It's a tough old world, but there are lots of good folks out there. Some years back, I met kindness face to face a few days after Christmas when I was in Steamboat Springs, Col., and needed to get home. Our daughter Pat, who had been scheduled for surgery around the middle of January, was told she had to have it sooner than had been planned. I was due to come home from a ski vacation in plenty of time for her operation, but now, as things so often happened, it had changed.
Saturday and Sunday during the holiday season are the two biggest airport days for coming in and leaving from Steamboat-Hayden, as probably they are over much of the country. So, even though I had known it might be an exercise in futility, I went to the airport on Saturday with all my luggage. Maybe, just maybe, a space would open up, and I could make it home to be with my daughter. I so wanted to be with her. No seats were available, and the next day also was showing sold out. But I had the good fortune to meet a kind, concerned ticket agent at the American counter. When the nice lady saw I was upset that I couldn't get on a flight, she worked for 45 minutes trying to help me get home. Doing no good for the moment, she tried for the next best thing. She exchanged my senior citizen's voucher for a ticket the next day -- there was one seat left.
The next morning, when I left for the airport, as per husband Willard's instructions, the last thing I did was to call him on our cell phone – an instrument that I often find annoying and pretentious. (Instead of falling behind without technology, I'm lost with it.) Done with our conversation, I hastily dropped the phone into my purse. Sometimes I had just about as soon be carrying a vial of mad cow disease in my hands.
The terminal was a madhouse: oversold seats, canceled flights, unhappy people talking loudly. When it was my turn at the counter, the ticket agent remembered me from the day before. "Mrs. Boggan," she said apologetically. "I hate to do it, but there's a seventy-five-dollar penalty for changing your ticket."
I handed her my Visa. Just as she zipped it through her machine, a ringing sound started. I was afraid this was something new: an alert for over-the-limit credit cards. There I was, looking like a thief who sets off a bank alarm and doesn't know which way to run. People around us stared.
Poor senile old lady, somebody must be trying to call you, my helper probably thought, but she whispered, "Mrs. Boggan, why don't you hand me your purse?"
"Purse?" I asked tentatively as if I were unsure of but answering a million-dollar question.
Reaching into my purse, she lifted out my cell phone. "Yes," she said reassuringly, "Your wife. She made it."
"Your husband." The agent passed me my ticket. "Now, all we need to get you on your way is a picture ID."
My heart fell to the floor. Along with goggles, mittens, and a credit card, I had lost my driver's license earlier in the week.
"I can't go home." My voice wailed like a cat with its tail caught in a car door. "My license is gone."
"Let me see your billfold." Dumping everything out, the agent found a Sam's Club card.
"Lovely," she said, glancing at the picture.
"Not exactly Cindy Crawford," I murmured. My face bore a strong resemblance to the fake mummy at the Old Capitol Museum.
Silver and gold had I none to give, but everyone had been so nice. I happened to have one of my books, Come Up Churning and Keep your Buckets High, in a duffle. On impulse I pulled it out and laid it on the counter.
"I wrote it," I said apologetically. "It's not a Grisham thriller. It's not, God Save the Sweet Potato Queens, or Nevada Barr's Deep South.
Feeling as if I had grits between my teeth, I cleared my throat then went on. "No cliff hangers, no who-done-it stories. Just the memories of someone growing up many moons back. One of those southern family things."
"Two of my co-workers and I here at the desk would like to come from behind the counter and give you a hug," this lovely lady said. "Is that okay?"
Streams of tears ran down my cheeks. Clear and sparkly as champagne bubbles, they froze on my face when I finally walked across the icy tarmac, boarded the plane to Dallas and found my seat.
When I was seated, I took off a black New Year's Day sweater trimmed in red wool and adorned with ways of saying 'Happy New Year' in different languages. Cherio, Skoll, Salute, Cheers and began stowing away my usual assortment of junk; a bottle of diet Raspberry Snapple, a can of Fat-Free Sour Cream Pringles, a smooshed tuna salad sandwich, seven large, soggy, Gundleshem Garlic Kosher Dills wrapped in Christmas paper, a bag of mildewed laundry and a pair of yellow and navy plaid bedroom slippers.
It took a while to get all my belongings placed into the overhead bin, under the seat, and between my legs and feet. I slipped off my after ski boots, rolled down my socks with brown and red moose on green skis and slid my feet into the comfy bedroom slippers. Sweet relief, I thought, snapping my seatbelt.
"Mrs. Boggan." My name came over the loudspeaker. "Would you please push your stewardess call button?"
Oh Lord, I thought. My Sam's Card has expired. I've been blackballed from the club, or they've unexchanged my exchanged ticket.
But when I looked up it was one of the young ladies who had hugged my neck. "We’re moving you to First Class, all the way to Jackson," she said. "Compliments of our ground crew here in Steamboat-Haden."
Leaving a trail of crushed Pringles, dripping pickle juice and tears, I padded behind her in my bedroom slippers and walked up the aisle to First Class. So many times, in so many ways, yours truly, as I'm sure most of you also have been, was taken care of by very special angels.
