The World's Biggest Shovel? Can you dig it!

When one thinks about tourist attractions, more often than not, Niagara Falls, The Mona Lisa, or Machu Picchu come to mind. But what about those hidden treasures tucked along the roadsides of rural America? Take the World's Biggest Office Chair in Alabama or the World's Largest Paper Cup in California for instance. Or head over to Wisconsin to see the ten-story-tall hammer.

"Or perhaps you don't want to see the second largest ball of twine on the face of the earth, which is only four short hours away?" ~Clark Griswold, National Lampoon's Vacation

Michael, John Travolta's character from the movie of the same name, was a temporarily earth-bound angel also intent on taking in the "big" sights

Similar to these two fictional fellows, the Mosimans are also fond of visiting road-side oddities. If it's weird...we want to see it. So it wasn't surprising that we were willing to forego the unwritten Austin/San Diego directive that dictates that one must never travel, by car, beyond a fifteen minute distance when Sydney discovered that we were within the Wyoming County-approved driving distance to what was, arguably, the World's Biggest Shovel. 

The Mosiman women were beyond delighted over the prospect of seeing this wonder. For some reason, Douglas wasn't quite as thrilled but eventually he threw in the trowel and agreed to go. 

Let's just say:  It does NOT disappoint. You want to see a giant shovel. This is...a giant shovel.

"Why?" Douglas wondered, scratching his head as his three companions raced to the shovel like Dorothy and her pals skipping through the poppy fields to Oz. 

He just didn't get it. One does not ask, "Why." One should instead be asking, "Why did it take so long for us to discover it?"

The next hour was spent on a groundbreaking photo session. We were pretty pleased with the perspective shots that tricked (no-one) viewers into believing we were holding a standard-sized shovel. "I could have stayed home and done this with an actual shovel," muttered Douglas.

It was all going well until the camera was handed to me...

"A little to the left," I instructed as my daughters staggered beneath the weight of my son-in-law's airborne, horizontal side-plank.

"Closer. A smidge to the right," I gestured, squinting into the camera. 

"Mom! YOU'RE the one who's supposed to move!" Savannah yelled before gravity won the tug-of-war contest for Douglas. "Are you all right, honey?" I said, rushing over to help dust him off. "You look a little pale."

"That gives me an idea!" Sydney announced, immediately Googling another road-side oddity.

"Can we go home now?" Douglas asked, tiredly. "Sure!" his wife said, smiling, "but...can we stop for a scoop of ice cream on the way?"

 

It's hard to B-positive around Erin

 "Amy, c'm--oo-n," Erin whined, stomping her foot in my doorway. I looked up from my TEACHING to glare at her. "I'm sorry...what part of me educating the future leaders of tomorrow do you not understand?" I scowled. "Amy!" (Did she stamp her foot at me AGAIN? Oh no, she d'nt!) "We have to go! Our appointment is at 3:30." She flounced off in a huff as I completed a long division problem with my little mathematicians. 

"I have to walk my guy down to the buses," I yelled after her, "Drive around and pick me up there." "Fine," she shouted back, muttering about weather conditions and my lack of time management awareness.

She didn't even wait for me to reach the car as I made my way carefully across the icy parking lot; backing out and heading for the exit as I clung to the door handle and swung myself into her departing vehicle. "You know," I said, fumbling for my seatbelt, "I didn't volunteer for this. YOU signed me up." "Stop your grumbling," Erin sang cheerfully, happy now that she was getting her way, "We're doing God's work and saving the world."

A few minutes later (I rolled my eyes as we parked), we arrived at our appointment. "Walk like a penguin! Walk like a penguin!" we chanted, arms linked together as we skated, shakily, down the uneven sidewalk. When she wasn't fighting to stay upright, she was busy criticizing me for my choice of footwear. "Those aren't even winter boots," she observed, gritting her teeth, core engaged in the act of just trying to stand, "There is no tread." "You. Have. Your. School. Shoes. On." I gasped, trying to use her tiny little body as leverage against gravity. 

Suddenly, she stopped, spotting her friend's parked car. "Wait here," she told me, now as fleet-of-foot as a gazelle, sprinting back to her vehicle to grab a ribbon. I watched her stretch out to tie it to the antennae on top of his car...vindictively refusing to help her as she used our precious getting-to-our-appointment-on-time minutes for shenanigans. Me teaching after school? Waste of time. Erin annoying a hard-working member of society? Important activity worthy of delay.

