jumpingfish

This is a very long story about my return trip from Lexington to Austin. I like the story. It was kind of an adventure. But I’ll acknowledge up front, that it’s not action-packed, and so your return on investment in reading this might be limited. I will not be offended if you take a pass. 

1. Getting to the Airport On Time

The sky darkens, the rain is coming down in sheets. We can’t see anything out the vast windshield of that boat-car. “I’m sorry,” I say to Jenny. “I don’t know how you’re doing this.”

“I just stare ahead and pray hard,” she says, gripping the wheel tightly, not taking her eyes off the road in front of us.

Evidently it works. The skies go from menacing to dreary. The torrents fall behind. And we get to the Lexington airport, where Jenny walks me in even though there isn’t anything we can do or anywhere we can sit — just another set of security doors.

We smile and hug.

Bye, Jenny Bea!

2. A Late Departure From Lexington

It is a hot summer day. The concourse air conditioning isn’t working. But this airport has a calmness about it, and they are giving away cold bottles of water. Eventually we board early, since there is air conditioning on the plane.

As we sit waiting at the gate, a storm approaches. I recognize it. Our departure is delayed.

I’ll never be sure what really happened, but after the storm passed, there was some kind of delay. I looked out the window and saw five people standing around a wagon stacked with suitcases, one of which was mine. It wasn’t raining. There was no loading of the bags. Just standing around. And then the pilot said we were waiting for fuel. And later he said that there was a delay authorizing the fuel truck. All the while, the suitcases were still sitting outside.

Eventually, of course, we leave — quite late.

3. Flying Over Cincinnati

On the first part of that journey, I am to fly from Lexington to Chicago. The plane levels off above the storm clouds.

Wait. I look out my window to the left. I see the afternoon sun. This means I’m looking west. And this means, we’re flying north. But wait… from Lexington you don’t fly north to get to Chicago. We know this, right? So what’s going on?

Wait. North of Lexington is… Cincinnati. Maybe if there’s a break in the clouds, I can look down and see… And there is is below me — Cincinnati airport. And the Ohio River. And across the river, there are the stadiums.

I know that town. If I drive around west… yes, there’s the interstate. If I follow that highway… yes, there’s the power plant with the billowing clouds of steam. And if I keep going… 

Somewhere down there is my mother’s house. I try to get my bearings. I try to find Coleraine. I try to find the Little Miami River. I can’t. But down there somewhere, right down there (I could almost point at it) is my mother’s house.

Hi mom! Hi Ken!

4. Flying Into Chicago

Afternoon became late afternoon. Our plane turned west. Evidently that evening’s flight plan didn’t involve taking the hypotenuse. We were flying the rise and run of a triangle to get to Chicago. 

I had a book, and I stuck my nose in it.

By the time I looked up again, the skies had cleared. But wait… we were still flying west and there was no sign of Lake Michigan. When you fly into OHare, you approach from the east. We know this, right? And when you approach from the east, you necessarily fly over the water.

I look out my window. Farm fields. No Lake Michigan. Still going west.

Wait. We’re over Indiana flying west supposedly on approach to OHare? How does that work?

I am confused. I strain to look across the plane out the other windows, to see if there was any Lake Michigan out there. Can’t tell.

And then the plane begins to turn north. Turning. Turning. 90 degrees. So we’re heading straight north now.

Wait. You don’t approach OHare from the south? And sure enough, there’s Midway. No way we’re on approach to OHare from this direction.

But then we turn another 90 degrees. Heading east. Yep, there’s The Loop. There’s Navy Pier. There’s the ferris wheel. Look how serene those sailboats are on the water. Heading east. Flying out over Lake Michigan… Still heading east… Chicago has receded behind us. No more sailboats. Just wind on the water and whitecaps. If this goes on much longer, we’ll pass over Michigan.

But I can see a line of landing lights from the east. Other planes on their final approaches to OHare. One, two, three planes, one after the other. And now we’re talkin’… We bank sharply left. 90 degrees. Another 90. And now we’re on final approach. Flying west with Lake Michigan below us. This is more like it. 

And wait. Of course, we’re going to pass over Park Ridge, over my brother’s house. I strain to get my bearings. I can’t calibrate. I see the Rosemont Horizon. I see the forest preserve. I see the Des Plaines River. No sign of Knight Street. But they’re down there somewhere. Right down there.

Hi Ben. Hi Vicki. Hi Evan.

5. A Late Chicago Arrival

Despite what they tell us, there is no ticket agent to guide us to connecting flights. And there are no flight monitors anywhere. Five gates down, I look up my flight information. There it is: Austin, departs at 7:30am. Wait, what? Departs tomorrow morning! 

I missed my flight. United Airlines is of no help except to say it was due to weather and to toss me a voucher with an 800-number to call to find my own hotel at a 50% discount.

I text my brother, who’s in Canada but says to call Vicki.

“Hi Dave,” she says.

She can’t pick me up at the airport. “Just take an Uber,” she says.

I take a taxi. 

“You’re going where?” he asks, barely audible.

“Oak Park,” I say.

He’s not happy about the short fare, but he’s stuck with me. And ten minutes later, we’re there. 

