The Only Way To Fly!

I didn't yet tell you about my trip to New Orleans to attend the National Education Association Representative Assembly conference. I had gone for the first time to such a conference last year in San Diego. This year I was elected by my peers to be a state delegate to the NEA convention for two years. This year it was in New Orleans and next year it will be in Chicago.

I had lots of fun in New Orleans (although not as much fun as I had wanted...), but what I want to focus on was my flight to and from New Orleans. That seems to be the story I've been telling over and over.

To start with, my flight out of Seattle was delayed 2.5 hours. Right from the get-go I was behind schedule. My flight was to fly out of Seattle to Salt Lake City, where I was slated to have a 2.5 relaxing (if not boring) layover before getting a flight to New Orleans. But that was not to be.

As I said, my first flight out of Seattle was late. When I finally boarded the plane (a small plane that only had about 20 rows with two seats on each side of the aisle), I asked the flight attendant why there had been a delay. She honestly (but wrongly) informed me that the plane had had an "aborted take off" in Houston. Aborted take off? What does that mean? Did the plane actually begin to take off and leave the ground, and then had to return to earth? Or did something happen before they even tried to take off? Those details are important. But more important was: Has this plane flown successfully since then?

The flight attendant assured me that the plane had flown successfully from Houston to Seattle. I felt a bit better. However, given our delay in taking off, our arrival in Salt Lake City was approximately a half hour after my scheduled flight had left for New Orleans, and there wasn't any other flight to take that day. Delta gave me a $400 ticket voucher, a $6 dinner voucher, and put me up in a hotel for the night. I spent more than $6 on my turkey sandwich and lemonade...And the hotel was not that great...I also cried a bit because I was by myself in Salt Lake City instead of with my teacher friends in New Orleans eating Gumbo.

The next day, early, I caught my new flight that was to go from SLC to Atlanta. The plane was there without incident and boarded on time. I was sitting between two guys; the younger one was on his way to Pensacola FL to do work pertaining to the BP oil spill. That was interesting, but he was a quiet guy who didn't talk much. The other guy was a frequent flyer for business returning home to Atlanta. He was a reassuring traveler and somewhat calmed my flying fears. But I was travel-weary. And a nervous flyer. (In fact, last year when we all flew home from California, I insited on holding both my daughters' hands at take off. Stella wondered whose hand I'd hold on this trip...) The trip was a smooth one for the most part, except for landing in Atlanta. It was very bumpy. I was told that it is always bumpy flying into or out of Atlanta, and those in the know try to fly out of Atlanta in the early morning or late part of the day. By the time we landed and I got off the plane, I had a very short window of time to get to my connecting flight to New Orleans. I can now say I've been to Georgia, although I only went through the airport...at a fast pace. I did make my connecting flight, much to my relief. It was another small plane that seemed to just hit every mysterious bump in the air. It really was the worst flight ever. Eventhough it was only an hour flight. There were many times I was sure we'd be knocked right out of the air.

But we weren't. We made it one piece, and I got to New Orleans. I told myself that if my luggage made it, all would be forgiven. And sure enough, when I went to baggage claim, there was my suitcase with its "I Love Baggage Handlers!" tag. Not bothering with the line at the NEA shuttle booth, I just grabbed my suitcase and headed out to get a taxi. I made it to New Orleans, navigating through three unfamiliar airports on my own. I was quite proud.

But I haven't yet even gotten to the "only way to fly" part of my travel story. It happened on my return flight. I flew Delta airlines on my way down, but for my return journey I flew Continental (*note* Continental Airlines were on time with no problems). I flew out of New Orleans at 7:20 in the morning, so had gotten very little sleep the night before, and had gotten up early to get to the airport. My first part of the flight home was to fly from NO to Houston TX. This was just a one hour flight. I was nervous, though, because I only had about a half hour to make my connecting flight in Houston. After my recent experience, I fully expected to miss it.