With our Red Cross "fast passes"happily in hand, Erin and I arrived (on time). I fell into the welcoming arms of Erin's twin and Red Cross ambassador, Elisha who thanked me for coming and complimented my boots. Most of our school family was in the building...either being siphoned (We waved to Miss Debbie) or reveling in their good deed-doing with a juice box and gummies (Hi, Al!)

Now...the race was on.

My in-take hostess was a bit of a talker so Erin made it to the donor lounge first. I was assured that, even if the needle insertions did not occur simultaneously, they were still time-recorded. 

I hopped up on my lounge and was handed a foam rectangle to squeeze. This was an area where I shine! We located my vein and I was off to the races. I ignored the "Squeeze every thirty seconds" suggestion and pumped that parallelogram like a porn star. 

"Amy!" Erin interrupted, horrified. "Be a lady!" "This isn't Colonial America," I told her flatly. "Would you want me to say I clutched the rectangle like a woman manning the handle of ye olde water pump?" "No," Erin admitted, primly. She suddenly brightened. "What about those people-powered little railroad cars?" "I think the action is actually more attuned to churning butter," I argued, "but I believe my readers got the point from my first example." "You mean were traumatized," Erin corrected. 

Belatedly, I realized, that in all the rushing, Erin had made me forget my phone at work. All I had to look at was a plastic plant and a dead moose. This was a nightmare. Alone with my thoughts, mad at Erin, squeezing a sponge...a girl learns a lot. "It was six minutes," Erin interrupted, "You were alone with your thoughts for SIX minutes."  Now untethered, I couldn't focus because I was being made to raise my arm up into the air for an unreasonable amount of time. "It was about twenty seconds," Erin scoffed, reveling in her win of bleeding faster than me. In retrospect, I fear that I may have squeezed to the point of suffocation. Duly noted, I thought, filing that little gem away. 

We penguin-walked our way back to Erin's car. I went to grasp my friend's arm, shying away as she yelped. "That's my bad arm." She moved to my opposite side so she could grab my arm. Nope. I swatted her away. 

Who knew that donating blood would be the easiest part of my day?

It's being around Erin that's draining.

What the Dickens! My evening at the theater

I would like to fancy myself a literary aficionado...a lady of letters...a "candide" countess of the classics. But I must confess, dearest friends, that I am a freud. In fact, when it comes to literature, I have no idea what I'm tolkein about.

So when I discovered that we'd be going to the theater to see a performance of "A Dickens Christmas Carol" in an auspicious Austin venue, I was understandably intimidated. Fortunately, I have an extensive background in the Muppet version and can quote most of the movie so I was hopeful that I wouldn't thoreau-ly embarrass my family by riding out on my short biblio-pony.

Thank you, Brian Henson, because most of Gonzo's narration is taken verbatim from Dickens! That blue-beaked bard saved my life!

I can say, with 100% authenticity, that Austin's ZACH theater's performance of "A Christmas Carol" is my second favorite version of the timeless classic...following, of course, The Muppets, but edging out that outdated version originally penned by Charles Dickens.

And it's not because they gave me a fancy foam light-up wand to wave around during the multiple audience interaction scenes.

And it's not because of the revolving circular stage in-set, a-la Hamilton...I do love a staged Lazy-Susan!

Speaking of stage theatrics, it's also not because of Marley-the-miser, rising, amid scream and smoke, chains a'rattling, before our eyes from his mausoleum...Lisa and I were terrified until our toes started  tapping to time to Marley's version of "The Man in the Mirror."

Wait. What?

This was a MUSICAL? With songs we KNEW?

Oh, yes.

Who would have ever predicted that Whitney's "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" could bring an audience to their knees as a wistfully, mournful ballad as Belle regretfully (but rightly) kicks Scrooge to the curb? And, following the predicted death of little Tiny Tina, one of Bob Cratchit's kids cranks out Beyonce's "Halo" with such heartbreaking soul that the Queen B herself would have bestowed a royal title upon the talented performer.

I was delighted!

I was in familiar territory. I knew this place. I was well-acquainted with these people and their problems. But this time...I was a part of the story and the solution. Poor Scrooge was never going to be redeemed without a wave of my magical wand. Tiny Tina would not live to see another Christmas without my voice added to the heavenly choir of adapted pop hits. To the naysayers who claimed that this adaptation lacked depth? Well...cue up "Shallow" and let's sing! I admit that I went to the theater with low expectations. I was wrong. It was great. And you didn't have to be a literary genius to recognize it.

