One man stood out in the gate area. In a sea of jeans and polos, his tailored black suit demanded a second glance. A large gold watch, light brown, two-buckle leather shoes, and coordinated pocket square completed his outfit.
Best of all, he was wearing sunglasses. He was wearing sunglasses at night waiting at the gate for a delayed flight departure.
I know there are good reasons to wear sunglasses indoors. Some eyes are very sensitive to any light. Celebrities don’t want recognition. When you wear sunglasses, people can’t tell if you are looking at them or not. Sunglasses can make you look cool.
So what’s this guy’s story? Was he accompanying another traveler, a bodyguard of some type? He could have been a preacher. Though I never dressed up to travel, some do. Was he on his way to or home from an upscale event? Did he work for the airline in an important role? Returning home from a funeral?
A well-dressed person flying early in the morning blends right in with lots of others on their way to meetings. Tonight, though, he’s one of those things that doesn’t belong. The guy next to me was wearing red and black checked pajama pants. Lots of women in yoga pants and crop tops. Plenty of people with sleeping doughnuts around their necks. Kids with backpacks almost as large as them. And this one gentleman in a black suit.
The detail that puzzles me is the backpack. I’ve got nothing against backpacks. I travel with one. But I would have expected him to be carrying some kind of leather briefcase.
When the flight finally boarded, I made my way down the aisle past his seat. He wasn’t flying first class or even in the larger seat section. Just a middle seat. I overheard him talking to the person next to him, and he mentioned real estate, residuals, and Melbourne, Florida. Just another person on their way to work.
Many people want to be noticed and remembered. A black suit is one way to make that happen.
I flew back from my son’s house in Dallas on a discount airline into Orlando. I’ve got this figured out. My only luggage is a backpack that meets the 18 x 14 x inch size for a free carry-on bag to fit under the seat. My cheap flights stay cheap.
While waiting for my zone to board the plane, I watched with amusement as the gate agent pulled several passengers aside whose bags clearly didn’t meet the free personal item criteria. Not even close.
If challenged, a passenger must fit their bag or backpack into a metal bin with specific dimensions. Many were not even close. I believe some were twice the size of a “personal” item.
One woman who failed the challenge pulled items out of her bag and laid them on a chair. Then, zipping up her bag, she successfully got it into the bin. With patience and perseverance, the agent instructed her, “Now put all that stuff in your bag and do that again.” Nice try!
I watched the distressed faces. We’re finally boarding the plane. But they were caught red-handed. They would now have to pay through the nose for their carry-on bags. They were surrounded by signs telling them to measure their bag and pay for their bags. Size bins are everywhere. They assumed none of that applied to them.
Here’s what I find interesting. All of this is intentional. I believe the airline sets me up to spend more money. (It’s always about the money, isn’t it?) They sell me a very low fare – $38 one way – to go and visit my son. Once I pay for my ticket, the game is on. Want to check a bag? Pick your own seat? Want more leg room? Want wifi on the flight? How about snacks? Priority boarding? Each will cost you a little more money. I didn’t add them all up, but if I chose them all, I might pay more than I would for a ticket on a regular airline.
I decline them all, but then the emails come. Have I changed my mind? I can still purchase these options. But each is just a little more expensive.
When it’s time to check in, I have to wade through all the options yet one more time. Just in case I have a little extra money laying around.
I’ll bet a lot of passengers ignore most of the emails, texts, and options. Then they arrive at the airport, and they’re going to pay.
It’s a clever game. I’ve lost a few rounds. But now I know how to play. I’ve won a few hands in the game of travel.
My time with my son and family wasn’t all work. Their mom and dad took advantage of my presence to run a few errands, usually in the afternoon during nap/quiet time. Not everyone slept nor were they quiet, but no one forgot what come next.
Snack time.
I love being there for snack time. I love to serve them up and consume them myself. I watched carefully when my brother and his wife brought out the snacks. Lay out a snack charcuterie and let them nibble on what they’re most into at that moment.
It’s a good strategy. Fruit, cut up veggies, pretzels, cheese are popular. So much so the three of them consumed all of it. Every crumb.
I wasn’t done yet though. When I was rifling through the pantry, I happened upon the remaining stash of Easter candy. Jackpot. Everyone also had a couple little candy with the condition they didn’t need to mention it to their parents.
These grandchildren eat their sweets slowly and thoughtfully. Small, carefully planned bites. Fingers licked clean. Wrappers inspected for crumbs.
No matter how happy or sad, busy or bored, running or relaxing, the phrase guaranteed to get everyone’s attention is, “Do you want a snack?”
I was sitting on the back patio in late afternoon and I found myself wondering how tall the scrub pine trees were in the two vacant lots on each side of our yard. As they swayed in the breeze, I suddenly recalled the giant maple trees I used to climb when I was a kid.
