I abhor airline travel.  Like any type A personality, I resent subjecting myself to security protocols beyond my control.  I resent surrendering to cram myself, along with 100 other passengers, into an oversized sardine can, then hoping that everyone involved — from the mechanics, to the pilot, to the folks in the flight control tower — are all on top of their game, so that we can successfully defy the laws of gravity.  I far prefer driving, where I can either take control of the wheel, or exercise my compulsive supervisory skills by closely monitoring Bob’s foot on the gas pedal and nagging him accordingly.

But there’s more to flying that I despise.   I live in a world of crackling wood fires, recycled paper, strumming guitars, knitted socks, homemade broth and long bedtime stories.  Subjecting myself to airline travel means allowing my universe to collide with all that I try to avoid:  fast food restaurants, vending machines, packaging waste, sky malls, blaring television screens, non-stop advertising, families avoiding each other by absorbing themselves in handheld devices.  And all these onslaughts to the senses play out in an environment designed to keep everyone in the airport in the public eye, where they can be monitored for unusual or dangerous behaviors.  My body craves privacy in these settings.  I want peace, seclusion, a way for my eyes to avoid the flash of the television screens placed everywhere I turn.  To survive this environment, I have learned that the quietest, most secluded space to be had can be obtained if I sit down on the floor and wedge myself between the garbage can and the post beside it.

 

It was from this hideout that I waited for my boarding call a little over a week ago as I prepared to fly down to Atlanta for the annual Wise Traditions Conference, an immense gathering of home cooks, healers, farmers, medical professionals, chefs and families who come together each year to talk about food, health and healing.  It is an inspiring event, where I am able to learn just as much from chatting with conference goers at the breakfast table as I am from the formal sessions.  Calmed by the notion that I would soon be surrounded by kindred spirits, I pulled out a boiled egg and a baggie of coleslaw to nibble my lunch in my jury-rigged cocoon behind the trash can.

As I finished my meal, I noticed an elderly woman with straggly hair sitting near the gate in a wheel chair.  Her son was having a heated exchange with an airline attendant, trying to negotiate for her to have seating with a little extra leg room.  He was losing the battle.  The woman said nothing, but stared out the window with a blank smile on her face.  Soon after, a few uniformed attendants showed up to wheel her to her seat before the rest of us boarded.

 

Mine was one of the last rows to be called.  I joined the line of passengers and made my way down to the plane, hoping I would find a place to stow my backpack on this over-crowded flight.  As I made my way down the aisle, all the seats in my row seemed to be taken.  Except for one.  And sitting next to it was the woman with the straggly hair.  She was eagerly studying the face of each passenger as they walked by, apparently waiting for someone.  Her eyes met mine.  She became animated.

 

“Oooh!  Oooh!  Here!  Sit here!,” she exclaimed.  “I’ll let you sit with me!” as though she were choosing a buddy for her lunch table.  I glanced down at my boarding pass as her unwashed scent wafted up.  Apparently I didn’t have a choice in the matter.  Indeed, the computer had chosen me to be her seat mate.

 

I stowed my bag as she began babbling away.

 

“I’m Mrs.  Kennedy.  I’m flying to Las Vegas.  But I have to go on two more flights before I get there.  I’m going to see my other son.  I really miss my kitties.  I don’t like leaving behind my kitties.  I really love my kitties.”

 

I smiled weakly.  “Mrs. Kennedy, I’m afraid you might be sitting on my seatbelt.”  Unable to move herself, I had to gently hoist Mrs. Kennedy to the side while my hand scrambled around on the seat beneath her left buttock until i found my seatbelt.  Mrs. Kennedy didn’t seem to mind.  She continued to chatter.

 

“This is somethin’, ain’t it?  Ain’t it just somethin’? I don’t know why they put me back here.  They usually put me in the front.  I can’t move my legs.  I don’t know how they got me in this seat.  I don’t know how they’ll get me out.  But ain’t this somethin’?  Ain’t these airplanes somethin’?   We’re gonna fly.  I’m gonna fly all the way to Las Vegas. I sure wish I could take my kitties with me.  I do really miss my kitties.”