 

I almost had a capy-tivating encounter

Long ago, when my girls were little, we encountered a little pop-up "zoo" in the middle of a desolate parking lot. My delighted little girls excitedly filled a metal cup with Fruit Loops and watched, dancing in place, as little monkeys used a pulley system to carry the cup to their enclosure. My family, for years, looked forward, each fall, to feeding the bears in Marineland... finally resorting to smuggling in apples as our conscience couldn't handle tossing mini-marshmallows into the toothless maws of these mammals. It wasn't that long ago that I myself wrestled an elephant for a jumbo marshmallow in my own village park.

In America, we have the sometimes-arrogant luxury of demanding five-star accommodations for every creature from caterpillar to cow. My experience in being a public school teacher as well as my more recent in-the-trenches education regarding elder care have done much to open my eyes to realistic expectations. Are they being fed consistently? Do they have access to clean water? Adequate shelter? Room to move? Routine medical care? I have been mortified, more than once, unfortunately, to have encountered children and senior citizens who were not provided these most basic of needs. I have also been greatly saddened by having witnessed children and senior citizens who have ONLY received these...the most basic of needs. 

Rule #1 in my classroom is "Life is not fair." Not every child... not every senior citizen...not every animal is going to receive the Cadillac of care. Life may not be fair...but it should be just. And "just" is basic needs:  food, water, shelter, medical care, and safety. Not everyone can afford a Cadillac. Sometimes a Corolla will do.

So, yes, I was a bit uncomfortable walking into an Austin shopping plaza aquarium last week. This was not the snooty, specialty zoos with their gourmet kitchens, in-house veterinary care, nail/claw/talon salons and their now-booming ka-zillion dollar revenue of animal experiences where you take out a second mortgage on your house to spend five minutes with your dream penguin only to be ruthlessly ripped apart after falling hopelessly in love. Nature can be cruel. I can't imagine anyone being stupid enough to fall for that gimmick.

Your senses come alive the moment you enter the facility. Punched in the face with the pungent odor of a thousand defecating animals, you are immediately rendered, blissfully, nose-blind. You are first greeted by the Madagascar black-and-white-ruffled lemurs. Apparently, of the 10,000 remaining on the planet, 9,999 are housed in a shopping plaza aquarium in Austin. And ruffled is right. Their piercing screams communicated just how happy they were to see us. They are the world's largest pollinator (that also explained the aroma) and they boast TWO tongues...neither of which would stop wagging indignantly at us. "Look, Mom," Savannah said, pointing at a sign, "You can schedule an animal experience with a lemur." I shook my head, no, suspecting that this experience would have something to do with a lemur ripping my face off of my body.

I was much more comfortable feeding the prehistorically large fish, letting sting rays vacu-hose food pellets off my palm, and inviting spindly-legged shrimp to race up and down my arm. Turns out the "Keep six inches above the water" rule was more of a suggestion as everyone was shoulder-deep in each exhibit but no one was going hungry in this environment.  The tanks lacked decor (NOT a basic need) but were not horrifyingly dirty. The eels...reason enough to NEVER venture into the ocean...were thriving. I happily hit the trifecta in the giant koi tank...coaxing fish, ducks, and a turtle over to my offering. "Careful, he bites," warned my neighbor, a blonde eight-year-old with the life experience of a gnat. I hope the camera didn't catch me tapping the turtle on the head with my cup to get him to release my finger.

Now it was time to decide with whom to spend my animal encounter. The sloth seemed like a good idea except he was a bit pricey (for a shopping plaza aquarium in Austin) and he was, shockingly, asleep. The two little penguins were molting...shivering together by their enclosure door. They had, like Savannah, apparently acclimated to the triple-digit-Texas temperatures and did not appreciate the 70 degree day. So the Capybara it was. We handed over our tokens. Received an hour's worth of instructions and then waited breathlessly as the keeper entered the enclosure to see if the Capybara was up for visitors. I was transported, back in time, to the Roman Colosseum, nervously awaiting the life-or-death decision based on the unpredictable whims of the emperor. Unfortunately, it was not to be:  It was four-webbed-toes down (each boasting their one hoof-like claw), dismissing our desire for a date with destiny. It was probably for the best. I
couldn't remember all the directions. We considered the wallabies but I had just watched a video of a man and his dog getting beaten up by a kangaroo so I was a little jumpy about that possible interaction. The red ruffled lemurs seemed pretty nice but, according to staff, they were on a break. I don't know how I missed the cigarettes and cocktails in their cage. And then, suddenly, without solicitation or warning, we were being briskly escorted back to the entrance so that we could have a feeding encounter with the Madagascar black-and-white-ruffled lemurs.

