I had no idea when I left home that August morning in 2000--cavalierly waving good bye to Brittany and wishing her well at college--that when I got to Chicago later that day and began training as a Flight Attendant with United Airlines, life was going to totally different over the next 15 years than anything I could have imagined.
The six weeks of training at United's world headquarters in Elk Grove Village, Illinois, was one of the most difficult experiences of my life! I was a fish out of water. A late middle-aged woman who had lived a life of strict routines, I was about to embark on a trip that had me rubbing shoulders with people I would never have sought out on my own and visiting places in a capacity which was NOT all fun and games like a vacation.
Only I didn't know that then. Good thing I had NO clue what was ahead of me or I might have decided the whole proposition was too overwhelming. Oh sure, I had been adventuresome when I left Rawlins just exactly 32 years before to go to Denver to work at a job I didn't have yet and live in an apartment I didn't know where--and most importantly of all, meet the man who would be my husband for 29 years and the father to my six kids. This experience going to United was a lot like that one in some obvious ways--a novice striking out into the unknown without a lot of preparation for what could possibly happen but positive it could only be great!
Good thing I was ignorant on both counts, as each of those life-changing experiences has added the dimensions to my life that would never have been there had I not been naive enough to believe that all would be well in the end.
And once again, it was. But it took a heck of a lot of effort and a long time to get where I finally felt like I was a viable flight attendant and not someone who was playing the part as an understudy among the professionals on board.
For years I always said every day at United as a flight attendant was a picnic. And on the bad days it was only a picnic that got rained on. I could always count on the sun coming out again.
As you know, that is no longer the case. I have only been going through the motions for the past couple of years until I can get to my "amended" 15 years seniority as a flight attendant--delayed by five months because of the major layoff following 9/11. That happens on January 6, 2016, just a little over a month after my 70th birthday--milestones both. So, I am planning to exit the aircraft shortly after that.
For the most part my 15 years at United has been a pretty good flight. I learned things about myself I didn't know before. And I learned things about a lot of other things I didn't know before, too. Some important. Some not so important.
Originally, I had planned to exit at age 65 right after my 10th anniversary when I knew I would be awarded wings with a diamond. I wanted that chip! Then because things were going pretty well and my health was still excellent when I reached "retirement" age, 70 sounded doable. However, I wasn't anticipating such a huge change when United merged with Continental. (I think of it as a hostile take-over, not a merge.) When it turned out to be BIG change, there has been a lot of turbulence and I am weary from trying to keep my balance in a job that changes on a daily basis. It is really time to go! Now I am counting the days from my REAL 15th anniversary this month to my amended seniority next year. Roughly 150 days....
For my 15th anniversary, there was no additional diamond chip for the wings. The wings aren't even the same as they used to be! Instead I was directed to an online catalog with "Premiums" for service anniversary awards. I picked a portable DVD player which arrived last week. It doesn't have quite the sentimental value my 10th year present was (a blown glass nativity which I love to display along with the rest of my "treasures" at Christmas). But, I didn't have a portable DVD player, and now I have one which I didn't have to purchase. I guess it's the thought that counts.
I'll let you know when I permanently fly off into the "Friendly Skies" of the wild blue yonder. You can be sure it will be with the sound track to Rhapsody in Blue playing in the background!
Life is good after all!
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Sunday, August 9, 2015
AUGUST 9TH....
I've been thinking a lot about my mother today. My brother Harold was killed in a rabbit hunting accident on this day in 1948. I wasn't quite three years old, so the memories I have are more than likely collaged from comments and event- telling from a variety of sources over the years.
When my dad died in August 1984 while we were living in Berlin, I returned to the United States by myself to attend his funeral. It was Dale Hamblin's job to drive me from Rawlins to Denver in order to fly back to Germany. I got "brave" and asked him to tell me what happened that sad day almost 40 years before that. What he told me gave me a clearer picture of what really happened and a sense of his deep love and concern for my family as he was there with Harold when he was accidentally shot.
But it is my mother I think about now. When Jeremy died, I so wished my mother were still alive (she had died three years previously) so I could ask her some of those nagging questions that blanketed my mind for weeks and weeks about HOW life could ever seem normal again.
Looking back, it seemed like maybe it wasn't something my mother wanted to talk about--my brother's death. She didn't often bring it up. But, I'll bet she would have given anything for someone to ask her how she managed to live through the loss of a child, a seeming impossibility to anyone who hasn't entered that sad circle of parents who have lost a child to death.
There was a box of Harold's things under my mother's bed. Now and then I would see her take out Harold's Sunday suit or some other item and just hold it lovingly in her hands. I would back quietly out of her room, almost afraid to say anything. But I now think she would have loved to talk about Harold and the few little articles that remained of his life.
Harold's Lionel train set was there, too. When my own little boys were at an age sufficient to play with trains, my parents brought it to them. But, it was old and not sleek like the train sets in the 1970's. I wanted my boys to have new stuff. So I didn't respect that gesture and left the set in a box down the basement until it finally disappeared, to where I do not know. I have regreted my limited expanse of understanding of that time and now would embrace it as something special.