I hop out of the cab. I hug Vicki. I pay the taxi driver. We start to walk in. Then I turn and knock on the guy’s window.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Because that wasn’t much of a tip,” I say, and hand him enough to make the short fare more tolerable.

“Thanks,” he says. Then honks, “Really. Thanks!”

6. Another Late Chicago Arrival

Vicki and Evan and I talk for a while. Evan shows me his portfolio. I marvel at the furniture he has selected for his room. But at this point, I am beat. (Remember, this was the day that I started out doing Jabberwocky and rockets to eighth, seventh, fourth and third graders, although that is now a distant memory.)

Before long, I retire to the spot in their basement that I have come to know so well over the years.

This is one of the joys of growing old: coming back to places that you’ve been to so often with people who’ve shared so much of your life. And another joy of this is: I sleep so well in the cool darkness of that basement.

I quickly fall asleep.

Screeek. Slam! The upstairs door opens and shuts. There are voices. Foot falls on the floor. I throw off the blanket and hop out of bed. The un-turn-offable laundry room light lets me pull on my pants and button my shirt without falling down. I run up the steps.

No one’s there. I run to the second story.

Liza’s in her room, just having arrived with a friend from Colorado. They drove together non-stop, finished with a summer research program (prairie dogs? fish?) and preparing for another in the Caribbean (coral? fuzzy worms?). Evolutionary Biology suits Liza well.

“Hey,” I say to her.

She turns around.

“Whoa,” I say. “You’re not Liza!”

OMG, I came so close to hugging Liza’s friend who probably had no idea I was there. She would have been so creeped out. I am so glad when Liza walks in from the hall.

“Liza!” I say. 

“Uncle Dave!”

We hug. And within a couple minutes of that, I’m back in that sleep-inducing coolness-darkness of their basement.

7. Morning Flight Home

The alarm goes off at 4:30. At 4:45, I wake Vicki up. Within minutes, we’re on the road to OHare. But something’s not right.

“Vicki,” I say. “Did you mean to get on the freeway going east?”

“This is the way to OHare,” she says.

Except that the morning star is rising in the east, and it’s ahead of us. And except that a line of planes on approach to OHare is heading toward us. And if you’ve been paying attention, you’ll know that their final approach is westbound, which means that OHare is behind us to the west.

“This is the way,” she says. And I’m getting visions of being downtown in The Loop at rush hour and missing another connecting flight.

“I don’t think so,” I say.

She reaches for their GPS on the dashboard. I reach for the phone in my pocket.

She punches at that GPS to get it turned on or calibrated or whatever you do with those infernal things. Could they have been more incompetent in designing the user interfaces on those horrible gadgets?

“I think you need to turn around,” I say.

She’s thinking I’m wrong. I’m thinking I’m right. But we need to be clear here, it is she who has lived in this town, in that house for the last almost 20 years. 

Then my phone speaks. It says to turn around and head west.

The oracle having spoken, we turn around, head west, take the OHare Airport exit and get me to the plane on time.

“Thanks Vicki,” I say at the curb. I mean, she put me up overnight, and she got up at this god-awful hour to drive me to the airport. And here I am. Fired up and ready to go. Because this is the last leg of my trip, and what could go wrong?

The rest of the trip was… uneventful. I had a book, and I buried my nose in it.

1. The Plan

I’ll be honest. My real interest in going to see my cousin and her family was not the eclipse. It was spending time with them. And when I realized that Somerset was in 98% totality, I was starting to tell myself, “That’s pretty darned close. Do you really want to drive two hours south for a measly two percent?”

The clincher was 2024, when there will be another total eclipse, this one passing directly over Austin. “It would really be cool,” I told myself, “to be able to say that I’ve seen two total eclipses in my life.” 

Ken’s plan was to drive west toward Bowling Green and head south from there. I had no intention of getting anywhere near Bowling Green and the traffic that the interstate highways might bring as hoards of astronomical onlookers streamed south. So we split the difference and chose a tiny town in Tennessee somewhere in between. We had a plan for the next day.

2. Changing the Plan

Late that night, after everyone else had gone to sleep, I began to doubt our plan.

In truth, there wasn’t much of a town there, and although just pulling off the highway would have worked just fine, it seemed like a city park was more what we ought to be looking for. The only green areas on the online maps in this town turned out, upon inspecting satellite view, to be cemeteries. Hanging out in a cemetery wasn’t appealing, nor was just pulling off the road.

I sat up and reached for my laptop.

Certainly there was a town with a park or something similar nearby — and sure enough, there was. Just north of our planned destination, was a slightly larger town, and although its green spaces on the map also proved to be cemeteries, the city web site alluded to a memorial gazebo, complete with photographs of it and a nearby concessions stand provided by the Chamber of Commerce.

It just took a little googling, including some virtual walking up and down the town’s streets to find the park. There on Park Street was the concessions stand. And there was the gazebo. There was even a swing set. All these were along the edge of an oval-shaped path that went around a green park-y looking place.

The next morning, I proposed Westmoreland, Tennessee as our destination. Ken was game.

