends on the street, so it was exceptionally providential when life did come full circle and she actually became one for her high school senior year. Making it all even better, her efforts would be for McCallie where her grandfather had also cheered many years ago—which was an extra super bonus for those of us who are sentimental. 

One evening almost 13 years after the ATL birthday extravaganza, I found myself sitting in the McCallie basketball stands with the very same Patty from that party, once again chatting about our children, only this time the much bigger editions of them. 

And Patty asked me the strangest question: 

“Do you ever think about buying a home?” 

Oh, I don't know, only all the time, but I don't think it can happen. 

Patty, a loan officer at a mortgage company, said call me if you ever want to talk about it—which I did not do for a pretty long time because the whole deal seemed highly unlikely. I figured I could buy something out there, but didn't believe I could buy a house that was even close to being what I wanted and located where I wanted to live. 

But one day I did call Patty, and she presented me with a strategy that could maybe, possibly, perhaps, somehow work for acquiring a place of our own. It quickly became apparent that being super clever and deliberate would be critical in finding what seemed impossible, so I enlisted the help of a terrific real estate agent on the front lines in our desired neighborhood, then waited and hoped something good might happen.

And it actually did. On the 8^th anniversary of the day my mother died, I got a call to see a little cottage that was coming on the market. With a generous representation of the amenities I had long ago decided were supreme, and on a pretty street with lovely next door neighbors, it was weirdly right. The thoughtful seller had done extensive renovations with an eye for quality finishes and respect for a storied older home, unknowingly providing elements from a myriad of houses we have loved before--on Dawn View, our friends' homes I had always admired, and many places beyond. With the help of a host of great people and remarkable good fortune, somehow it all worked out. 

So here we are, marking the first anniversary of having our own home again. No one around appreciates the privilege and responsibility of home ownership more than I do. Walking through here every day, I take in all the little details and wonderments that make it special, always considering how everything fell into place. Mainly, I just marvel that this is ours. While not big and not grand, it's kinda perfect. 

I am thankful for having spent seven years and four months in deep home contemplation. I am thankful for all the fortuitous circumstances making it possible, and I am thankful for a God who provides well beyond what I deserve—birthday parties, friends, cheerleading, good neighbors and lovely places to live.

All along the way

There is a highlight reel in my head covering the University of Tennessee days, and therein lives a little old lady named Evelyn who I saw most every day in three years of Morrill Hall living. I remember Evelyn well—she was a vision of grandmother at the cafeteria entrance, ladylike to a T with a white tailored cafeteria jacket over her dress and a soft, unassuming voice. Her hair was a hybrid of strawberry-gray-white, styled with waves that undoubtedly came from a weekly shampoo and set.

Evelyn was on door duty every weekday, counting all the students who came into the Morrill Cafeteria. With a kind greeting, she marked each diner's arrival with a squeeze of a silver clicker in her hand. No matter what the weather or what was going on out in the world, Evelyn was a soft-smiling sentinel at the door. Occasionally, I dropped by during slower off-hours and caught a fleeting glimpse of her sitting down, just before going vertical for the official click.

In my three year tenure, I never saw Evelyn beyond Morrill's second floor, not on the stairs, not coming through any door. It was like she only existed during dining hours in that place. Like many other students, I enjoyed seeing Evelyn because she was a constant from the outside world dropped into the midst of the ever-lively college life. She never, ever deviated off script from what was in that role—most often, simply, "Hi". I always asked Evelyn how she was because I can still hear her saying her perpetual reply: “Just fine”.

I didn't know enough to acknowledge my final college dining experience before graduation, and I realize at some point Evelyn clicked me off one last time. It took many years for me to give it any consideration at all--not until William's time at UT when he mentioned that Morrill cafeteria is no more and, making way for progress, the whole building was eventually razed.

With benefits brought by the passing of time, I now wonder all sorts of things about Evelyn—where did she live, did she have a family, what did she do in life before becoming a college cafeteria clicker, and what brought her to work in a college cafeteria anyway? (I decided she had to be a Baptist from north Knoxville--that just suits her in my mind). 

