I look around me. I’m traveling first class, which I think is a mistake, but I’m going with it. I typed in my origin and my destination into our corporate travel web site and this is what came up. First class. I’m going to play along until someone stops me. This is what I see around me. Three older white men sleeping. Hands crossed in laps, head bowed. Two men (plus me) working on laptops. One on a work document, one organizing downloaded music files. And me. Observing them. One man reading the NWA magazine, concentrating on the article “A Ticket to the World,” news about Northwest’s partner airlines. Or maybe he’s sleeping. No, he’s really reading. Not sure why, but he is. Now he’s studying the types of planes Northwest flies. 16 747-400s. 17 747-200s. 8 A330-300s. 22 Dc-10s. 72 757-200/-300s. 148 A319/A320s. 164 DC-9-10/-20/-40/-50s. 36 RJ-85s. 94 CRJs. 64 Saab 340s. And the North American route systems. Where the hubs are. Where the flights go to. Now he’s joined the ranks of the sleepers. A man to my left, reading a paperback novel. Tom Clancy, perhaps???? Why am I the only woman in first class? The man next to me, awake now, listening to his iPod. Scanning through artists, selecting the one perfect one. Still scanning, still circling. More, more, more. Stop. Yes, that’s the one. Wish I could tell you what he was listening to, but can’t see it because of the glare. Two men in front of me, talking about a radio campaign. One sniffing a lot, as though he’s done too much cocaine in his lifetime. “Yeah, that’s what we’ll do. Rad, man. Yeah. That’s it…” sniff, sniff, sniff…. A gnat flying around. I’ve tried to swat it several times, unsuccessfully. There it goes again. Fly, fly, fly…. Over my wine glass, over the man sleeping next to me… Fly, fly, fly… I’ll get you. Yes, I will.

I’ve currently read a string of unusually really good books. Word Freak, about professional Scrabble players. Middlesex, about a Greek American hemaphrodite growing up in Detroit. Currently, Eats, Shoots, and Leaves, The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation. I love punctuation; I love language. Knowing this, Emmy gave me a book about the history and nuances of punctuation for my birthday. And I love it. My favorite quote from the book so far, “In fact one might dare to say that while the full stop is the lumpen male of the punctuation world (do one job at a time; do it well; forget about it instantly), the apostrophe is the frantically multi-tasking female, dotting hither and yon, and succumbing to burn-out from all the thankless effort (p. 46).” Long live the apostrophe.

Airports also provide an unprecedented arena for people watching. I see single moms, trying to comfort uncomfortable children. Children screaming, wailing, wanting to be anywhere but in an airport. I see couples, about to be separated, exchanging hugs, tender embraces, kisses, sweet nothings. I see business travelers purposely striding to their gates, anxious to leave their business city and return back to their home. I see vacationers, relishing the last moments of freedom before returning to the mundane existence of day to day life. But best of all, I see.

Walking to my hotel room, I saw the sign on the conference room door, “Hooters of America.” Curious, I glanced in. Yep. Middle aged beer belly white man interviewing fresh young things. It couldn’t get any better than this. I’m always thinking “What if….” What if I got laid off tomorrow? What would I do? Where would I go? Did I want to be a Hooters’ waitress in Detroit? The days are long, the nights are cool. Could be just as interesting as my year in Korea, come to think of it.

“Welcome to Detroit, where we have two seasons, winter and construction,” my aunt greeted me. True, so true. I haven’t seen a flake of snow, but have seen fourteen roadblocks, detours, and miles upon miles upon orange barrels upon my arrival into the Detroit metropolitan area.

It’s true. Construction everywhere. In the one mile drive to the Mervyn’s store, two detours. It’s good to be orange in Michigan.

I love airports. The combination of hope and possibility. Yes, I was scheduled to go to Detroit, but where would I end up? I stared at the departures’ board. Amsterdam. Atlanta. Baltimore. The list continued. Seoul. Singapore. What if I simply went up to the counter and told them I wanted to change my ticket? No more first class to Detroit. Let’s go to Walla Walla instead.

My favorite sign from Sunday’s Gay Pride Parade:

“I love my wife!

I love my life!

You can’t amend that!”

We went to see The Twilight Samurai at the Balboa, one of the old movie houses of San Francisco. Having come straight from work by way of happy hour, I was starving. I ordered a medium popcorn. It came to $3. I commented what a bargain it was. The concession boy offered, “Well, you could have gotten this tub (pointing to the super sized gallon receptacle) for only a dollar more.” I stared at its vastness. “Uhm. Thanks, but there’s no way I could eat all that popcorn.” He countered, “Well, eat what you can, take the rest home for the kids.”

Kids? How old did he think I was?

I mentioned this to Emily as we took our seats. “Lori, please.” Yes, I was vindicated. Emily would confirm I didn’t look old enough to have children. That’s what best friends are for.

“Lori. Not only are you old enough to have kids, you’re old enough to have kids that work at this theater.”

Ouch.

They surrounded me. The little girl, no more than 6, sat facing the back of the bus, wrangling for attention from the two boys, maybe 8, maybe her brothers, behind me. I tried to read my New Yorker, but their conversation was much more engrossing. One of the boys related the story of how he no longer shops at Ross because he pissed on the manager’s shoes and was escorted out. What???? I so wanted to turn around and see the teller of said story. They then turned to “yo momma” jokes.

“Yo momma’s so old I took her to see Jurassic Park and she started having flashbacks.”

“Well, yo momma’s so old I told her to act her age and she done died.”

It just wasn’t as fun when they got off the bus.

