Contributing Writer
After being perfectly pampered for two whole weeks, on our last vacation, we were plopped back into reality, preparing to board our plane home. Remember the days when you just got on a plane and you didn’t have to remove your shoes, your jackets, your belts, your rings and watches to go through security check points?
The biggest hassle in the “olden days” of flight was that you might get stuck in the smoking section next to a human chimney and you would emerge having inhaled half their second-hand smoke—only everyone didn’t talk about that then.
Are planes getting smaller, or are my legs getting longer? I amused myself so I wouldn’t have to think about just how small these seats were and hoped that the person who sat down next to me would only need their seat, not half of mine.
Two rows up there was an older gent who looked like my Grandpa Ehrhardt with a white fringe of hair and a farmer’s tan.
“What is he doing on this plane with 14 aisles and hamster-sized seats?” I wondered. A sunburned lady, across the aisle, announced she was from Garden City.
“Who’d a thought? Several Kansans in a row, escaping the cold weather.”
As the engines revved and we left the tarmac, the plane felt more like a bucking bronco than a mode of transportation. I had a seat on an airline rodeo. “When did they have their last inspection?” I wondered. “Is the pilot young? The plane old?” We lurched, complaining into the air and landed, not quickly enough, in Atlanta—praying that the plane would hold together.
On the smoother leg from Atlanta to Wichita, I watched a boy with music plugged straight into his ears and wondered if he’d have any normal hearing left when he got to be my age. He was writing on his laptop computer — real words (not short cuts) with whole sentences and paragraphs — refreshing. Maybe he is writing a column for a newspaper, talking about what it’s like to write something coherent while an older woman across the aisle scribbles on her pad of paper. Done with that.
He switches to playing Solitaire. I wished I had some cards right about then, but given the lack of elbow room, I’m sure my seat mate (on the left) was glad I was just writing (right handed) and only occasionally bumping the person on my right, who is my sister, and used to my close proximity.
Such was our decent from heavenly, carefree days, where our only responsibility was clapping at wonderful entertainment and tipping the tour guides.
As we drove the familiar roads toward home, I marveled at where we’d been and how fast the time had gone by. I remembered the work of getting ready to go, with reservations and planning, schedules and instructions for taking care of things in our absence — you know that feeling when you say to yourself, “This is more work than just staying home. Was I smart to do this?”
All too soon, there we were on our way back to reality in Ramona. What was it going to be like to pick up the pieces, resume the routine, pay the Visa bill?
That said, we all know that taking a vacation is good for us. It changes our perspective, jogs us out of our routine, gives us a new lease on life. It gives you a topic for endless conversations like, “Where would you like to go next?” Triple T wanted to go to Australia — he didn’t know why or even what he wanted to see — he was just curious about the place. I always say — especially in winter — “Let’s go some place warm, like Hawaii!”
Vacations, by definition, are doing something different — which I suppose you could do in your own back yard, if you’re really creative. They are best accomplished, however, when you opt for a new environment.
I remember the days when our vacation plans used to bring us here to Ramona, just to spend another day in the country.