Illegal Foreign Object

I am in the back right row of a Southwest flight roughly 100 miles outside Houston, Texas. Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit fill my ears with the sweet sounds of “Alabama Pines” as I hurdle across the sky in a tin can built by the lowest bidder. I spent the last three weeks in Texas handling many of my dad’s affairs. There was a time when you’d have been wise to assume I was referencing his extramarital dalliances, but those days are decades old. Whatever is left of Dad arrived at my East Texas house in a USPS Priority package with a giant red sticker reading “CREMATED REMAINS” affixed to the side of it a few days ago. I’ll deal with the contents when I get back into town. Dad had specific requests for the scattering of his ashes, and I aim to see it all through to the end. I figure it’s the least I can do for the guy who taught me to throw a mean 10-to-6 curveball and pushed me down a flight of stairs about 6 weeks after getting run over by a truck. If you’ve never had a healing leg re-broken, skip it. You probably don’t see those two things balancing each other out, but there were a lot of layers to our relationship (some full of love, some of ’em rotten).

My time in Texas was meant to get my dad’s wife and my house and properties squared away (among other things). I had them living there for the last 12 years for lack of anywhere else to put them. Dad’s health was pretty rough for a long time. When I got into town, I hit the ground running with a list of 30 things that needed doing ASAP. In 21 days, I accomplished 20 of ’em, and I’m calling that a success. Everything else can wait a few months. I’m ready to go home to my girl, kid, and cats.

This is the first year I’ve felt like celebrating Christmas in at least a decade. Old trauma from a previous relationship that has seasonally bitten me on my ass is no longer present, and I aim to make this Christmas a good one. Call it stereotypical, but I want the tree, the wrapped gifts, the schmaltzy music, and for damn sure, the decorated cookies and hot cocoa. I’d also like to watch the old Frosty the Snowman and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer TV specials from the sixties, but who knows if those are even available anymore. I’m all but certain that some overzealous do-gooder has banged on a pan with a wooden spoon long enough (while haphazardly shouting words like “bullying”, “perverse”, and “blasphemy”) to get those shows deemed “controversial” for children.

Just touched down. I have a four-hour layover ahead of me. Here’s hoping the airport has a free recliner available.

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Update from somewhere over Nicaragua: two minutes ago, the pilot told the flight attendants to take their seats immediately. We now sway, slide, rise, and drop on the whims of angry, darkened skies. We’ll be fine — we always are. Plus, I popped a travel Xanax — I’m golden. It’s not uncommon for things to get a little bumpy around this part of the flight, and it usually lasts about 15 minutes before Zeus gets bored and goes back to picking on Guatemala. As an aside, Soulside’s A Brief Moment In The Sun makes for a killer plane-careening soundtrack. Seriously, the next time you’re moderately concerned about being thrown out of the sky, queue up “It’s All About Love” — it’ll get you in the right headspace for ‘everlasting life’.

If this is the last thing I ever write, I wanna go out knowing I described the recliner chairs in Houston Hobby Airport. I cannot express how good it feels to recline to damn-near parallel in the middle of an airport without getting down on what you know is a filthy floor. The recliners are also well-padded, but not so much that you feel you’ll sink into them. Level up your comfort with some pre-relaxation Chick-fil-A, and a nap is all but guaranteed. The only way the experience could be improved upon would be to move the chairs to an area with a bit more shade. I’ll be those things are a pancake griddle during the summer months for all the sunlight pouring through the windows in front of them.

Ah, and just like that, the bouncing has stopped. See, we’re good. Next stop: home.