While I was a fairly decent--albeit typical, self-involved--college student who had really good examples in parents who preferred talking with other people about their lives instead of about themselves, I still missed that boat with Evelyn--someone I saw multiple times, five days a week over three years but about whom I know nothing. And she is joined by a cast of thousands whose paths have crossed mine in the real adult world since then.  

~~~~~

Thoughts about Evelyn came back around when I visited Furman during Annabelle's time there. There was a legion of university staffers dotting the campus landscape early on a warm Sunday morning, bringing direction, enlightenment, and order to the cavalcade of families descending on the university. Everyone I encountered was helpful and friendly, and I marveled at the large number of them deployed for the magnificent fall ritual. With every arriving parent's mind fixated on the joy that is moving in and the excitement of the new college year, the Furman folks fell right into place as simply background scenery.

Later on, I asked Annabelle if she thought folks who work at Furman enjoy being there, and she answered she did not know because she never had that type of chat with anyone. I suggested that this year she could make opportunities to talk with people she sees every day and find out more about them and their lives. And this was the perfect segue for me to tell the Fable of Evelyn, her clicker, and my wish to know if she really was a Baptist from north Knoxville just like I wanted her to be. 

I'm sure Evelyn has been gone a very long time—but she's not  forgotten. I imagine a woman of Evelyn's reticent sensibilities would never expect that, way down the road in the future, someone would be writing about her while pondering the considerable value of learning more about people you meet along the way.

The Secret of Life

Spring was a nice time to be a mom in the Buckhead Baseball world, and during what I now know were brief and passing years, it was a big deal for a boy to land an All Star spot. While William loved the whole team thing better than anybody and was glad to hold down his place in the outfield during the regular season, he didn't see the lofty All Star heights. It didn't matter, though; we knew almost everyone else from his league who rose to that realm, and the annual announcement always ensured intriguing parent chitchat for a couple of good weeks. 

Amongst this honored group was an amiable and busy boy called Will. We were fortunate to live on a trail that merged with that of Will and his family for the Atlanta growing up years, starting with preschool and meandering all through church and sports until the day we moved. A boy who never had the time or inclination to entertain a bad day, Will carried himself with easy confidence and a "What, me worry?" demeanor. No one appreciated having fun more than he did, and I always said Will never started mischief but he didn't mind joining in. 

And Will also happened to be a sturdy all around baseball player, bringing with him a daddy who enjoyed dabbling in coaching, a cute little brother and a perpetually stylish and vivacious mom who was a huge part of bleacher good fellowship. They were the perfect family amongst many who became friends in the stands, all courtesy of baseball. 

Will was always ready to play and eager to do his part for team success, but he also balanced it out by being a showcase of leaving it on the field. When we went into the kid-pitch leagues, he was a study in wonder. His strong arm served him well on the mound, and while other boys got flustered with bases loaded, Will could keep on pitching without a worry in the world.

One All Star season fielded an exceptionally strong team who played through the month of June with success. The team was stacked with talent, comprised of strong and intensely competitive players who took winning very seriously. In the regular season, dugout tears were scattered here and there amongst the teams, but during All-Star time they could reach critical mass. 

As June wound down, there was a big game destined to be the crown jewel of post season play and, in the end, the Buckhead team came up short. The boys were inconsolable in loss, heading to the dugout wiping away tears and pulling caps low over their faces. As he packed his equipment and got ready to move on to something else, Will surveyed the gloom and doom surrounding him in the sobbing dugout and brightly said, "Why is everybody crying? Let's go to the snack bar!" 

~~~~~

Will and the All Star boys are now 19 years old, scattered in colleges all over the place, and I still love this little story. I always remember it with a laugh and great affection for Will, his family, and for having this enduring takeaway from one moment in little league days. So many things then were big deals that really were not, and somehow I had the wrong idea about that sweet time in life being endless. 

But lately it dawned on me that this story is a nice metaphor to keep in mind when things don't go exactly the way I wish in life. Disappointments come and go with the seasons, and the temptation to wallow is always beckoning. But I look around and see the same great people who have always been there, new friends who are welcome, and lots of interesting new places joining all the old. The truth is I can be thankful for having way much more than I deserve, and so I really should be at the snack bar, right about now and always. 

The grown up version

The boys from Homa-homa

Highway 27 heading into Dayton, Tennessee is a fast-moving ride, but last Friday afternoon my eyes were drawn to a corner of the road where a big white tent was cast over the tailgate of an old pick-up truck. And in the shade it provided a few people were gathered, inspecting furry bundles in a cage. I quickly worked out in my head this enterprise was the most basic puppy adoption, and I tried to unsee this random and worrisome sight as I moved onwards to my final destination.

~~~~~

William rolled in early that evening after closing out his 2015 summer camp job. Instead of going to ATL for a last hurrah with the Laney boys, he had decided to come on home. We passed each other like the Incline Railway at the door, he coming in and I heading out, and all was well. 15 minutes later, William called to tell me that Smokey, our 12-year-old corgi, had a seizure in the front yard. This came from out of the blue, and it did not occur to me right away that ordinary Friday was the last day of life with our little dog.

And from there, Smokey’s life wound down with another seizure that carried our beloved boy away, leaving no doubt about the outcome. And even after having had prior experience saying goodbye to another fine corgi, two orange cats and a hamster--William and Annabelle’s growing up pets—it was terrible finally leaving the last one behind.