These two trees were five feet in diameter at the base. They were meant for climbing. The trunk divided into two just a few feet off the ground. Either route was filled with foothold that quickly got me up above the roof of our two- story house. But that was only the halfway point. I was able to keep going until the trunk was less that six inches across. On a windy day I really had to hold on, swaying back and forth, fifty-plus feet up, looking out over the neighborhood through the leaves.
This episode doesn’t include any falls or injuries. Sorry. I didn’t tell my mom what I was up to, other than, “Climbing the tree.” She probably knew. Moms just do. Maybe I was the reason she smoked and drank. My dad never said I couldn’t, so I climbed.
I remember the feeling of accomplishment. I felt strong, fearless, and daring. I would wrap some tape around the branch I reached so I could break my record the next time I climbed.
The trees in my yard aren’t climbable. Fifty-feet tall with no branches to step on or hold onto. Besides, I would never let my kids or grandkids climb like that. I’d be the one yelling, “Get off of there!” But they’re smart. They’d wait until I wasn’t watching.
I’ve been spending a few days at my son’s house to help with a few house projects: repairing some bathroom tile, replacing baseboards, and some painting. My six-year-old grandson has been there every step of the way to keep me company and help out a little. He’s good at measuring and getting me tools. And he loves going to Home Depot.
Our first shopping trip was for for the bathroom: tile, thin set, grout, trowel, and some backer board. He got to push the cart with everything else in it so I could load up the heavy board. The guy at the cash register let him scan all the items. He loaded everything in the van and brought everything in when we got home.
Today, we went back to get baseboard. I had to cut up some of the 16-foot boards so I could get them home. He was right there to hold the ends for me.
He really wanted to paint with me, but everything I had to do was up on the ladder today. I’ll save him a few spots to roll at his height tomorrow.
My wife sent him a tool belt and a few tools. He was outfitted and ready to go this morning. I asked, “Hey, you have a screwdriver there?”
“Which kind?” He held out a regular and Phillips.
“Can you measure along that wall for me?” He used his tape measure for that and a lot of other measurements throughout the day.
The airport (Orlando) was packed with travelers yesterday. I left extra early, never sure what traffic will be like. I got there two hours early, didn’t check a bag, and sailed through security. Plenty of time for a cup of coffee and maybe a snack.
Starbucks line
Never mind. Eighty people were lined up at the Starbucks. I’ll just sit and read a little. I walked down to Gate 7, found a seat, and felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. Gate change. Gate 84.
<Sigh.> I walked back to the tram, got back to terminal A, and discovered I needed to go to B terminal. So I had to leave the secure area and go through security a second time. Give me a break.
The security going into terminal B was jam packed. Estimated wait time: one hour. I could still make the flight. I took a deep breath, picked a line, and prepared myself to wait.
And wait I did. The lines barely moved for the next 45 minutes. TSA must have been understaffed. Only three agents were checking IDs for about 500 people in line. Beyond them only one scanner was being used.
The lady ahead of me had a flight leaving about the same time as mine. She said, “There’s no way we’re going to make it.”
I said, “I think we’ve got time. Let’s be glass half-full. We could be those folks” and I nodded towards the lines that stretched a hundred feet back.
Well, we didn’t have time. I finally got through and onto the tram with five minutes to go. I don’t know how she made out, but I made it before the door closed. I put my belt back on after I sat down, grateful to be on board.
Actually, the plane waited another half-hour for passengers because of the gate change and very slow security.
Maybe that’s what hell is like. You just keep going through security over and over and over again.
As the pilot announced, “We’re starting our initial descent,” the mother in the row ahead of me explodes at her daughter, “I’m gonna bust your butt when we get off this plane!”
Giggling, her little girl kept poking her mom’s ear, pinching her cheek, and grabbing her hair. “You’re gonna get an ass busting. Right in the bathroom. I’m serious. You’re getting a spanking.”
It was like no one was on the plane except this seven year old by the window and her middle seat momma. I’ll bet they’ve had this conversation before. At home, in a car, or while shopping. I’ll bet few butts had ever been beaten. These were empty threats. The kid knew it. She was running the show here.
I know it’s harder to travel with kids. You’re not going to be reading a book or snoozing. They’re going to need extra attention. And you better be prepared with snacks, games, movies, more snacks, and drinks.
Traveling with children is special. They’re excited. They’re in awe of huge planes, real pilots, views out the window, the roar of engines, and going someplace new. They remind us that it’s an adventure!
Keep your sense of adventure. Be in awe. And bring lots of snacks!
When I arrived at the gym on Saturday, I got there just as a man about my age was fumbling for his key fob to get in. I said, “I got it,” and swiped mine for the both of us.
