Little Things Mean a Lot

Little Things Mean a Lot

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When one has pared one's life down to the bare essentials, little things take on incredible importance.

I arrived in Mexico City with forty minutes to make my connection. Airports are designed in such a way that domestic flights and international flights are situated at opposite ends of the real estate. I think it is a universal law.

Having had previous experience with said law, I always request wheel-chair service. Rogerio ran, and I do mean ran, with me from deplane to replane. I was less worried about me making the connection than my checked luggage making the connection.

Rogerio deftly maneuvered me through the pack heading down the boarding ramp. Through a window on the ramp, I spied my two suitcases sitting on the tarmac, waiting to be shoved aboard. I crowed with delight. Out loud.

I'm too old to be embarrassed at my reaction, rather extreme. But, hey, I was excited. My body and my bags would arrive in Seattle on the same flight. A little thing. Big importance.

My son Ben and I had had numerous conversations about my arrival. He was going to take the day off work and pick me up. "That's silly," I said. "I arrive at 8:00 PM. By the time I get through customs, it will be after 9:00. I'll take the Airporter transit. Probably arrive at midnight. You take the next day off."

Somehow that passage translated to my son that I was flying Tuesday instead of Monday. A very little glitch.

At 9:45 my luggage and I boarded the Kitsap Airporter Transit van. A nice young man from Florida called my son for me and left a message so Ben would know to pick me up at the Keyport AM/PM. I arrived. No son. The very kind driver of the van made a second call for me, left a message. Ah, he must be on the way.

Perhaps I should explain that I don't have a US phone. I live in Mexico most of the year. It probably sounds incomprehensible to most people, but I get by.

After five or ten minutes, I began to feel a niggle of worry. Another young Navy man was waiting for his ride. I requested he make a call for me, this time to Ben's girlfriend' phone. Left message. Waited. Waited. Worried. My son lives a mere half mile away, at most. I could almost shout and he would hear me. Theoretically. If he were not in bed asleep.

Kitsap County is Navy country. I could go any direction and be on a Naval Base within minutes. So it is no surprise when another young serviceman drives up. He sensed my worry, fear, despair, confusion. I borrowed his phone and called Ben's Dad. Left message. Waited.

Desperation began to set in when my son drove up. "You're fired," I said, as I fell into his arms for a hug. He had been asleep, he explained, rubbing his eyes. "I thought you were arriving tomorrow." Oops. By then we were minutes away from tomorrow. We sorted out the mis-communication. Little things. Yep.

Today my son set me up with what is euphemistically called a  "burner" phone. I buy minutes as I need them, just like I do for my Mexican phone. Little things mean a lot: little words, a little phone, a little wait, standing on the corner, watching all the cars drive by.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

September 6, 2018

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