Three Bag Flight

Valdosta Georgia was in the news today. The reason is politics-related but my Valdosta experience has nothing to do with politics. 

I used to do a lot of business travel - up to eight flights a week. The trips blended together in my mind and were immediately forgotten which is, I believe, the way it should be.

And then, there was a rainy night in Georgia. Atlanta to Valdosta. Probably on American Eagle. Definitely on a small plane. It was, in fact, a dark and stormy night.  I knew how dark it was. I didn’t know how stormy it was. At least, my brain didn’t know. My stomach caught on quickly but did its best to hold on through the short flight.

We were getting close to Valdosta when I turned to the man across the aisle and asked if he would talk to me, just to distract me. He smiled, leaned on his armrest and said something like, “Sure I fly this route a lot.”

I replied. “Never mind. Too late.”

At my meeting the next day when people asked how my fight was, I answered that it was a three-bag flight. Only one exchange was a little different.

“When did you get in?”

“Last night.”

“Did you throw up?”

Looking back, I should have asked why were there three air-sickness bags in my seat pocket.

© 2024 Jane Kelly

Favorite Sons

Anyone remember favorite sons at conventions?  

At the National Convention in 1960 in a speech that felt as if it mentioned his name dozens of times, Mississippi nominated its governor, and favorite son, Ross Barnett, to be the Democratic presidential candidate. For some reason, my family latched onto that idea, but not in a way flattering to the governor. (Barnett was a rabid segregationist.) His name became a household word to cover a variety of negative characteristics usually related to narcissism. Not a common occurrence in Pennsylvania homes.

In the early 1980s, I was in a taxi in Jackson, Mississippi when a car came careening up behind us, barely missed the cab, swerved onto a lawn, drove right across the grass and continued as if the sidewalk were an exit ramp.  

The cab driver did not seem shocked, “That’s Ross Barnett.”  I can’t imagine there would have been a lot of people from the Northeast who appreciated that.  

I could have said, “What a Ross Barnett!” I thought better of it. After all, he was their favorite son. 

© 2024 Jane Kelly