Suffering With Both Feet on the Ground

Aunt Annie Morgan, my ancestor of about five generations back, crossed the plains in a covered wagon, starting in Virginia and ending in Oregon before the Civil War. She brought with her, from that gentle life, a pump organ, bare root roses and a bridegroom.

I had a day this week that she would have survived as I have. I am now able to sit up and take a little clear broth. Air travel has become an experience of dogged endurance and very little else.

I arrived at LAX with a certain panache because I had a driver. With my guaranteed rust-proof knee, I am no longer able to get myself and my bags on the shuttle bus, so I engaged a gentleman to take me to the airport. That was the high point of the day. And when a freeway ride from Pasadena is the best thing that happens to you that day, count that day lost.

We boarded the airplane at the appointed time, 9:15 a.m., and sorted ourselves out and sat down. After the first half-hour, a certain trepidation filled the airplane. Then a young woman stood at the head of the tourist section with a microphone in her hand. Her voice was as beautiful as the sound of water flowing over polished stones at a mountain shrine. Sadly, it would have made more sense if we had been polished stones. Several of the bravest passengers mumbled, “We can’t understand her.”

Then the voice of command came over the sound system. “We noticed coming from Denver that one of the compasses wasn’t quite right. We have sent for another one and it will be just a few minutes until they bring it and install it and we’ll be on our way.”

After another 45 minutes, the young woman with the uvular voice tried again and was again told that we, the now mutinous cargo, could not understand her. She fetched another young woman whose voice was understandable when she told us that we needed new radar. No mention was made of the compass the pilot had talked about. We either had two problems or one of the two speakers was part of that 10% who never gets the word.

Another half-hour and the cabin attendant we understood said, “All of the passengers who are going on to Washington, D.C., depart the aircraft at this time.”

Radar, compass, or nose wheel, that aircraft was not going anywhere that day. Even the dullards among us, of whom I was the leader, recognized that cold reality.

Then she asked for passengers whose final destinations were various, to leave the aircraft in sequence. Then she told those of us remaining on the airplane to leave and we did, dragging our chains and muttering. During those three hours, we were not offered coffee, tea or milk or water or a crust.

The 70 or so of us remaining clotted around the desk at the end of the jetway until a large woman who needed only a spear and a helmet with horns to step into a Wagner opera, bellowed: “All of you stand over there.”

One of us, a small man with the strength of 10, asked: “Against the wall?”

We all laughed sickly and walked over to the wall. The woman giving the orders said, after consulting the signs and portents, “Follow me.”

By that time, I decided I must tell my friend, Jean Erck, who planned to meet me in Houston, of my plight. I spotted a bank of telephones and made a break for it. Brunnhilde bellowed, “I said, ‘Follow me.’ ”

I neither turned nor stopped, but marched ahead bravely, quaking inside. I reached Jean and told her I was wandering around the terminal at LAX and would keep her informed.

When I caught up with our loosely organized group of 60 or 70, we kept marching firmly ahead, clear to the other side of the airline terminal.

Then our keeper told us to form a line in front of a ticket counter. We did, even though there was a “Closed” sign at that counter position. The keeper barricaded herself behind it and announced that she would take no questions.

A uniformed man then told us that there might be a few standby positions on the noon flight departing from that gate. This engendered very little trust or loyalty because it was then 12:30. He then tossed in an aside, saying that we were all confirmed on a flight departing at 3. Some of us walked over to sit down and our keeper yelled, “I said, ‘Stay in line.’ ”

Again, I walked away toward the telephones to tell Jean that I would be in on the flight departing at 3. After a few steps, a male voice called “Dan Thompson.” I scuttled over and panted, “I’m Dan Thompson.”

I boarded that airplane about 1 o’clock and after sitting another half-hour, we departed.

After that kind of a day, Aunt Annie would have helped feed and water the oxen, tether the horses and prepare dinner for her husband over an open fire, meanwhile watching for marauders. Ah, the blood runs thin, doesn’t it? Don’t bet on it, honey.