There was once a time in my life where I asked friends and relatives to pick me up at the airport. Now, this seems as quaint a notion as spinning another album on the phonograph, or buying a new buggy whip.
“Round and round the automobiles go, and where they’ll park, nobody knows.
One of my jobs since abdicating the position of High Editor is picking up relatives — The Two Moms and our globetrotting daughter Blanche — at Denver International Airport, and saving them the cost of flying to the actual town in which we actually live.
This is necessary because The Wife, who I have said here before is as independent as a pig on ice, has specific dollar amounts Above Which She Will Not Go.
If the connecting flight to Our Town costs anywhere close to that of the long distance portion of the flight, and in many instances it does, or even more, her studied response is:
“What, are you NUTS? We’re not spending $200 on a flight when Dave can come and pick you up in Denver!”
Dave (that’s me) has plenty of time.
Problem is, when Dave comes to pick up one of The Moms or our much-traveled daughter Blanche, you never know whether you’re going to be able to park within sight of the terminal when you get there.
If you ask me (but not The Wife), the thing that makes it worthwhile to book a connecting flight for $200 is avoiding the hassle of checking in at a big airport, or getting your luggage and getting picked up at a big airport. It’s a breeze at airports like North Platte, Cheyenne, Green Bay, Peoria and the like.”
Then Dave whisks her away. ““Here we are, Mom! End of the line! Chop chop! Step lively! Here’s your Big Suitcase. Give that guy your ticket, and the nice lady with the wheelchair is waiting right over there. Now, don’t miss your flight, because sonny-boy is OUT’A HERE like STUFF THROUGH A GOOSE!