My husband’s recent travel schedule has kept him on the road (or in the sky) every week for the last two months. The regional trinkets he showers upon us on his return serve as a travel log: Lone Star sheriff badges, t-shirts from Oakland, California, “moose” droppings from Minnesota. It’s a virtual touch and feel scrapbook of his cross-country jaunts.
As a frequent flier, he boards quickly, hunkers down in his seat, opens his laptop and makes himself as inaccessible as possible until he can fall asleep. Unlike me who treats air travel as a game of “meet your neighbor,” he uses time in the air to decompress with as little conversation as possible. Which is why his text tonight surprises me. His response is one I sent earlier about how he enjoyed his flight.
My RAOK for the day was talking her through the turbulence.
I immediately text back that he’s making the blog. For sure.
Chaz’ seatmate from Chicago to Minneapolis was a white-knuckle flyer returning home after a weekend of wedding planning with her daughter. “She’s not a girly-girl,” she confided to Chaz. The two women spent the weekend visiting florists and choosing flowers for the reception and ceremony.
Every time the plane dipped her fingers curled around the front of the armrest. With every bump, Chaz, my non-flight-talking-husband, engaged her with conversation of flower arrangements, centerpieces, and “other stuff you need at weddings.”
He learned more about wedding flowers in his two-hour flight than he did when we planned our wedding thirteen years ago.
As the plane taxied to the gate, the lady turned and thanked him. “I knew what you were doing,” she confided. I imagine she patted his hand in a grandmotherly way.
To be clear, what he was doing was our family’s daily random act of kindness. Welcome to the friendly skies!