As I climbed into the small airplane with the big propellers on the side, I pondered what I'd do during my layover in the Portland Airport. Thanks to a last-minute booking, my flight down to Orange County was going to run from Eugene up (away from LA) to Portland before heading back down after a two-hour stopover. Because $400 doesn't earn me a direct flight. I settled on passing the time doing this; Remembering and writing about my experience on this super-fast trip down to visit the family in Los Angeles. It's something I haven't done in nearly 4 years, school and a job having picked up immensely and preventing any kind of solid trip plans to be made. In retrospect, I'm sure I could've got more time off had I asked really nicely at work or buttered up my professors with false praises of their 2-hour-snooze-fest lectures... or something. Hindsight's 20/20.
My 6'2 body plops down into a seat tailored for the tiny people in the row in front of me. They look like 5'2 tops, and I muse that this is probably the only time their height is considered an advantage. I make a mental note of not helping a short person reach something tall to balance things out because how else do I justify smushing my feets into my backpack? Get the can on the top shelf yourself, tiny, be resourceful. The guy next to me is at least 6'4 with a golf shirt and khakis on, you know, that old world style.
I'm not really sure what it is about me and my seatpartners on airplanes, but I invariably have sat next to someone who recently lost a loved one on the last few flights. We discuss our trips, and it emerges that this'n's visiting L.A. for a memorial service for his father who must have been outrageously old considering this man's 50's/60's age. I tell him I'm sorry, and he replies with a, "me too" that leads into an awkward silence until I offer him my Rolling Stone magazine I'd recently read through thanks to a 2 hour wait in the Eugene airport. Planning is apparently not one of my strong suits.
The plane takes off and I'm going through my mind, looking for memories about L.A. before I eventually arrive there tonight. The first thing that pops into mind is my grandfather's love for constructing models of all sorts. His garage is home to numerous movie theaters (old style, of course, with the marquees and fancy signs. I wish they were still like this), a small town by the train tracks complete with its own train and little tiny people randomly placed around the streets. I remember how the garage always felt so hot compared to the house, heading out from the air conditioned comfort of the living room to go see Poppa's latest model was like walking from the fridge into the oven. It had a very distinct smell, something like car exhaust, glue, and old things stacked in boxes up to the ceiling. Ever since I was little, I'd always try and get into model making while down in Orange County, but I never got around to actually finishing anything because I don't believe there was any real interest in it. Maybe it just made Poppa happy, so I did it no questions asked. Plus, there was always an open box of Orange Soda in the garage too. Warm? Maybe, but still.
I remember that Poppa has massive calves thanks to a lifetime's work in the postal service, back before (or maybe not before) those workers got the neat little boxy cars to roll around in and deliver mail, my grandfather would walk rain or shine his route and drop off people's mail. This is not a job little kids usually decide they'll be when they grow up, and it's certainly not a major at college. It's a kind of work that's hard, probably sucks a lot, but needs to get done. This vigorous exercise is probably what's carried him to old age better than some, always having a strong speedy walk despite his aging body. My grandfather and father walk almost the same. I must make a note not to become another in this cycle.
I realize that I have no idea what my grandmother did. I remember her gnarled hands and stooped manner of walking, maybe a result of whatever it is she did. Hell, I didn't know much about my grandmother beyond her love for those murder mysteries that involved animals of some kind. Little old ladies love that shit. She also liked to wear curlers in her hair to bed, emerging from their bedroom every morning, hunched over and hitting the bathroom up before breakfast. I'd probably woken her up with noise from the tv room, or my sister and I playing pretend while we wait for the adults to get up. The last time I was in LA was for her funeral. I remember that pretty well.
The most recent memory of Poppa is his breaking down at Thanksgiving dinner having lost Grandma, thanking everyone for being together on the holiday and expresses his yearning to have his lifepartner back. There's this awkward moment where I don't know if I should say anything, and if so... what? How does one comfort someone who has suddenly found themselves alone after 50+ years of marriage? You can pat them on the back, sure, and say meaningless phrases from movies or what adults generally say. In the end, everyone just silently let him have his moment before moving on. I find myself hoping this is not going to be the grandfather I arrive to once I land in Orange County later in the day but I should be prepared regardless.
The plane lands and my layover begins. Flashes of memory, a grandfather clock in the living room, couches that find that limbo between comfort and discomfort, swimming pools, Disney Land.
Is my sitting next to someone on a plane dooming them to lose a close relative or loved one? Oh shi-
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