The plane I was in to Houston was the smallest yet on my journey. Again there were only about 20 rows with two seats on one side of the aisle, and a single seat on the other side. I was in a single seat. In the last row. I had assumed that since we were in a smaller plane we wouldn't fly as high, but I was wrong. We took off and climbed and climbed, and banked at crazy angles. Finally we went through a layer of clouds, and it was bright and sunny. This is good, I thought. I could see land below, which always comforts me. Let's just stay here. But no, the pilot thought he knew better. He could go higher. And he did. He climbed up through the second layer of clouds. Now I couldn't see land below me-just clouds. That makes me nervous. But we did arrive safely in Houston on time, and it being such a small plane, it didn't take long to empty out (and now I can also say I've been to Texas). I did have to book it to my connecting flight, which involved follwing signs (Is gate D in Concourse D, I wondered.) and getting onto a train. But I successfully found my correct gate just as they were finishing boarding.

I found my aisle, and since I had a window seat and the other two passengers were already there, they had to move for me, forcing me to apologize and smile. As we settled back into our seats and put on our seatbelts, I began to chat with the pleasant looking gal next to me. She appeared to be in her mid to later 50s. She had a heavy Southern accent. Turns out she was from Mississippi and was headed to Seattle to welcome her son back from Iraq. As we chatted, I told her how nervous I get flying. She said she does too, and that's why she has Zanax (sp?).

She cast a glance at the big guy sitting next to her, and whispered to me, "Do you think he's a cop?" She decided no, or decided he wouldn't notice, and she pulled out her prescription container and shook out a pill. "Here," she said. "Take this. It will relax you."

I looked at the little harmless pill, and debated for a second. It seemed to go against everything I had been taught. But I was tired and nervous, and this was a long flight of 3.5 hours. So I took it. I didn't even have water. It was so little I could just swallow it with a minimum of bitter taste. Soon we took off, right on schedule. I was still nervous, and didn't really feel like I was feeling any effects. The plane (a 737 this time) took off and climbed and climbed. I still felt every bump, and when the engine sound would change, I would notice. But soon we seemed to level off. And I was tired. Really, really tired. I hadn't gotten much sleep the night before. And the Zanax was kicking in. My tray was down, as I had been given a light breakfast. I just laid my head in my arms onto my tray, and fell asleep. When I woke, I could see that we were flying over very dry looking country. I got out my flight plan map to try to determine where we were. I thought maybe we were flying over Wyoming, as much of that is dry country, but I searched in vain for the Tetons, seeing nothing. As I still pondered where exactly we were, the pilot makes an announcement that we will be descending soon! Really? We are already in Washington? Wow-I slept the whole way home. The dry countryside I was seeing was Eastern Washington, and soon Rainier was visible. Home sweet home. Landing is the best; it feels good to come down to the ground.

And Zanax? I'm thinking that it is the only way to fly!

Sometimes I'm Closed Minded

All right. Yes. I messed up.

I was summonsed back in April for jury duty. At that time, I didn't want to have to be gone from class. The state testing was coming up, and I needed to be in school preparing my students, as best I could, for these tests. So, I deferred my jury service. You can defer your jury time any time up to one year of the first summons.

For some inane reason, I chose July 12. Now, I had no intention of actually getting on to a jury. I've been on a jury twice before, so I have done my duty. I guess I chose July 12 because I thought (1) I'd just have gotten back from the NEA convention in New Orleans, and (2) it was the last week that my girls were involved in their summer stock musical camp. I figured I could report for two days and that would be it.

I reported on Monday. I sat around in the jury room, and eventually was called to be one of 35 potential jurors for a case. I was a safe 27. We were led to the court room by the bailiff. The case was a civil case; a woman was suing a major furniture/home store because she tripped on something metal in their parking garage. Even this trial was to take a week. Luckily, being number 27, I never really made it into the jury box; the jury was approved by both lawyers before my number came up. Good.

I reported back to the courthouse the next day. I sat in the same holding room, reading, until they dismissed us for lunch at 11:30. We weren't to report back until 1:30. Two hours. I went and got myself something to eat, and then went to the nearby outdoor mall. I got some items for my younger daughter who was turning 12 on Thursday. I eventually made my way back to the courthouse and checked in, where I continued to read. Finally, finally, they called out the names of 60 potential jurors. They called my name.