~~~~~

Smokey and Georgie were Cardigan Welsh Corgis who had each flown on Delta jets right into our family from an Oklahoma breeder. (The children always thought the dogs came from a mysterious place called Homa-homa, and I never told them differently). Georgie arrived in 1999 to save three-year-old William from his big fear of dogs (it worked), and Smokey was a gift of companionship for Georgie. It was love at first sight for Smokey; even though we claimed he belonged to us, in the decade they were together he was always resolutely Georgie’s boy. Along the way, the corgis got divided along party lines with Georgie being Annabelle’s official dog, and Smokey was William’s.

Across the years, Smokey had a knack for tricking the Grim Reaper. When he was very little, he ate a rock and had surgery to remove it. Within days of returning home, he marched right back out into the yard and found another rock. The second surgery was bigger, and the vet thought Smokey was going to die. At her recommendation for a last-ditch effort to save him, we brought a lifeless corgi home and placed him on the sofa. With strict instructions to encourage and not let on that we thought he was going to d-i-e, it was all baby talk and rainbows for the sick little guy. And it all worked out fine because that was 11 years ago. 

Smokey and Georgie once collaborated on a daring jailbreak, digging out under the backyard fence, together crossing the busy thoroughfares of Howell Mill and Northside Drive to reach the ever-exciting West Paces Ferry Road several miles away. A morning commuter found them in the street inspecting a squirrel and kindly delivered them to the closest vet office, which also happened to be ours. An Invisible Fence soon usurped any dreams they had about traveling again. 

Smokey and Georgie grew up right along with William and Annabelle, pretty much seeing them through preschool, elementary, middle and high school. Our dogs did the same wonderful things everyone else’s pets do, allowing us to love them and returning the favor. They were smart, good natured and entertaining little creatures, each with his own fascinating and predictable idiosyncrasies. It was also particularly exciting when we had a strong winter because corgis are really cute plowing through the snow.

In 2013, we sadly said goodbye to the great Georgie when he became paralyzed, and Smokey was never really as happy living his life without him.

In June, Smokey took up his old hobby, once again eating something and receiving the Last Rites. At 12 ½ years of age, the vet at first thought the obstruction this time was cancer and recommended Smokey should not awaken from surgery if things looked dire on the inside. William, Annabelle and I were a big mess as we said our pre-op tearful farewells to our little dog lying in a crate with IV in his leg.

Alas, this time it was only a suction cup blocking his intestines, and Smokey lived yet again. Annabelle went with me to pick up Smokey following surgery and, ever the pragmatist, on the way home remarked, “Well, you know what this means. We’ll just have to do this day all over again.” And she was exactly right.

I vowed to make Smokey’s life as splendid as possible for a senior dog whose big joy in life came from sitting at the window or on the front porch, waiting to bark at our next door neighbor coming home from work, a passing runner, or the jackpot of a dog being walked. I thought about getting Smokey a suit of clothes, but William sent me a text, “NO!!!” Smokey despised going for walks, but since all the finer dogs around do that, I borrowed a leash and he refused to move, except right back in the front door to his chair. Benevolence was all around as Annabelle even gave Smokey a bath one day. And I was back to all baby talk and rainbows with him once again. In our gift of additional time, we really did try to upgrade his life, mostly much to his chagrin.

All of it went by so quickly, the children and the dogs growing up together. I am forever thankful we had our two corgis there all along the way with William and Annabelle. I am glad for the richness, the fun and good company they brought to all our lives. I will always miss our boys--most especially the two of them together--their big ears and short legs, and maybe even the early morning barking.

I hope the people up in Dayton who found puppies beside the road last Friday afternoon will have the wonderful lives with their new family members that we did with Smokey and Georgie, the boys from Homa-homa.