I have thought of my mother's experience, and I wish I had been more perceptive--but I was a child and the youngest. Just didn't occur to me to remember my mother on Harold's birthday or recall his life on the anniversary of his death. (I'm sure Lois did, though, as she was always thoughtful that way and still put flowers on Harold's grave long after my parents died.)I know now those are very important days for the mother of a child who has died. So, I doubly appreciate when any of you contact me on April 2nd or on the 17th or 18th of July each year. It makes a bond of family remembrance which is important in keeping our family focused on the "forever" part.
Perhaps most of all I think about my mother probably NOT having a friend to her like Rosalie Hall was to me. That is not to say Church members, neighbors, even townspeople were not solicitous and caring to the Huggins Family during that painful time of Harold's death and beyond. But it was the constantcy of Rosalie's friendship and love during those awful, awful days, weeks, and months after Jeremy died that qualify her--on that compassionate dedication alone--for an exalted position in the world to come. I don't think my mother had anyone intimate to her life like that who would have listened to an aching heart, a grieving soul, and a hunger to just know all would be well--and responded to her, as Rosalie unfailingly did to me, with the loving words: "I care how you feel." Rosalie knew there was nothing she could do to change things, but that love--true Christ-like charity--could salve a weeping mother's heart. And it did.
How I wish that I could have eased my mother's aching heart by just asking about Harold or letting her know I cared that her missing him was bone-deep. Even years later. Compassion came for me much beyond her life on earth. It will be one of the first things I express to her when I see her again: "Forgive me for being care-less."
And she will.
When my dad died in August 1984 while we were living in Berlin, I returned to the United States by myself to attend his funeral. It was Dale Hamblin's job to drive me from Rawlins to Denver in order to fly back to Germany. I got "brave" and asked him to tell me what happened that sad day almost 40 years before that. What he told me gave me a clearer picture of what really happened and a sense of his deep love and concern for my family as he was there with Harold when he was accidentally shot.
But it is my mother I think about now. When Jeremy died, I so wished my mother were still alive (she had died three years previously) so I could ask her some of those nagging questions that blanketed my mind for weeks and weeks about HOW life could ever seem normal again.
Looking back, it seemed like maybe it wasn't something my mother wanted to talk about--my brother's death. She didn't often bring it up. But, I'll bet she would have given anything for someone to ask her how she managed to live through the loss of a child, a seeming impossibility to anyone who hasn't entered that sad circle of parents who have lost a child to death.
There was a box of Harold's things under my mother's bed. Now and then I would see her take out Harold's Sunday suit or some other item and just hold it lovingly in her hands. I would back quietly out of her room, almost afraid to say anything. But I now think she would have loved to talk about Harold and the few little articles that remained of his life.
Harold's Lionel train set was there, too. When my own little boys were at an age sufficient to play with trains, my parents brought it to them. But, it was old and not sleek like the train sets in the 1970's. I wanted my boys to have new stuff. So I didn't respect that gesture and left the set in a box down the basement until it finally disappeared, to where I do not know. I have regreted my limited expanse of understanding of that time and now would embrace it as something special.
I have thought of my mother's experience, and I wish I had been more perceptive--but I was a child and the youngest. Just didn't occur to me to remember my mother on Harold's birthday or recall his life on the anniversary of his death. (I'm sure Lois did, though, as she was always thoughtful that way and still put flowers on Harold's grave long after my parents died.)I know now those are very important days for the mother of a child who has died. So, I doubly appreciate when any of you contact me on April 2nd or on the 17th or 18th of July each year. It makes a bond of family remembrance which is important in keeping our family focused on the "forever" part.
Perhaps most of all I think about my mother probably NOT having a friend to her like Rosalie Hall was to me. That is not to say Church members, neighbors, even townspeople were not solicitous and caring to the Huggins Family during that painful time of Harold's death and beyond. But it was the constantcy of Rosalie's friendship and love during those awful, awful days, weeks, and months after Jeremy died that qualify her--on that compassionate dedication alone--for an exalted position in the world to come. I don't think my mother had anyone intimate to her life like that who would have listened to an aching heart, a grieving soul, and a hunger to just know all would be well--and responded to her, as Rosalie unfailingly did to me, with the loving words: "I care how you feel." Rosalie knew there was nothing she could do to change things, but that love--true Christ-like charity--could salve a weeping mother's heart. And it did.
How I wish that I could have eased my mother's aching heart by just asking about Harold or letting her know I cared that her missing him was bone-deep. Even years later. Compassion came for me much beyond her life on earth. It will be one of the first things I express to her when I see her again: "Forgive me for being care-less."
And she will.
 |
| Harold, Mom, and Georgia, who is sitting in the basket of Harold's bike. Maybe 1947. No date on the photo. This is in the backyard of our home in Rawlins, Wyoming. |
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