He then signed in on the same clipboard as I do, a Silver and Fit membership that I get free through my insurance. I said, “Oh, so you’re the other old guy.” He didn’t answer.
I get right to work at the gym. My workouts always start with squats, so I find a rack and start doing warmup reps with an empty bar and then increasing weights until I get to my working weight. It only takes me a few minutes and I’m ready to begin my five sets of five reps.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him slowly and deliberately get ready to work out. He sat on a bench and unpacked his duffle, laying out his gear. He took off his sandals, put on socks, and pulled his knee braces up. After he put on his shoes he hung two weight belts over a bar on another squat rack. He certainly was well-equipped.
By this time, I’d finished my squats and moved on to overhead press.
In between sets I watched him set up his phone on tripod and aim it carefully at the squat rack where he would be working. He sat for a few moments, writing in a notebook. He found a few plates and loaded up the bar. Finally, he started doing a few warmup repetitions.
Having finished my presses, I moved on to deadlift, which for me is only a few sets. I was done by the time he began his workout.
I know it’s good to be prepared, safe, and methodical. Take your time, and make sure your form is correct. Everyone has their own style. I just don’t have that much time to be in the gym. I get in and out as quickly as possible.
Some people say they don’t have time to work out. Guess why?
Clockwise from the top: Charlie, Eddie, Fred, James, Jerry, Dick, George, Bob, Mort, Gene, Richard, me, Harvey, Jack, Dale, Gerry, Terry, Kent, Bob.
I scrolled past this picture in my photos today. The moment brought back sweet memories of this faithful group of men who met every Thursday morning for bible study. This picture was taken about twenty years ago (early 2000’s). Since then, thirteen of these nineteen men have gone on ahead of me to heaven. I was privileged to officiate their funerals.
Some of these guys started the Thursday morning meeting several years before I arrived. Most of them were there every single week, rain or shine. We studied just about every book of the bible, prayed for just about everyone, broke in a few pastoral interns (vicars), and ate more than a few mediocre breakfasts at Perkins, a restaurant that would be torn down to make room for the Chick-fil-A.
This group includes two men who helped start the church, a rear admiral, a naval commander, the project manager who oversaw the construction of our new church, numerous elders and church officers, musicians, and one of the youth leaders.
We were blessed to have this room to ourselves each Thursday. That being said, we endured some challenges. The AC either blew arctic cold or barely at all. Water dripped from all the vents. Who knows what we breathed in through the ductwork. The whole building had to be torn down just a few years later.
New managers blew through the restaurant on a regular basis. The only constant was our waitress, Jenny. The rumor was that those on their way out were assigned to this restaurant. Six months later, and they disappeared. One manager was arrested and taken away in handcuffs.
The food? Acceptable. Usually lukewarm. Edible. Always good pie, though. For breakfast? Why not? George would order a piece of pecan pie with a cup of coffee. Life is short; have dessert.
All these years later, I remember so much about these men.
Charlie was a banker who endured the savings and loan crisis of the 1980s and served well as treasurer for many years. My favorite quote of his is: “Figures lie and liars figure.”
Eddie’s wife was my first funeral when I arrived at this church in 1996. He cut the church lawn for many, many years.
Fred had a beautiful tenor voice in the choir and for solos.
James was a navy chief, a neighbor, and close friend of Mort (coming up soon).
Jerry was a church elder for many years.
Dick served as elder and musician.
George was church president, elder, and tireless community volunteer. He ordered the slice of pie for breakfast.
Bob spent half of his year on Stagg Island, Canada, and half in Palm Coast.
Mort was a retired rear admiral. He flew just about every kind of plane off a carrier and had endless stories from World War two and his later job at the Pentagon.
Gene was the comedic relief. He post-humously paid for me to fly to the Bahamas to perform his son’s wedding.
Richard was a founding member of the church and part of the committee who called to come and be pastor.
I’m the guy with the white shirt and tie.
To my left is Harvey, a founding member of the church, a faithful elder, a great golfer, and the other comedic relief of the group.
Jack wasn’t even a member of our church. He was friends with some of the guys and was a faithful attender on Thursdays.
Dale was the construction manager, with plenty experience from building Epcot at Disney World. He was the no-nonsense guy.
Jerry was an elder for many years and a great friend. He always took me out for my birthday.
Terry was a youth group leader for a number of years. An ex-prison guard and ex-biker, we all felt a little safer with him around.
Kent was a World War two vet who looked out for the “old” guy, Bob, sitting next to him. Bob was a naval commander and one of those who welcomed me to the church when I first arrived. He didn’t make it to 100, but Kent will this spring.
I remember all these guys like it was yesterday. Their names and lives are imprinted in my mind. There’s a moral there. Most of the time, all you have to do is show up. You’ll make a difference. Your presence will encourage others in their walk with the Lord. You won’t be forgotten.
