FLYING HIGH WITH FRITO

When a nun complains about the airline service, you know you're in trouble.

Each summer, the plane has become my most expedient way to travel from Spokane, Washington to my hometown of Superior, Wisconsin. As a music teacher for 535 energetic little curmudgeons, I longingly yearn for the rest, relaxation and memories Superior affords me. Around March each year, my mother's scrumptious pies crafted from hand-picked blueberries, dinners created from freshly-caught fish, and long walks interrupted by deer crossing the road linger in my daydreams. My students work hard to keep old Mrs. Good grounded in virtual reality.

The last day of school arrives, and I resist the temptation to race out the door ahead of the children. I recall the admonishment of an airline attendant who warns us to remain seated and secured until the airplane has come to a complete stop, for "It is embarrassing when our passengers arrive at the terminal before the plane does." I heed his advice, and remain secured at school until I know that each little cherub has been delivered safely to his home. School has now come to a full stop, and I may depart.

Vacation has now officially begun as I excitedly strap myself into the seat of the 747 bound for Minneapolis. The sky is crystal blue, and the wind barely perceptible. I am brimming with optimism. For the moment.

The nun's voice is angry. "I wasn't told I had to check in at the ticket counter when they took my bags outside. I need to be on this plane!" She is adamant. An overbooked flight is not a flexible, friendly environment. Nevertheless, the proverbial sea is parted, and the nun, still grumbling about the lousy service, squeezes in.

Could this be an omen? I begin to scan the escape routes and ponder the limited use of my seat cushion as a flotation device over the Cascade Mountains. Raised a Methodist, I still clumsily cross myself figuring that, with a sister on board, it's wise to cover all the denominational bases.

Nevertheless, the flight is exceptionally smooth, and I reach Minneapolis unscathed and ahead of schedule. I scoff at the thought that I was so nervous and superstitious. Taking my time to reach the next appointed gate at the oppositie end of the terminal, I continue daydreaming about my vacation.

At the precise moment the few of us are to board the plane to Duluth, the flight information vanishes from the reader board only to materialize moments later with the succinct message, "Flight canceled." The nun was right. Further inquiries indicate mechanical failure. "Show me an underbooked plane and I'll show you mechanical failure," grumbles a fellow passenger, probably a priest.

I am now in a ticklish dilemma, for I have a little stowaway that is slowly defrosting in my backpack. A few months earlier, Frito, my son's goldfish, died mysteriously at home while my little recruit was braving Marine Boot Camp hundreds of miles away. In order to redeem myself as the number one suspect, I promise a proper burial--a place by the lake instead of a flush of the toilet--and thus Frito remains frozen in our refrigerator until vacation arrives.

"Ma'am, I would like to check your bags." I have been stopped by a security guard on my way to yet another gate for the later flight. How does one explain a half-frozen Frito? The fish and I are sunk! Nervously, I hand her my camcorder bag which she fingers through slowly and meticulously. As I reluctantly begin to hand her my backpack where Frito lay, I hear the soothing words, "Thank you and have a nice flight." I have been spared! Gingerly hoisting the pack onto my back and trying to look innocent, I quickly depart the security area.

My next worry is Mother. A quick call confirms my worst fears. She and my sister are already at the airport awaiting my arrival. Ignoring my earlier suggestion that I could take a cab from the airport, they gallantly wait. And wait. And wait.

Several hours later, I arrive hungry and tired. No food or drink on that junket. No bag either. With my sister fuming over the awful service and my 82-year-old mother nearing collapse, I stare at the baggage carousel's hypnotic motion far longer than needed befored I accept the fact that my bag will not be arriving. The nun was right.

A firm voice paired with tired, unblinking eyes matches the blase', bureaucratic look of the airline employee. "I will not pick it up. If located, you will deliver the bag to the eighth lane past Tome and Jerry's east of Wascott on the Crawdad Road. Take the left fork, and watch for the bear." I leave him wondering. At last, Frito and I are going home.

I have arrived! Frito has been buried, a rash of poison ivy already covers my legs, mosquito and deerfly bites swell my arms, hornets buzz my head, and even though the nun was right, I know I'm in heaven. That's for sure.

(Written by Beth Good one summer in the 1990's)