Week 2 Prompts

The soul never thinks without a picture. - Aristotle

Missing memories of the mundane and everyday, the triumphs and defeats. Somehow, through the years, photographs have been lost. Rather than reminisce on what remains, I long for the ones that are missing. My mother and father, long before I was born- mom; with her long dark hair and brooding eyes, young and unjaded, and dad with a glint in his eye and a smirk to his lips. My first birthday, a Kermit cake with a single candle, tears in my eye with my finger held up after having burnt it. My sister, my cousin and I at Flat Rocks, swimming, young and carefree. My father and I, driving an antique car together at Storyland. My first time on a motorcycle with uncle Dusty, me trying to take control and steer. I keep these memories near at heart, because I no longer have the photographs to remind me. I fear someday my children will long for the missing pictures, too. First steps, half-smiles and tears, those should be there for them to see. No matter how many photographs I take now, the ones that are missing can never be replaced.

It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards. - Lewis Carroll

Anyone looking, would have no idea. They'd think it all trash, forgotten about and never thrown away. It's the small, random things, seemingly insignificant and unrelated, I've kept to cherish and always remind me. In the box that held my father's ashes, there's an old, tarnished zippo. It is scratched and weathered, no longer working. It has a name, sloppily engraved... Barry. There's a newspaper clipping; an obituary, of a man named Jean; born in France, he died a young man in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. A paper Dixie cup, with E.J. scratched into the waxed bottom. An old junior high student id- Jude. The card is bent and scratched, the edge covered with resin. Two hospital bracelets, a boy and a girl. Locks of hair and a broken glow stick. A shipping label from Belgium, another from California. Movie ticket stubs, fortunes from cookies with dates written on them. All these things bring vivid memories. Some i was very young, others not too long ago. Dads box, and his zippo. That's my childhood, and my loss of a parent. Jean, a close family friend when I was young. Jude, my first love. The birth of my children. Friends far, but dear. Fun times and firsts. Old and new memories mingle together, quietly telling excerpts from the story of my life.

There are only two emotions in a plane:  boredom and terror.  ~Orson Welles

I never feared much in life, not physically anyway. Snakes, jumping from heights, swimming in open water. Give me some of that, and I'm happy as a clam. Flying, though. That's something else entirely. I'd gone through some 28 years in life and always avoided it. I figured some day I would eventually do it, but thought I'd have plenty more years to get comfortable with the idea of doing before it actually happened. Sometime during the summer last year, we decided to take a trip to North Carolina. Brad is originally from there, and wanted to go back for his best friends birthday in August.
Well, when you're planning a trip to somewhere more than a dozen hours away, and you have two kids that you need to be watched and taken care of while you're gone, time can be a bit pinched. So, flying was really the best, and only, option we had. Of course Brad was fine with all of this. He had flown several times. I had picked people up at the airport, never gone in. He tried to tell me everything he thought I should know about how it all goes in the airport and on the plane, but I don't think it's something that anyone can truly prepare you for. There was certainly no preparing me for what would take place.
We arrived at the airport early, and stood in line at security for over an hour. I'd had a single cup of hotel coffee, and was not impressed with this. After a few people who, according to the airport and the US government, have the right to rummage through my personal belongings, had done their job, we sat for another hour, waiting to board the plane. By the time we were called to board, I was irritable and my heart was racing about a mile a minute. Sweaty-palmed, grasping at Brad's hand as if my life depended on it, we boarded.
The first thing I realized was the god damned movies are a lie. Thing thing was tiny, cramped, and didn't look fit to drive, let alone fly anywhere. The windows were ridiculously small, the seats were crammed together, no arm or leg room. All I could think was how horrible this was going to be if I were next to some large, loud, obnoxious person.

Fortunately, the person next to us was not too large, loud or obnoxious.. Except for the fact that I had desperately wanted to be at the window, so I could see what was going on and get the whole first-time flying experience. Nope. Not gonna happen. Oh well.

The wait on the plane before take-off seemed longer than the line and wait at the airport put together. But, when it finally started, my heart was in my throat and I felt sick. When the plane started moving, it wasn't so bad. But when the wheels finally left the ground, my stomach turned over, and I had this horrible, uneasy feeling in my entire body. This was not natural. If we were meant to fly, we'd have wings.

Once the plane had leveled off up there, I started to feel a bit better. I finally let Brad have his hand back, I was worried I had nearly broken something in it. We left Portland, and were on our way to to Atlanta, GA. When we landed in Atlanta, I discovered that coming down was much more peaceful, at least to my mind and body, than going up had been. But, this is where everything went wrong.

We had a short hour and half layover in Atlanta, so we rushed to find a place to buy some smokes and somewhere to smoke them. Somehow, despite today's technology, we were not informed that our departure gate had been changed. Our departure gate had been listed as being at one end of the airport, but they had changed it to the other end. We got to 'our' gate 20 minutes early, and were informed that the gate had been changed, and if we ran, we might make it. The woman told us she would call ahead to have them wait.

We ran like hell. Which isn't easy to do in a huge airport filled with irritable people. We arrived at the new gate with 3 minutes to spare... But they plane was already pulling out. We were screwed. I couldn't help it, I started crying. It was too much for me, for my first flying experience. I was panicking and didn't know what the hell we would do. Atlanta's customer service counter was very understanding, and clearly felt bad having some hysterical woman crying at their counter. We got free meal passes and had the choice of either A- waiting and hoping there would be free seats on the next flight out to Charlotte in several hours, or B- taking a flight to Orlando, FL and then hopping a flight to Charlotte from there. We didn't like the odds, so we went with Orlando. Jesus, how much flying did I have to go through in one day?! 

Within a few hours, we had made it to Orlando, and then were finally on our way to Charlotte. The trip home 3 days later went smoothly. It was my first flying experience, and it was definitely not the best. But, the fears I had were never realized. I feared crashing and dying. We didn't do that. I hate Atlanta now. But, I don't hate flying. Once we're up there, it isn't so bad. It's just all the in-between's that really get to me. 

Next time, we better be flying first class.