MILLICAN: Almost a ‘flightmare’

Published 12:15 pm Monday, April 15, 2024

“For the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me.” — Job

Well, it almost did. Families throughout the ages have noticed that character traits, for better or worse, can be passed down through bloodlines. Examples might be a spirit of anger or even aggressiveness passed from father to son through generations, while on the other side of the ledger, common sense or a deep faith might hold sway.

How far back can it be traced? In some cases, heaven only knows. In other instances, such as with yours truly, a spirit of worry can be followed back to the Depression when my father’s father was killed while looking for work. My grandmother worried herself into a catatonic state, and my dad as the oldest took on fatherly responsibilities — and the resulting anxiety in a time of deep need — at age 10.

So it’s easy for me to say I come by my nascent spirit of worry honestly.

Sure, it can be dealt with prayerfully and by trusting. However, at times it rises up like a headless horseman driven by a Euroclydon wind from the Book of Acts. But here’s the thing — I love to fly in airplanes of all sizes; it’s just dreading the airports that makes me worry and lose sleep. And for good reason. If you’ve ever missed a transnational flight in Atlanta because you misread your ticket and were in Concourse A when your flight was departing from Concourse E, you know what I mean.

“We’re sorry, sir, the pilot has already pulled up the door” is the last thing you want to hear when you’re out of breath and thought you’d made it just in time.

A few weeks ago, I took Teresa to the Chattanooga airport for a 6 a.m. flight on a Sunday morning to Washington, D.C. There was confusion at check-in, then the attendant said, “Uh, ma’am, you’re a day early.” I grabbed her bag off the scales and said rather sharply as we walked away, “I thought I asked you to check your ticket!” “I’m sorry,” my wife replied. Then we got home and looked again and there at the top it was indeed printed Sunday, March 24. So the airline messed up.

We got up at 4 a.m. the next morning to run the drill again, and got Teresa airborne. Two days later, I was to fly up to meet her and stay with our family outside Washington. It would only be a 2-1/2 day visit for me, but when you only get to see certain grandsons a couple of times a year, you squeeze in what you can.

The night before my flight I worried and had trouble falling asleep. Yet if everything went smoothly with my morning work, I’d be headed toward the Chattanooga airport by 11 a.m. So I got finished and cleaned up, warmed up some leftovers and hit the road. Arriving at the departing gate, passengers sat in almost every seat because an 11 a.m. flight didn’t board until 3 p.m., just before my flight.

At my layover in Charlotte, planes were backed up trying to get to the gate. On top of that, they’d taken our carry-on luggage and stowed it in the belly of the aircraft — and my flight to D.C. was leaving in less than an hour two concourses away. Finally in the lobby, I yelled at an attendant “Which way to C-10?” and he just pointed. So I took off running, dragging a carry-on behind me.

Did I mention I was wearing my sateen-green combat boots? I’m not agoraphobic (fearful of crowds), but when I’m in a strange public place with a lot of people, sturdy footwear is a must — in fact, you’ll never catch me in sandals or flip-flops even at the beach. Give me something I can lace up and trust to stay on my feet if I have to run.

Although boots may be a good training shoe for Parris Island, they’re not in Charlotte International with a mile to cover on two hours sleep. Did I mention five out of six moving sidewalks weren’t moving? Nope, no one was worried about fixing them, and yep, it appeared the thing I feared most — missing my connector and having to rent a car to drive six hours to Washington — was coming to pass.

Almost. I actually ran several gates past my plane — dang those airline tickets again! — then backtracked to arrive just as my boarding number was being called. Big whew.

The next day was rainy and I got to spend it with Teresa and our 2.5-year-old grandson, Augie. So all the anxiety was worth it. On Good Friday we drove into Maryland and visited Calvert Cliffs State Park with its reputation as a shark tooth-finding beach — a 4-mile round trip hike — on the Chesapeake Bay. Older brother Rocco was keen on that. However, as a wise grandfather who has taken older grandsons to see monster shark movies “The Meg” and “Meg 2: The Trench,” I know these prehistoric, seagoing killers’ favorite food is unsuspecting and appropriately-horrified tourists wearing flip-flops while sipping drinks with little umbrellas too close to the shore.

So when Rocco’s dad Paul found a bona fide small shark’s tooth, I’m glad it didn’t belong to a megalodon that may have led me to recap the fearsome movies for a 5-year-old boy. Whew again.

Too quickly I was back in Reagan International at the departure gate on the day before Resurrection Sunday. But wait, why were more people not showing up for my flight? With 30 minutes to go before boarding, I scanned the big video screen and in small type it said my flight would now be leaving from another gate — in another concourse. I verified it with the clerk, and off I went, but just fast walking this time. Just after nightfall, I was back home.

Getting Teresa home was another story. On Friday afternoon I took several newspapers to some seniors in Collegedale, Tennessee — yes, the home of the world-famous Little Debbie — that I had written about. After chatting about half an hour, I left with more than five hours to kill before her 10 p.m. flight arrived. I texted my youngest brother, Brian, who works in Chattanooga, and asked if he wanted to have supper. He was en route back from Kentucky on business and said sure, recommending I choose from one of the nearby Mexican restaurants.

I killed some time in a big-box store and then tried to find the restaurant. Except the GPS on my phone kept me going around in circles. Frustrated, I called Brian and he told me the name of the popular next-door sub place — not the one you’re thinking — and when I punched that in it took me straight there.

Later, since my phone was dying, I had to buy a charging cord and adapter, but the first store I went to was bereft of almost every phone accessory. Really. I backtracked to East Brainerd, found what I needed, and charged my phone enough to sit in the airport and wait for an hour. It didn’t matter that she was arriving early, according to the flight tracker my stepdaughter Rebecca had texted to me. We waited a half-hour for Teresa’s luggage, getting home past 11 p.m. (My normal bedtime is 9.)

Of her two nonstop flights within a fortnight — which I couldn’t pull off because of my tight schedule — my lovely wife remarked, “I love flying, it’s so much faster and efficient!”

That’s easy for her to say.

Mark Millican is a former staff writer for the Dalton Daily Citizen.