Snoozing in The Promised Land

He was a good boy

Old home week

It was sunny and perfect on the first Saturday of May when my hiking path at Lula Lake crossed that of two elderly ladies enjoying their first visit there since way back in 1957. As I was looking at the picturesque waterfall from above, they stopped to cheerfully suggest the new rock trail descending to its base offered a much better view. Looking refined in Miss Jane Hathaway bird-watching chic with hiking sticks, the ladies reported the trail was a piece of cake for them, worth the effort for what one could see at the bottom. I confidently headed in that direction, and ten minutes past thanking them, I fell hard on those rocks and ended up with a shattered iphone and hematoma destined to last forever as souvenirs. But through broken glass I could see a missed call from a 17-years-long-lost flying friend. It was a good news-bad news-good news kind of beautiful day.

~~~~~

In another lifetime, I was a flight attendant on Delta jets to Dublin most every week, traveling with a varying arrangement of mainly the same bunch of crew members. We dropped into Shannon coming and going, every time with the same great feeling about landing in Ireland and also anticipation about which SNN Delta family member would open the jet door. Everyone pretty much knew the basics of everyone else’s life and, for the most part, it all worked out really well. The world was a bigger place without social media and, no matter where you went, going to work always meant getting scoop.

Before 9/11, stargazing and cockpit chit chat worked well in the wee hours on the way over with passengers sleeping, and the pilots were always interesting. There was the Irish-American captain who gave Delta guests their every penny’s worth with a rambling travelogue/monologue every single step of the way. Another provided passenger education with miniature lectures about the flight tracks used by jets flying to and from Europe (“Picture, if you will, a vast system of parallel highways high up in the sky, stretching all the way across the North Atlantic Ocean . . .”). And another boarded the jet wearing a silk scarf and leather aviator hat, always inquiring, “Are you ready for the crossing?”

The crossing eventually led to the 6^th floor of the big and bustling Burlington Hotel, home away from home for many days in the winter, and a tiny 24 hours in summer. Arrival protocol included an affectionate greeting from the hotel manager who just loved Delta flight attendants (and was always available), a greeting from one of the two charming and splendidly uniformed hotel doormen, Tommy and Charlie (a fascinating pair, said to know every good secret in all of Dublin), and upstairs the last order before sleep was a word with hard-working housekeeper Kay, she of nebulous age, forever turning those Delta rooms between crews. (Early on, senior flight attendants advised that Kay always appreciated a little Port tribute to her labor).

For the layover, Dublin was really great—history everywhere, walks with amazing scenery, and ever-congenial people. Dinner activities kicked off around 5:30, meet downstairs and hope the captain was buying. Weather could be paradise or interesting (depending on the hour), so sideways-raining days meant for good fellowship with Delta residents back in the warm and dry Burlington. While trips could serve up weather, mechanicals, delays and unusual people, flying annoyances were always easier with friends in a terrific place. And this was just how everyday living worked.

But in all the days and nights spent on the jets and in the Burlington, I never considered these good times cleverly disguised as work would someday end.

~~~~~

So it was exceptionally nice to sit on Lula Lake rocks, miles and years removed from the old lifestyle, with an invitation to the retirement festivities of one of the finest Dublin-flying pilots ever. It was like a little meteorite from the olden days had landed amongst those rocks on the trail with the beautiful view of the falls.

Time and distance make me forget what it was like to fly, to be in a uniform, to sit on the jumpseat swapping stories during the night, to be part of a crew. I forget about being tired and looking out the window of a bus, taking in the sights and sounds of a Dublin morning. I forget what it’s like to walk around a city 3,937 miles away. Mostly, I forget the flying version of me.

I went to ATL in May to see a great captain retire. I loved the water cannon salute that welcomed his arriving Dublin 777 back for the final time, the speeches, the stories, and the toasts. Flight attendants and pilots reappeared in my eyes after a long time gone. It was nice seeing them, and also good to see the flying me again. Driving back, my mind was full of people, places, sights, sounds and smells from what was just yesterday. I thought about all the SNN folks, the hotel manager, the affable doormen, receptionists, Kay the housekeeper, friends in the shops, assorted pilots and a million other flight attendants. I wondered where they are and what their lives are like now.

So there is a pattern in these return journeys to special places. I have written about going back to our beloved former home, about walking on beautiful streets where I used to be every day, about being back in spots where the kids were little, and now I write about flying. When I was living the life in all these places--sometimes exciting, sometimes mundane and often somewhere in-between--I did not appreciate the significance of being there, and how moments in time pass so quickly. Every now and then it takes a meteorite falling from the sky, inviting me to come back and see how fortunate I have been. 

And there's no cure like travel

To help you unravel 

The worries of living today.

When the poor brain is cracking

There's nothing like packing 

A suitcase and sailing away.

Take a run 'round Vienna,

Granada, Ravenna, Sienna

And then a-'round Rome

Have a high time, a low time, 

And in no time

You'll be singing "Home, Sweet Home!"

                                                   from "Anything Goes"