I'm pretty sure I can out-scream a Madagascar black-and-white-ruffled lemur if the situation were warranted. I reluctantly handed over my tokens and thought, longingly, of the peacefully unreceptive Capybara. I watched a small black paw punch the mail slot of his metal cage open. The staff member placed some ripe raspberries in my palm. I swear the little lemur tapped a forefinger against his wrist, impatiently indicating that time was a-wasting. I ventured warily closer...close enough for one small hand to explode out of the slot to grip mine, pulling my open palm towards him while the other paw moved with lightning speed to make that raspberry disappear with the slick slight of hand maneuver used by seasoned magicians. I was given another raspberry (Thank you?) and the little lemur stuffed his snout through the narrow opening. But I'd learned my lesson with the turtle. We would be handling this exchange like Olympic runners passing the torch or an illicit drug exchange like the ones I suspect occurred daily behind a little shopping plaza in Austin. 

I had fun.

Not virtuous fun like when 10 percent of your overpriced fancy drink purchase goes to charity.

More like tawdry fun...like when you stumble into a somewhat seedy but reasonably safe bar whose already cheap drinks are now half off. 

I observed fresh shavings being laid down. I saw an employee chase down and rescue an errant gecko. Animals were fed. The water was passably clean, especially by Michigan standards. The inhabitants were given breaks and space if they weren't in the mood for an interactive experience. This wasn't a deluxe organic dog food in the refrigerator enterprise...this was a sack of Old Roy slung over your shoulder. Most of us have been there so we don't judge.

At least, out loud.

I feel a little dirty saying it...but, I had a blast. 

And, maybe, the next time I go, Caesar Augustus Capybarus will vote four-webbed-toes up.

If a tree is recognized by its fruit (Matthew 12:33), what happens if you are a tree that produces nuts?

 Forgive my whining as I am acutely aware that I am abundantly blessed...I communicate with my daughters via text, phone, and/or Facetime practically EVERY day. Sydney and I exchange Instagram reels with the speed and on-theme accuracy of dueling Western outlaws. But not being physically with them for long periods of time can feel emotionally crippling. I haven't been with my girls since the summer. I know. I can hear my military moms out there laughing hysterically. But how do I confess, when each day was packed with meaningful, memorable activities, that my very favorite moment of this past visit was when, one by one, each girl slid into my quiet bedroom as I took a quick break to rest...snuggling in on both sides of me...succumbing to sleep as I lay there...enraptured by their synchronized breaths...transported back in time by the ancient drumbeats of their hearts? These two incredible women...independent, resourceful, strong, kind...once harbored within me. Each exit, I reflected, as I refrained from movement so as not to wake them, was painful but necessary for growth. My daughters...shield and shelter...reside permanently in my mind, my memory, my heart, and my soul.

Being a mom is a huge part of my identity.

I am the daughter of the King. I am Brad Mosiman's wife. I am Savannah and Sydney's mother. I am my mother's daughter and advocate. I am a teacher. A writer.

Cities, I have discovered, have identities as well. New York's skyline, sadly notable for its missing Twin Towers, is renowned for the Empire State Building. Chicago has the Sear's Tower. Boston boasts the John Hancock Tower, and, of course, Fenway Park's famed Citgo sign. Your eyes cannot help but scan a city's skyscape...seeking the familiar...the comforting...a beacon...a grounding force.

Austin has the Owl.

The Frost Bank Tower sits comfortably upon its perch, nestled within the city of Austin. More wry than wise, the story surrounding this structure pleases me as one of sardonic comeuppance. Architectual audacity. Its designer simply not giving a hoot...swooping in silently to stamp its unblinking identity over Austin. 

