Today I drove my son to the airport so he could fly, unaccompanied, to California. He's 16 and attending a 10-day conference for young students interested in science. We booked him on a non-stop flight to avoid complications, but it's still more than a 4 hour flight from our midwest home. Imagine my surprise when my cell phone rang 2 hours after his flight departed and his name popped up.
"I'm in Atlanta."
Heart rate accelerates. Breathing stops. "Atlanta?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant. "What happened?"
"There was a problem with the plane so they sent us here. I think they're gonna put us on a different plane."
Over the course of the next couple hours, and numerous phone calls and text messages later, we got word that he was once again airborne.
He'll be tired, and late, but he has family waiting for him at the other end to drive him the rest of the way to his conference and I'm guessing he'll have a great time - and a good story to break the ice.
While he was waiting in Atlanta, I called the airline. I know from experience that airlines just flat-out lie about delays and remedies, so I wanted to know what their policy was if he was stranded in Atlanta overnight. I wanted to know if I should book him on another flight, or fly there myself to get him to a hotel and back. The airline wouldn't (or couldn't, they say) tell me what would happen.
"It looks like they're still planning to fly out today. They had a problem with the windshield so they're getting a new plane and a new crew. That's all I know," the friendly rep told me. "The decision is made by the people at the airport."
"Do you have their number?" I asked, while thinking "Windshield? What the hell happened to the windshield?!"
"No, I don't," she answered.
Well, as I said, the flight finally did take off, so my fears were unrealized. He won't be spending the night alone in Atlanta. He's over half-way there as I write this. I'm tracking his flight online.
It's a tough thing to let your son go, even for 10 days. When we checked in early this morning, the agent asked me "Where are you flying to?" I wasn't flying anywhere, so the question flustered me for a moment.
"My son...is flying...to San Francisco," I stuttered, meaning "My son (MY SON!) is flying (BY HIMSELF! GET IT? BY HIMSELF! DON"T LET ANYTHING HAPPEN TO HIM!)to San Francisco. My son. I still love saying that even after 16 years.
"He looks like he can handle it," the agent smiled back.
He can. He did. He ate something in Atlanta. He bought WiFi service on the plane so he can chat with us enroute. He just passed over Santa Fe. He's handling it.
Me? I'm a nervous wreck.
I sat at the airport for a while this morning after my son (my son!) went through security, waiting to make sure his flight took off. While I waited, I watched people in the security line. A young soldier in camouflage went through. The sign said military personnel could go to the front of the line, but he either didn't see it or was too timid or not in a hurry, because he waited like everyone else.
When I say young, I mean not-even-shaving young. My son looked older than this soldier. Now that I can breathe a little, I'm thinking about that soldier. I don't know where he's going, but he sure looks like the kind of kid, fresh from boot camp, that will be going overseas. I can't imagine the worry his family, or families like his, must be facing. I'm worried about my son missing a flight - they might be worried that their son will die alone in a foreign country.
It makes me want to cry when I imagine if it were my son in that uniform.
Today is the official observance of Independence Day. For most of my son's life, we've been observing this holiday while at war. It's crazy. Just plain crazy. It's time to stop. It's time to let these kids have a normal life. It's time to let their families breathe.
We aren't moving fast enough toward energy independence. That's what this is all about. I know it, my son knows it. I'm not blaming anyone in particular. I'm blaming everyone. Enough...is enough.