[Since we made it home – at 1 am Tuesday instead of Sunday – it seems proper
to take a few days to relate “travel experiences” of others. Rod shares this
as a “true” story. I really believe him.]
It’s one of those ‘Polar Vortex’ days at the airport in the nation’s icebox
(Rochester, NY), and all flights have been cancelled or delayed. We’ve all
been sitting around the departure gate for our flight to New York City for
hours. Most of us have that pinched look around the eyes, but most of us are
resigned. That’s what happens in Rochester in the winter.
The intercom calls out our flight number for an announcement. Everyone
starts to line up at the departure gate counter in anticipation of some sort
of news. The intercom says our flight will be delayed yet another hour. The
frazzled attendant starts to try to attend to individual questions.
I notice the man in front of me in line is doing a barely perceptible jig. I
can see his neck is unusually pink just above the collar of his Brooks
Brothers suit and the arm holding his black leather briefcase is twitching
ever so slightly. He reaches the counter and the man uncorks! He goes
He demands to know the cause of the delay. He shouts to the startled
attendant that he must be in New York for an important meeting, and he’s
already late. The attendant tries courteously to calm him down. It’s a
national issue; the Polar Vortex grounding half the planes in the entire
He just gets redder in the face. He demands to know what her name is. He
shouts out for all to hear that he is going to write to the president of
United about this unforgivable snag that’s been thrown in his way. Somehow
he seems to be under the impression it’s all her fault and it’s a conspiracy
against him personally.
Miraculously, the attendant keeps her voice down and her courtesy quotient
remains steady. The man stomps off, muttering loudly.
I come up to the counter. I know self-control when I see it, and I can
admire a textbook case of how to stay cool during a seismic disturbance. I
ask the attendant, “How do you manage to put up with this sort of thing?”
“It’s O.K.,” she says. “He’s going to New York, but his luggage is going to
Dr Bob Griffin
“Jesus Knows Me, This I Love!”