Looking out my Back Door: Little things mean a lot

When one has pared one’s life down to the bare essentials, little things take on incredible importance.

I arrived in Mexico City with 40 minutes to make my connection. Airports are designed in such a way that domestic flights and international flights are situated at opposite ends of the real estate. I think it is a universal law.

Having had previous experience with said law, I always request wheel-chair service. Rogerio ran, and I do mean ran, with me from deplane to replane. I was less worried about me making the connection than my checked luggage making the connection.

Rogerio deftly maneuvered me through the pack heading down the boarding ramp. Through a window on the ramp, I spied my two suitcases sitting on the tarmac, waiting to be shoved aboard. I crowed with delight. Out loud.

I’m too old to be embarrassed at my reaction, rather extreme. But, hey, I was excited. My body and my bags would arrive in Seattle on the same flight. A little thing. Big importance.

My son Ben and I had had numerous conversations about my arrival. He was going to take the day off work and pick me up.

“That’s silly,” I said. “I arrive at 8 p.m. By the time I get through customs, it will be after 9. I’ll take the Airporter transit. Probably arrive at midnight. You take the next day off.”

Somehow that passage translated to my son that I was flying Tuesday instead of Monday. A very little glitch.

At 9:45 my luggage and I boarded the Kitsap Airporter Transit van. A nice young man from Florida called my son for me and left a message so Ben would know to pick me up at the Keyport AM/PM. I arrived. No son. The very kind driver of the van made a second call for me, left a message. Ah, he must be on the way.

Perhaps I should explain that I don’t have a U.S. phone. I live in Mexico most of the year. It probably sounds incomprehensible to most people, but I get by.

After five or 10 minutes, I began to feel a niggle of worry. Another young Navy man was waiting for his ride. I requested he make a call for me, this time to Ben’s girlfriend’ phone. Left message. Waited. Waited. Worried. My son lives a mere half mile away, at most. I could almost shout and he would hear me. Theoretically. If he were not in bed asleep.

Kitsap County is Navy country. I could go any direction and be on a Naval Base within minutes. So it is no surprise when another young serviceman drives up. He sensed my worry, fear, despair, confusion. I borrowed his phone and called Ben’s dad. Left message. Waited.

Desperation began to set in when my son drove up. “You’re fired,” I said, as I fell into his arms for a hug. He had been asleep, he explained, rubbing his eyes. “I thought you were arriving tomorrow.” Oops. By then we were minutes away from tomorrow. We sorted out the mis-communication. Little things. Yep.

Today my son set me up with what is euphemistically called a “burner” phone. I buy minutes as I need them, just like I do for my Mexican phone. Little things mean a lot: little words, a little phone, a little wait, standing on the corner, watching all the cars drive by.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].