3. Getting There

The bonus in this deal for me was that Ken did the driving. I was navigator, but to tell the truth there wasn’t much navigating to do until we got into town.

“Turn around,” I said after I realized we’d missed our turn.

“Are you sure?” Ken asked. Evidently my voice didn’t radiate confidence. 

“Yes, turn around.” Which he did in the Fred’s Store parking lot.

We drove a few blocks, and I said, “The next street will be Jefferson, turn left there.” 

“It’s not Jefferson,” Ken said.

“It’s ok. Turn left.”

“Are you sure?” Ken asked. Evidently my voice still didn’t radiate confidence.

“Yes. Turn here.” 

This was the Park Street that I had walked up and down last night. I knew exactly where I was.

“Turn left and go straight for a block. There will be a swing set.”

And ahead of us we saw: a swing set.

“Turn into this gravel parking lot,” I said. “And drive around the end of this building. There will be a place for us to park on the other side.”

Which there was. We had arrived.

4. Totality

The park was a lush green field surrounded by a jogging trail. There were a few large trees throwing down nice shade — perfect for the sitting and the waiting. And (bonus) there was a public restroom.

There were a few people sitting in the shade under a Sweetgum tree near the parking lot, which is where we put up our folding chairs and had a peanut butter sandwich lunch. Except for two women on a blanket, the folks were from out of town — they had found Westmoreland, and this park, in the same way we had.

At the other end of the field, there were a few people under the gazebo. And there were a dozen or more under a large Oak tree. Everyone was in a good mood. The green grass and blue sky (and our peanut butter sandwiches) put smiles on our faces. We sat. We talked with the folks around us. We waited as the moon, which we could not see but which we knew was there, approached the shining sun.

And when the moon began to cross in front of the sun, the heat of the day diminished, and the light grew gradually dimmer. At about 20% totality, it was cool enough to move out of the Sweetgum shade into the sunlight. I put my welder’s glass in front of my eyes and leaned back in my chair.

When totality approached, odd things began to happen.

Streetlights came on. And dogs on the hill started barking frantically. Later, Ken said that the crickets started to sing. And then came, what I confess to me is the best part of the eclipse. 

As the moon passed completely in front of the sun, and the light of day darkened. As Venus shined in the sky near the sun and Jupiter became visible further to the east. The roosters started to crow.

Roosters. Crowing at mid-day. Because it was like dusk. And roosters crow at dusk.

We all gasped in unison, finally able to look directly at the sun. A total eclipse really is something that defies description. And no photographs do it justice. (Oh what a mistake I came so close to making when I thought 98% would be good enough.) There were wisps of corona extended out from the sun. I remember three of them. And there were little bright specks at the margins of the black disk, specks that I saw later on photographs were actually solar prominences extending out behind the disk of the moon. 

It lasted two and a half minutes.

And then came the diamond ring — the brief moment when as the sun begins to show again, there is only a tiny, tiny piece of the sun which sparkles like a diamond on one edge of the ring of sunlight surrounding the dark disk of the moon. We saw it only for a brief moment, and then the sun was bright again. And daylight began to shine. And the roosters started to crow again.

Roosters. Crowing at mid-day. Because it was like dawn. And roosters crow at dawn.

With a couple pulleys, a long rope, a truck and some yelling up and down the hill (“Go!” now “Slow!” now “Stop!”), we disassembled the sections of the dock, floated them over to the beach, and pulled them up onto the sand where the action of melting ice in the spring is unlikely to coax them out into the lake.

All that’s left is the platform that looks out onto the water where the dock used to be.

Winter’s snow is just around the corner, though as for that, the mid-90s of Central Texas make that hard to imagine.

At the airport, they asked me if I had any liquids or food.

“Two apples,” I said. “I have two Honeycrisps in my backpack.”

They told me to take out the apples and put them in a tray, which I did.

The thing of it is, I forgot this.

I realized my mistake once I had passed thru security and was waiting for my bags to follow. Once it was too late (or perhaps unwise) to shout, Wait. I forgot the apples in my suitcase!

But forgotten them I had, and I stood there watching the TSA agent staring at his screen, clearly examining the image of my suitcase with great focus.

Then he pushed a button, and my blue suitcase emerged from the scanner. He looked over at me looking sheepishly back at him. He neither frowned nor smiled. That was just that.

October is apple season in Michigan. Those Honeycrisps must not have been the only ones.

“Do you see what he’s doing?” Jenny asked Burt. She pointed at me standing by the window.

That’s where the fruit were — by the window. And I was standing there taking advantage of a few idle moments to take the stickers off the bananas (because I’m all about using idle moments efficiently).

“Do you see him?” she asked again. He looked over at me silently. “He does it, too!”

Evidently my cousin prefers his bananas without stickers, also. I suspect we have our own reasons. But whatever they are, these particular stickers on these particular bananas were particularly obnoxious. There was a sticker on every single one, and none of them came off easily.

So I was a sitting duck standing at the window, because I wasn’t making much progress, and my explanations about not wanting the stickers in my compost pile back home didn’t seem to get much traction with Jenny.

“He does it, too,” she said again, almost muttering.

Burt just smiled.