As I write, Jenni is sitting inside a Boeing 767, hurtling through night at 600 miles an hour 34,000 feet above the North Atlantic. She's on her way to Russia, where she'll be spending two weeks at a camp, leading activities for Russian children to help them learn English and a little teamwork, too. It's quite an adventure for her, while those of us left behind are worrying about bribes, kidnapping, corruption, stolen passports, and all of the other wonderful things Russia is known for. If all goes according to plan, Jenni's plane will touch down at Moscow's Sheremetyevo Airport about 2:30 a.m. Minnesota time. Then she's off to the Mr. English camp. Yes, that's the name of the organization that runs this camp. Apparently it's a large, well-known English school over there. Not exactly the sort of name that instills confidence.
My Fourth began at the dew-soaked hour of 5:45 a.m. Jenni woke me up so we could chow breakfast, say au revoir to her parents, and head off to the airport. Between stupid "express" check-in kiosks that didn't work, questions about frequent flyer miles, and attaching luggage tags, it took us nearly an hour to get squared away at ticketing. We steered away from the huge heard of sheep in the security screening line by the Delta counters and headed over to Northwest ticketing territory. Then it was a teary goodbye, and off Jenni went. Into the line...through the screening gate...belt off, back through again...beyond to collect her things, then one more wave goodbye before she disappeared into the terminal.
I stood there for a minute, thinking about her adventure ahead. It's never fun to be left behind. But that's life...and so it was back to the car to grab the camera. As a dutiful husband-to-be, I wasn't about to leave without watching Jenni's plane climb into the haze. So I wandered around until I found the elevators up to the top of the parking ramp. Level 7. Hot up there, under the already burning sun. Lots of long-term cars, but no people. Strangely deserted, even though nearly every spot was full. I found a great vantage point where I could see the plane at the gate and fired off a few shots. Watched it push back, heard the howl of the engines firing up, and watched it taxi. I've never see the airport so quiet. The Delta MD-88 had a wide-open taxiway and was first in line for departure. Ten minutes after it started to push back from the gate, it was rolling down Runway 30R (that's pronounced "three-zero-right"). I watched the jet, trailing smoky exhaust, until it disappeared into the haze. Jenni was off to Atlanta, where she'd connect through to Moscow.
Back to the car again, and a quick exit from the airport after forking over my $7 tariff for the goodbye and the departure spotting. Here was a holiday, a day off, and so far I'd kissed my fiancee goodbye to the clutches of the Soviets and paid seven bucks to do it.
So why not spend more money? I did just what Jenni recommended: Went to PetCo and bought another fish. A guppy, with a leopard-print tail and beautiful iridescent coloring. This brings the total number of fish in the tank to 15, after adding a rosy barb, dwarf gourami, and some little algae-eater, whose scientific name I can't remember, last Friday. Then went to Cub to buy ice cream at a BOGO-with-a-coupon sale.
Back at the homestead, the guppy was released into the tank. The zebra danio, self-appointed welcoming committee, chased the hell out of the guppy, who made a hasty retreat to the protection of the fake plants. He's been there all day.
Later, I went to St. Cloud for a family gathering and delicious food. Saw two bald eagles soar down the river valley at eye level - very appropriate for today. Back home this evening, checked the progress of Jenni's flight on Flight Aware several times, and eventually dragged myself out for a quick jog at nine o'clock.
The neighborhood was typical Fourth in suburbia. Clouds of smoke hung over backyards; I caught whiffs of tangy sulfur as I ran. Through the park, the path bore the scars of pyromania: white-gray burn marks and blown-up bits of cardboard. Further along, a backyard family gathering was in full swing. Some bright-witted adult gave all the kiddies - some who were clearly not older than kindergarten-age - sparklers. They pranced and squealed while sparks flew. Injury seemed inevitable.
Later on, I saw more "fireworks"...the legal (boring) kind that spout vibrant glowing embers onto the driveway. When will Minnesota's legislature stop saving us from ourselves? I say, legalize all of the fun fireworks (bottle rockets, roman candles, low-grade explosives, you name it), give us the annual lecture about being careful, and turn us loose to let natural selection take its course. We swim at our own risk...why can't it be the same when it comes to blowing things up?
It's after 10 now. Full-swing firework time. Time to click on the news. Meanwhile, Jenni's plane is well off the Newfoundland coast, six hours out of Atlanta, with another four to go.
Think I'll have some ice cream.
1 comment:
Great photos
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