“What do you do with a gift that was meant to be practical, but is so beautiful it’s impractical to use?” was his question as I answered the phone. I squealed. “You got them! Do you like them?” For Father’s Day I had selected the most scenic shots of our trip through Korea, China, and Hong Kong and created note cards, complete with my Chinese seal. “Lori, I can’t use them. They’re works of art.” “Dad, you have to use them. I’ll make you more once those are gone. I’m glad you like them. Happy Father’s Day.”

After we hung up, I thought about all the gifts he has given me. The tangible items, the stuffed animals, the pearls, the books, but more importantly, the intangible ones. My goofy sense of humor. The importance of giving back to my community. The one thing I appreciate most is the love of language he instilled in me, from as far back as I can remember.

What stands out the most is the dinner table stories. Some really were stories, others were plays on words, jokes, puns, or riddles for us to solve. Every night Ashley, my younger sister, and I would plead, “Oh, Daddy, tell us a funny story, pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeease.” He would laughingly protest, stating he couldn’t think of one, but we knew better. Normally, Ashley and I were in competition for just about everything – attention from our parents, neighborhood friends, piano accolades, but this was one rare time in which we bonded together to achieve a common goal. Tugging on his arms, in our best convincing whines, we would respond, “You do! We know you do! The one about the jungle, the one about the baseball player, or just make one up.”

See, we already knew the stories. He told the same ones over and over. But we never tired of them.

The playful bantering would last a few minutes until, with feigned exasperation, he would give in, push his chair back, and begin to “think” of a story. Our eyes never left him in this preparation stage until the silence was broken. “Once upon a time…” his stories always began in his gentle southern drawl, “…there was a baseball player named Milt Famey.” We erupted into giggles. Mom laughed softly, rolling her eyes, wondering if this time he would deliver the punch line in its entirety.

Milt was a star pitcher, a great pitcher, one of the greatest pitchers in the history of baseball. Just this past season, Milt was the winning pitcher for 35 games in a row. That’s got to be a record, more than any other pitcher, probably better than any other two pitchers combined. He was voted MVP, that’s Most Valuable Player, girls, in the National League. Needless to say, his team was in the World Series. His manager promised Milt that he wouldn’t have to pitch more than three games in the Series, and never two consecutive games.

“Why, Daddy? Why wouldn’t his manager play him every game? He was the best wasn’t he?” my sister and I would interrupt. Mom intervened, “Shhhh, girls, let your father tell the story.” We assumed this was because she was as enrapt in the story as we were, but later learned she didn’t want Dad to get sidetracked by our questions, lest he botch the punch line yet another time.

Girls, star players get treated very specially, and that was one of the ways the manager looked after Milt Famey. Well, the World Series was being played in Milt’s home town, so he left a few days before the team and drove there himself, you know, to visit friends and family, and of course, admiring fans. The manager decided to rest Milt the first game of the Series, figuring another pitcher could do just as well. The manager figured wrong. Milt’s team lost that first game, 6-0. Milt knew he’d be pitching the next game, so he rested up real well. He came to that second game of the Series and pitched like the fans had never seen before. Milt’s team won, 4-0. The fans went wild.

At this point Ashley and I mimicked the roar of the crowd, “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!”

Milt had one slight character flaw. He liked to celebrate after he won a game. He didn’t celebrate some, he celebrated in excess. And the way he celebrated was to go out and drink beer. Not any type of beer, mind you, but the cheap kind, the kind that is sold by the case, real cheap, at the grocery store. So that night Milt went out and partied, knowing he wouldn’t have to pitch the next game. During the third game another pitcher took the mound, and what a disappointment. He couldn’t throw a strike to save his life. The fans kept hollering, “Milt Famey! Milt Famey!” but the manager knew he had made a promise to Milt and didn’t want to break it. After all, Milt was his star player, so he had to treat him extra special. The fourth game of the Series arrived and Milt was the pitcher on the mound. Another spectacular performance. Now the Series was tied, 2-2. Milt was quite happy with himself for pitching two great games during the World Series, so again, he went out and celebrated big time. Beer, beer, and more beer. Empty beer cans scattered all over his hotel room. But he felt safe, knowing he had a few days to recover before he would have to pitch another game. The fifth game came and Milt didn’t pitch; he watched the game from behind very dark sunglasses, nursing quite a hangover. The other pitcher did a respectable job, but not respectable enough. Milt’s team lost, 7-6. Milt knew he would have to pitch the sixth game, and he’d have to continue his spectacular performance or his team would be out of the Series. Never fear. Milt arrived to game six as fresh as a daisy, pitching like there was no tomorrow. Milt’s team won the sixth game, tying the Series 3-3.

Dejected, the fans slowly left the stadium, not believing their star pitcher had let them down so. As the fans walked through the parking lot, they saw Milt Famey’s car parked right at the entrance to the stadium. As they strolled over to get a closer look, they noticed a couple of empty beer cans on the pavement. As they neared the car, they stared in utter disbelief at the hundreds of crushed beer cans crowding Milt’s car. One turned to the other and said, “Well, that’s the beer that made Milt Famey walk us.”

Ashley and I squealed with delight as Daddy successfully delivered the punch line. Then we repeated the punch line ourselves, “That’s the beer that made Milt Famey walk us,” letting the words roll over our tongues before cackling and in tandem exclaiming, “The beer that made Milwaulkee famous,” a popular advertisement of the day.

The punch lines of Dad’s stories were the same, the stories supporting them often changing at his whimsy. These were my introduction to homophones, alliterations, irony, plays on words, and many other elements of language. As I grew older, the stories and jokes evolved into debates and arguments, but the passion never subsided. Thanks, Dad.