“Oh, oh! We can’t have this!” said the flight attendant as she stomped down the aisle toward me. Passengers continued to board, but I heard her footsteps above the others. Clippity-thud, clippity-thud, thud, thud. I had just turned on the air adjustment above me and leaned my head back to enjoy my nice, airy aisle seat. Ahh.
The flight attendant leaned over the (not-yet-occupied) seat in front of me.
“I need you to move to 6B,” she said. “Go sit with your husband.”
“He’s my brother,” I said.
It was a beautiful day at the writers’ conference in Edmonds, WA. The Frances Anderson center sits behind the trees.
The “incident” (think theme music from Jaws) occurred last weekend at the Write on the Sound writers’ conference in Edmonds, Washington. Having lived in the Pacific Northwest for many years before moving to Arizona, I missed the Northwest experience of writers’ conferences. So I flew to Seattle to attend the city’s annual conference on the craft of writing.
When I arrived at the conference, I checked-in and then headed straight for the Plaza Room where I planned to meet my friend Janet. I hadn’t seen Janet in five years. Prior to me leaving Washington in 2011, Janet and I had attended the annual writers’ conference together. As an aside, Janet and I became friends at the Fear of Flying Clinic in 2006 where we learned we shared common interests other than our fear of flying. We both liked laughing, talking, slugging down coffee, and of course, writing. With these shared interests we formed our own writing group of two. I proposed we call ourselves the Smokin’ Hot Writers. Janet suggested we get long cigarette holders to be more like real authors. But neither of us wanted to take up smoking.
These cars don’t have cargo space, so they haul luggage (or black boxes) on top.
Life surprised me this week with something I never knew I wanted, but now I can’t live without.
Having sold my Volkswagen, I needed a new car. I wanted to skip the usual car-buying routine…drumming fingers, slurping stale coffee, waiting for the salesman’s return. He abandons you for hours while he discusses your offer with his boss, an unknown person mysteriously hidden in an area of the car dealership.
Salesman: “My boss says we can offer such-and-such price.”
You: “Tell your boss no deal and I’m about to walk.”
“What can I bring you to drink?” asked our waiter, Roberto.
“Coffee,” Jerry said without looking up from the menu.
As Roberto sped away, I said to Jerry, “You sound kind of grumpy.”
He said, “My back hurts. I didn’t mean to sound grumpy. I’ll feel better when I have coffee.”
We scooped the warm complimentary tortilla chips into the bean dip and munched as we waited. Roberto returned to our table empty-handed.
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have regular coffee. We have decaf. Would you like decaf?”
It’s hard to say good-bye. And I’ve had a lot of good-byes to say.
At the end of fourth grade, I had to say good-bye to my friend Ruby Ann Warren. We spent every school recess together and spent the night at each other’s homes.
As the school year ended, Ruby told me her dad’s company had transferred him to a job in Texas. (Texas is a million miles from California where I lived. How rude of her dad’s company to send him so far away!) But I didn’t say that when Ruby told me the news of her departure. Instead, a silent sadness came over me. Ruby lived across the street and the day she moved away, I stood on the street curb and watched her pile into her family car. When the family’s car pulled out of their driveway, her dad stopped the car at the spot where I stood. Ruby jumped out of the back seat and ran to the curb and hugged me. “Good-bye,” she said, then hopped back into her car. She waved from the car’s rear window as I stood there watching her family sputter away. She continued to wave until her car turned the corner. I raced to my bedroom, put my head in my pillow, and cried hard. I never saw her again.