I went up and got the questionaire they required of us. Hmmm. The trial yesterday didn't have a questionaire. As I read the questions, I guessed the reason. The case yesterday was a simple civil case of a "fall and sue" type. These questions, however, were about child abuse, sexual abuse, sexual abuse of a minor, non-custodial parents, etc. I could guess what the trial was going to be about. No wonder they needed 60 potential jurors when the civil case from yesterday only needed 35.

After a bit, the bailiff led us into the courtroom. The judge greeted us, and then gave a brief overview of the case. This man sitting in front of us had been charged with the rape of a thirteen year old girl two years ago. I knew the case would be something like this, and I knew I could not be open minded enough to do this case, even if I wanted to. I had answered "yes" on the questionaire to the question that asked, in so many words, if we would be biased to a case about sexual abuse of a minor. Yes, yes, yes, I'd be biased...especially when the victim is the same age now as my older daughter.

So I sat through the opening intro of this case, and when the judge told us how long it was expected to go, and we were to speak up if this was a hardship, I remained silent. I knew from the day before that they would then be asking us if we could remain impartial with this case, and I would speak up that no, there was no way in hell I could be impartial, and they'd excuse me. So I just sat and listened while 25 of the 60 jurors gave their reasons why they couldn't be available for the case, and were excused by the judge.

Then, however, it was 4:30, and the judge decided to excuse us all for the day, and we were to come back the next day. Now the third day of jury duty that I had not counted on.

I came back the next day, the third day. I checked in and sat in the holding room. I sat and read, and sat and read. My butt hurt. Finally they told us that they were waiting for more jurors since so many had left the day before, so we were all excused for lunch until 1:30. 1:30? This was not my plan. I could see this day stretching out with nothing being decided, and then I'd be told to come back again the next day. A fourth day. And Stella's 12th birthday. No way.

I walked around town, going to a little bookstore and buying some books for my girls. It was a beautiful day-the kind of beautiful Pacific Northwest day without any clouds and temps in the upper 70s. I regretfully returned to the courthouse at the appointed time with dread in my heart. I could not let this continue on to the next day! Stella would cry.

I returned to the third floor this time and not the holding room. But still, I waited and waited. Finally about 2 pm the bailiff came and led us into the courtroom. The judge then called out the first set of juror numbers. That group was to remain in the courtroom. I wasn't one. I was glad.

Then he called out a second group of jurors. Those jurors were to return the next day at 9 am. I could tell by the numbers he called that these people were jurors who had reported that day for jury duty, whereas I had been there two days prior. But, still I thought maybe I'd be excused because of the way I had answered questions on my questionaire.

But no. The judge told us that anyone who wasn't called in the first two groups were to report THE NEXT DAY at 11 am. Damn! I just couldn't report the next day-it was Stella's birthday! She was already a bit disappointed that she had play practice that night so she couldn't go to the Rainforest Cafe for dinner. I couldn't understand why I had to come back when I knew eventually they'd excuse me because the defense would not want me on the jury.

So, when the judge asked if anyone had any questions, I was one who raised my hand. I asked if I could speak to the bailiff when we were through. A couple other people asked the same. The judge made a joke about the bailiff's popularity. When we finished, and walked out into the hall, I waited for the bailiff.

The first guy told her he was a diabetic, and wouldn't be able to handle the afternoons. Then it was my turn. I was shaking, but told her that not only was I a mom of two girls, one of which was the same age as the girl in the case, but I was also an elementary teacher. I told her that my whole life pretty much revolved around kids and keeping them safe, happy, and pointing in the right direction. I told her there was no way I could be open minded about this case, and I didn't even want to have to listen to any details. After listening to the third guy, she went back into the courtroom. About 10 minutes later she came out. She excused the diabetic. And she excused me. Thanks goodness.

That night on the news I heard how two guys who had been in prison for 17 years for the rape of a woman had been proven, through DNA, to be innocent. They were released. So it does happen that someone can be wrongfully accused, I guess. I just don't want to be part of it.