Potholes

Los Angeles, California

I started traveling annually to Phoenix, Arizona in 2015. As I have told the story here before, my dentist was retiring, and I was recently widowed. When I asked her what she planned to do during retirement, she replied: Whatever I want. And, coming from nowhere except off the top of my head, I asked her if she wanted to go to Spring Training together. Lynnette had been my dentist for twenty years and through my appointments with her we had learned that we shared a lot of interests. And baseball was one of those things.

She got on it, and began calling me with plans to go. Her sister, Shirley, was pulled into the trip and so was my friend, Lydia. It was a very fun trip. There was a break in the force during the pandemic and for a year or two after, but this past Spring we returned to Glendale and Phoenix to attend two games. We've run out everyone else who has attended with us, and that's just fine. It is our annual girlfriend's trip. Not that we wouldn't welcome any of the past participants to join us, but we're equally happy when it's just the two of us.

My friend, Connie, came with us on this annual trek, twice. I have known Connie since college, but it was the first time we had traveled together. And she's a nervous flyer. Back at that time, prior to a scary flight incident (see: That Was the Year that Was, Part 1 and 2), I was not uneasy flying. So when the plane hit some turbulence, and Connie gripped the armrests much like a cat does with its claws when threatened, I reassured her. I don't like this, she declared, eyes wide. I replied in a measured tone: It's just like potholes. Like when your car bumps along on an uneven road. You don't get scared when that happens, right? Well, you get that in the air, too. Air pockets. They're just like potholes.

At the end of our recent flight to Santa Fe, the woman sitting in the seat in front of me turned around and peered over the top of her seat. Do you see my phone on the floor? We didn't. Later, as we were standing to exit the plane, she told us that she had found it. Evidently she had put her tray table up while her phone was sitting on it, so it fell somewhere under the seat in front of her.

Five days later, we lined up to board our Southwest flight using the A through C boarding procedure. We were A-22 and A-23. This boarding protocol requires interacting with others in line so you know you are in the right space. That interaction usually goes like this: What's your number? We'd been standing for about five minutes when someone asked us that question. And we turned to discover it was the same woman who had searched for her phone while seated in front of us on our last flight. And she and her mother were A-20 and A-21! In our conversation she remarked that she was a nervous flyer, and so I recounted my story about flying with Connie.

They ended up sitting in the row behind us and when we were told to buckle up as turbulence hit, she called out loudly: Potholes! We continued to call out our mantra back and forth as the plane pitched. When we hit a particularly rough patch, I turned and called out over the top of the seat: Ditches!

Flights into Burbank always seem rough on approach, but soon we were on the ground, bidding farewell to our pothole companions, and then merging onto highway 101, returning home. A good time all around, and nary a pothole on the road, as we returned to reality after a truly wonderful trip to Santa Fe.