Holey Clogs

Months ago when we booked our flight to the United Kingdom, only God knew that we would be flying on the day the London Heathrow terrorist plot broke loose, and therefore all airports and travel were a mass of confusion. Throughout our departure day we fielded calls and e-mails from concerned friends, family and neighbors. Would we still go?

We concluded this would actually be a very safe day to travel. And by the time we arrived at the airport later in the day, it was a pretty quiet place. Over half of those booked on our flight had canceled. Were we smart, or were they the smart ones?

The actual boarding process was what brought us back to the reality and gravity of the situation. We were ushered into a small, stifling room where 12 men (police, FBI and federal marshals) lined the entrance and stared at us as we moved slowly towards a table manned by about eight security people. They searched every part of our carry on luggage as if looking for a priceless treasure. No liquids allowed of course––not even chapstick!

It did make us feel rather safe and throughout the flight we made a sort of game of guessing who was our in-flight sky marshal. We were sure there was one.

Our first introduction to Lizzie and Oliver's mum was when we found her straddling a bank of seats, trying to squeeze two good-size booster seats and carry-ons into the overhead compartment. More of her strawberry-blonde, frizzy hair escaped than was held in by a big barrette as she flashed us a smile of thanks as we assisted her. She was obviously one of those persons who was very at home with herself, full of personality, and "didn't know a stranger." That personality spilled into her two tousled blonde-haired children––Lizzie, five, seated on her mum's far side, practicing her reading from an old Lady bird reader; and Oliver, seven, who sat across the aisle from us, intent on engaging us in conversation. All three were wearing those trendy plastic, bright colored clogs covered with holes. They were headed for a wedding. Dad, presumably American, was coming a week later.

Oliver was cunning, witty, and, with a twinkle in his eyes, made us laugh. While our big old airbus waited over an hour on the tarmac for a storm to pass, we discussed all kinds of things and told stories and jokes. While still a kid, Oliver was definitely at home with adults, and not shy at all. We won't soon forget him. "So, do you have another joke?" He kept plying for more, even though he didn't "get" all of them.

Once we got in the air, we flew right through the same storm we'd sat through on the ground. There was much banging, creaking and rattling in the cabin. Oliver's mum, a Brit, leaned over to us. "Have you flown US Air before?"

"Yes, many times."

"Do you generally get there in one piece?"

"Yes," came our reassurance, though at that moment we had some question. We did arrive safely. And thankfully. Now to face the return trip. This time we may only be allowed to carry on a clear zip lock bag. And no chapstick of course.