My family surprised me with an afternoon and evening of unrestricted "bird"-watching as we enjoyed warm beverages and holiday cocktails while roasting s'mores on a decorated rooftop neighboring the Owl. The rented cabana provided privacy and invited us to linger comfortably as I watched, entranced, as the sky became the constantly-changing painted backdrop for this architectual piece of art...manipulating the mood by curtaining with clouds and leveraging the light. What a range of feelings...foreboding, suspicious, mysterious, anticipatory, watchful, protective, predatory...all at a safe distance, surrounded by my family...my beacons...my grounding force. 

Identity is an interesting term. A fly-over definition speaks more of the individual:  behavior, personality, character traits. But a deep-dive may reveal more: What draws others to you? What are the features on your cityscape that invites (or repels) attention? What parts of your personality act as a lightning rod or a guiding lighthouse? Are you a cozy bungalow? A dilapidated duplex? A haunted house? A split-level or skid row? What message is printed on your "Welcome" mat? When someone knocks...do you remain silent or do you call out, "Who's there?"

Louis Sullivan was an American architect and pioneer of city skyscrapers. One of his collaborative works, the Prudential Building, remains a jewel in the crown of the Buffalo skyline. He is quoted as saying that a "building's identity resided in the ornament." I know that he probably meant windows and such...oh my goodness! Gargoyles! But, as it's the holiday season, I immediately related the quote to a Christmas tree. The tree, alone, does not identify as a Christmas tree. It is when the shiny bulbs, the twinkling lights, and the star rests upon lofty boughs and nestle into branches that the tree transforms..."becomes." The ornaments of a structure are the residents whose lives and stories then reside within the stories of the structure. My ornaments:  Brad Mosiman, Savannah, Sydney, Lisa, Douglas, my mom, my dear friends, my students, people kind enough to read my words, and my Star and Savior, guiding it all...transforming me into the kind of tree I was meant to be.

Just a reminder, to me, to begin this new year by not asking "Who am I?" but "Whose am I?"

Thank you, God for decorating my life with the most spectacular ornaments imaginable. 

Learning to lighten up when I travel

How I envy the fluent flyers...those who are able to effortlessly navigate airport terminals without flinching in fear; or, like me, attempting, desperately, not to engage their flight or fight response.  

That I am separated from my daughters by time and distance is bad enough...but that my most efficient means of reaching them is to dart, from crowded gate to gate, like a frightened rabbit racing across a war-torn no-man's-land, is embarrassing. I feel weak...vulnerable...and exposed. 

But, as an odd sort of comfort, these feelings are similar to seasickness.

Poseidon and I do not play. Over the years, I have thrown everything I have at him...from Saltine crackers to ginger to bracelets. My eye is on the horizon but my stomach  is in hell. And, in a last ditch effort, as I lay in the fetal position in the bow of the boat, an empty vessel that has purged my very soul to the sea, my only thought is that, as unbelievable as it seems in the moment, as soon as my feet hit land, I will immediately feel better.

As soon as I exit that airport...I will immediately feel better.

Having wrestled my two bulging suitcases, laden with horseradish, Poly-O string cheese, venison and Christmas presents, from baggage claim, I wrangled my way out to a mild Texas evening. 

Finally. I inhaled deeply, appreciating the luxury.

I called Savannah, who was surprised that I was alone. "Sydney, Doug, and Lisa went in to help you," she said as she drove the obligatory laps around the airport. Lisa found me first...I abandoned my luggage and raced fearlessly down the sidewalk to her and then...Sydney. My heart and arms were full. Only Douglas had the good sense to retrieve the bags.

It had been a long day but SO WORTH IT!

"I know you're tired," Savannah said as we all stuffed ourselves into Lisa's car. I was handed a water and a fistful of chocolate, "but do you think you're up for a little adventure before going home?" 

Let's just say that I am now completely spoiled when it comes to being picked up from the airport as we drove through the Peppermint Parkway. 

What a day! First I had to pass through the seven levels of hell that is airport travel:  Rudeness. Impatience. Bad manners. Narcissism. Poor customer service. Aggressiveness. Marginalization. Then I searched through a sea of kiosks and stores for a head-ache remedy sold by an actual human being before finally walking out the doors of the Austin International Airport. 

Safe in our little car, I had a front row seat to a spectacular holiday light show. Festive music, dazzling lights, and animated characters filled our slow, mile-long drive of delight as I peeked out the moon roof, doing a reverse-Santa maneuver. We sang. We wassailed. We waved to the Grinch and a roller skating snowflake. It was magical.

