For the past ten days I have been back in Illinois. I talked with my cousin (only one of two relatives remaining in the small town I grew up in) about what is meant by the phrase “home town”. I have lived in my present town six years longer than I did the town I revisited. Which one is my “home” town?
“Home is where the heart is”, “a house is not a home”, etc. etc. To this day I still do not refer to myself as a Texan. I guess it’s because there is so much about what goes on in this state that I disagree with or is alien to me. I’ll never be a cowgirl in any shape or form. That’s just not me. I’m one generation removed from Illinois farm girl. It’s just not the same.
Once I got to the DFW airport things started going haywire. This is where I was so glad I’m a patient person. My carry on bag was put through the scanner. There was a discussion between two of the agents. I was told it would be searched. I didn’t mind. They put it through the scanner again the second time. I asked if I was allowed to ask if there was a problem. The man said that it seemed to be just the way things were arranged inside. The woman didn’t say anything. She just looked at me. I was leery about asking for any further detail. I was given the small bag once again.
The flight I took from Peoria was a regional jet…three seats wide. It didn’t hold a great many passengers, but almost every seat was filled. It is a snug flight. Next time I’m going to remember to book a seat in row A, the single seat. There’s a little more room.
When we approached DFW we were told that the controllers were sending the plane into a holding pattern because of a front that was passing through the area. Traffic was stacked up because there was no landing during the storm. That was about a twenty minute delay. Once we landed, we had another fifteen minute delay because they could not roll the ramp out to the plane while there was still lightning. We finally deplaned and I walked quickly to the bathroom. The aisle on the plane is really pretty narrow. I took my time knowing that it would take a little while for the luggage to be unloaded.
I and two others were the only ones on the entire flight who checked luggage. When I arrived in the claim area, another woman was asking how much longer it would be for her suitcase to arrive. Within five minutes it was there and she was on her way. I waited. And waited. And waited. After another fifteen minutes I talked with the baggage claims rep who began tracking down my suitcase. She made three different calls. I waited some more. It finally arrived. It was about as soaked as it could be. Evidently it must have been unloaded and left on the tarmac. How can anyone miss a bright red suitcase? I was planning to open it once I got home to see if anything inside was wet. I fell asleep instead and have yet to check. I am really afraid to find out because it had several new outfits in it I bought on sale.
I will tell in detail my ordeal in getting home after that if I don’t get any satisfaction from the shuttle company I had paid for a round trip. I will give them time to respond to my request for a refund for making me wait two hours before the shuttle actually arrived to take me home. I will name names. For a company who advertises shuttle service every half hour, they sure do need a new clock.
I finally made it to the park and ride, got in my car and drove to my house after stopping at Taco Bell. My dog was in the carport to greet me. Both the neighbors taking care of her and Maxine have tried to figure out how she gets out of the back yard, but no one can find anything. The two places I blocked with cinder blocks remain in the same conditon. No one can find any evidence of new digging. Maxine thinks she has achieved the ability to jump the fence. She doesn’t go anywhere other than to my front porch except for the evening she walked across the street and squeezed through the neighbor’s wrought iron fence. That is where the young boy who has been feeding her stays with his grandparents after school. I guess she was lonely.
It was nice being in a house with other people for ten days. I guess once one lives alone long enough, one forgets what it is like to have the noise of other people in the house. Both my cousin and her husband talk whether anyone is listening or not. They keep busy just talking to themselves much of the time. I had to frequently ask if they were talking to me. I think I could get used to that…and to my cousin’s humming all day. There was something “homey” about it.
Namaste. Attic Annie