It was like I had stepped off a battered ship after a storm. The events of my long day blurred...becoming more tale than trauma. The waves gentled...the sea had calmed. The churning was over. 

As we left the Peppermint Parkway, I reflected that, like the lights, our moments and memories are strung together in a similar fashion. Occasionally, there are moments of darkness. There are also flashes of intermittent brilliance. But mostly there is a long, steady illumination...dependable and comforting. And, if sometimes you lose your way...it will help guide you home.

 

The only way I was going to catch my flight yesterday was with a big net

It might have been my 3:45 am departure time.

It might have been my traveling on Christmas Eve.

It might have been my poor pairing of prosecco with ibuprofen. 

Whatever the case, yesterday proved that all the time I spent, laying awake, worrying about all the possible travel fiascos that might occur was not time wasted...it was more of a mental rehearsal for the inevitable.

Turns out (Hold onto your Santa hat) that Christmas Eve at an airport is not the ideal setting for people to be their best s"elves." 

As I am pretty occupied with just trying to keep my breathing and heart-rate at a manageable level in this environment while constantly tracking the closest exits, I am in a poor position to self-advocate. So, as I shuffled meekly along in the 45 minute TSA line, I was not prepared to deal with the airman who appeared to tell me that he would be getting in front of me because he needed to get to Sacramento. 

Imagine. Someone in line at an airport...needing to get somewhere.

I am furious with myself as I remember this.

I am a 4th grade teacher. I deal with the ramifications of budging on a daily basis. I take it VERY seriously. I am not the "We're all going to the same place and will get there at the same time" sort of educator. I am the "I paid thousands of dollars to go to Disney and have been waiting for hours in the Space Mountain line and heaven help the arrogant ass who thinks they can cut" sort of gal. Road rage begins with kids who budge in 4th grade. I'm on the front lines, y'all.

I stewed the entire time that I let this idiot take advantage of my vulnerability.

We finally made it to the security area...people being herded through narrow passageways. My tunnel vision made me balk as I was none-too-gently coaxed forward. "You can't have your sweater," the agent barked at me. I stared at him stupidly. "You have to go back." 

Back where?

I returned uncertainly to the conveyor belt. I didn't want to interrupt the flow of traffic. Clutching my sweater like Linus's blanket, I motioned to the agent there. "You'll have to go back." I looked "back." There wasn't even a clear end to the "back." A pilot, standing there with his plastic bin, snagged my sweater and put it in with his belongings. The agent wasn't happy as apparently we were breaking some sort of textile-related international law. The pilot waved me back to the body scanner as he continued to fight for the rights of my sweater.

Sweater-safely-in-hand, I made it to my gate and spotted Sacramento in line to board. Idiot. 

Buckled in, we waited to be cleared for take-off.

Huh.

Apparently, a warning light had alerted the pilot of an open hatch. I commiserated. I recently drove to Brockport with my trunk open.

The ONE mechanic scheduled to work at the airport on Christmas Eve morning finally arrived to slam the hatch shut for us.

Our hero.

Except he forgot to sign "The Book."

And had already left to close another open hatch on a plane parked on the opposite side of the airport. 

Thirty minutes to close the hatch.

Forty-five minutes for the mechanic to come back.

In the interim, many helpful suggestions were offered including forgery, taking the book TO the mechanic, up-dating "The Book" to a more modern electronic version, and stuffing "The Book" where the sun doesn't shine. I texted my friend Katriel that we would be putting a unit on cursive writing back into our curriculum. Apparently, not knowing how to pen your signature can shut down international travel. 

My window to make my connecting flight was shut before the plane even left the tarmac.

Oddly enough...I didn't care. I knew my daughters were already scurrying, re-routing my passage to them and that, by the time I landed in Detroit, a new flight would be waiting for me. I glanced over at Sacramento and tried to channel my Christian thoughts. Maybe he was worried about being late returning from leave.  I bet he had donated an organ to a stranger. Or maybe he had had to return home to care for his ailing mother. Although I'm sure his ailing mother would have been appalled that he had budged in line and neglected to say "please" or "thank you" in the process. Whatever-the-case, he wasn't going to make his flight either. Rarely do I smile on a plane.

I sat, serenely, as we landed, passengers breaking protocol to rush to the front. Someone in the middle of the plane yelled, "This is anarchy," and I laughed. No need to rush...sooner or later, I would be in Austin. It was just a matter of when.

There are worse places to be than in the Detroit airport for a six hour layover on Christmas Eve.

Right?

I was on sensory overload.

Noises...everywhere.

There is no discernible flow to the pedestrian traffic so I felt like a claustrophobic salmon, fighting my way up-stream. 

"Go buy some Tylenol," my family kept saying as I would find a little hide-y-hole, only to be chased out by people with no regard for space bubbles. There are TWENTY empty chairs. Why on earth would someone sit RIGHT NEXT TO ME? 

The stores I bravely ventured into were self-check-out and only accepted cards.

Naturally, I ran away.

I curled up in another little hide-y-hole and nibbled Twizzlers like a baby bunny nibbling blades of grass. Yup. Hello, family of five (including a cart-wheeler). Please, sit down in an area with FIFTY empty seats, DIRECTLY across from me. 

I found a human who would sell me Advil.

I decided to "buy" a secluded seat by going into a restaurant. I paid nine dollars for tomato bisque which turned out to be canned tomato soup with a ribbon of milk poured on top. I felt all the eyes of the restaurant scrutinizing me as I scrunched over the bowl like Quasimodo. I ordered a mimosa so that I would look like a confident, sophisticated traveler. I adjusted my posture...ramrod straight. I daintily scooped my spoon outward in the soup bowl, away from me...half-full...lifting it with feather-like finesse to my lips. My napkin, placed properly in my lap, was then used to gently blot the edges of my mouth. "How is everything?" the waitress asked, clearly judging me. "Delightful," I answered. 

But it was NOT delightful. I wanted a hide-y-hole.

I paid for my nine dollar soup and my fourteen dollar mimosa (after taking my two six dollar Advil tablets) and tried to casually exit the restaurant like a normal person. I felt like a fraud.

Detroit does sport a cute (and totally unnecessary) monorail system. They have underground tunnel access points (blaring music and with a choreographed light show--I had to practically soldier-crawl through), shuttle buses, and moving walk-ways every fifteen feet. But hey! Let's stuff a monorail in there too.

Turns out that an over-stimulated, on-the-brink-of-a-nervous-break-down, about-to-have-an-episode Amy Mosiman THRIVES in a mostly-empty, blissfully-quiet, monorail-to-nowhere. 

After thirty minutes of pretending I was at Disney, I decided to look for another hide-y-hole. The exertions of the day were making me sleepy-tired  ("Are you sure it wasn't the mimosa?" Douglas asked later). I settled into another unoccupied area with a ka-zillion empty seats and drifted off, only to be jarred awake by the man who suddenly appeared at my elbow and put his phone on blast to Youtube.

I scurried away.

Remembering a fountain that I had passed hours ago, I re-traced my steps to this peaceful water source.

Settling into a nearby chair, I watched as a burst of water exploded out of an embedded nozzle, arcing over the flat surface of the fountain, separating into droplets before falling into its designated chamber. This choreographed water fireworks show hypnotized me and I felt myself being lulled to sleep. I carefully slid my leg through the arm strap of my trusty backpack as a deterrent to would-be robbers (because who wouldn't want to steal a backpack full of loose and lint-y Twizzers that had exploded from its packaging when I surreptitiously tried to remove just ONE during the flight to Detroit?) and slumbered peacefully...like a princess (or an inebriated hobo).

I awoke, refreshed (and sober). 

Those six hours had FLOWN by!

I boarded my flight with guarded optimism. 

A TV!

An empty row!

I brushed off some lint-y Twizzlers and settled in for the roomy ride!

My in-flight movie couldn't hold a candle to the sight outside of my little window. 

The sun was setting on my Christmas Eve adventure, blanketing the clouds beneath me in a soft, ethereal glow. I was almost to my daughters...having battled bad manners, capitalistic congestion, wide-spread societal narcissism and my own inept inner demons to reach them.

We're all on a journey, yes?

Your journey may take you to your living room...across town...or across the county. 

But while you are on your journey...please, remember that you are not alone. 

Smile, if you can. Be polite. Be patient. Be forgiving. Throw a little extra in the tip jar. Make room in your plastic bin for someone's sweater. 

And don't budge.

If you can't help...then get out of the way (and go sit on the monorail...it's quiet there).

Just try to stay on track, the best you can, without derailing those around you.