 

I nodded politely, then pulled out a Dan Brown novel and my iPod.  I plugged in, hoping to disengage.  I was relieved when she let me retreat to my world.  The plane took off.

A few minutes later, a flight attendant began wheeling the drink cart down the aisle.  Mrs. Kennedy began swatting me on the arm.  I pulled out one ear bud.  She pointed to the cart.  “What’s that?” she whispered.

 

“They’re going to offer drinks.”

 

She nodded.  I re-inserted the earbud.  She swatted me again, a tactic for getting my attention that she was finding very effective.  I unplugged once more.  Her eyes were wide, like she had a big secret to divulge, but she was unsure if we were in a safe enough location.  Just to be sure, she opted for hand signals instead.  She pointed to the attendant with the cart, then rubbed her thumb against her index and middle fingers, then widened her eyes even further in question.

 

“No,” I said.  “You don’t have to pay for them.”

 

“What can you get?”

 

“Juice, soda, and water, usually,” I said.  “Maybe tea or coffee.”  She nodded and waited eagerly.

 

When our turn came, the attendant served her first.  She asked for juice.

 

“Would you like cookies, peanuts or pretzels, Ma’am?”

“Oh!  Really?  I could have a cookie?  Oh, I think I would really enjoy a cookie!”

He gave her a package of cookies, along with a little red paper Coca Cola napkin decorated with white polar bears for the holiday season.  Mrs. Kennedy promptly turned her attention to her tray table.  I thought of all the chemicals, the gluten, the sugar in those cookies, and inwardly winced.  I just had water.  The attendant continued down the aisle.  Mrs. Kennedy began to swat me again.

 

“Hey!  Would you look at that?!  Ain’t this somethin’?”  She exclaimed, holding up her Coca Cola napkin with the polar bears.  “Ain’t they just so cute?”  Mrs.  Kennedy was beaming.  She was thrilled.  “I’m going to keep this.”  She pulled out her carry-on, which was a plastic grocery bag containing a few pages of a newspaper.  She carefully removed the newspaper, unfolded a page, then gently laid the napkin inside. “That’s just so darling.  Now how did they get that picture on there?  This makes me think of my kitties.  I’m going to keep this so I can think of my kitties.  I just love saving things like this.”

 

I imagined Mrs. Kennedy’s living quarters, crammed with saved garbage, bits of newspapers, and cats, as  I tried not to watch her tear into her cookie.  “Oh my!  This is just so tasty!”

 

I sipped my gluten-free, fructose-free, grain-free, chemical-free (I hoped) water, feeling guilty that there was no way I could recycle the plastic cup it was served in, while Mrs. Kennedy continued to rave about the sweet deliciousness of her cookie.

And then, a very important thought dawned on me.  I’m a jerk.  I’m so caught up in my wholesome little world, fixating on my purified little life, forging a path that is free of the chemicals and toxins rampant in modern society, that I am completely unable to travel through an airport and board a flight without experiencing distress about the pollution, the waste, or the invasion of my personal life by Coca Cola advertising itself on my cocktail napkin.

 

I thought more about Mrs. Kennedy sitting beside me.  How was I treating her?  I wasn’t being outwardly rude, but had I showed any real kindness?  Had I done anything to please her, or help her as she was shuttled across the country from one son to another, worried about her cats?  I thought about the graphic designer who may have come up with the polar bear cocktail napkin, sitting in his or her cubicle someplace.   He or she had done more to help this lady on her trip than the stuck-up, organic, recycling, crunchy brat sitting beside her.   So did the people in the cookie factory.

 

I finished my water, and spent a long time staring down at my cocktail napkin.  At first, I had thought of it as a piece of annoying promotional material.  But as I thought about what was happening around me, I began to see it as truly beautiful.  How could anyone throw out an object that had brought so much delight and comfort to the person sitting  beside me?  Heck.  That wasn’t a napkin on my tray table.  That was art.  I opened my book.  I could tuck it inside to keep it safe, then bring it home for the girls.  They’d like that napkin.  Maybe they could make a craft with it.  Mrs. Kennedy watched me.  Before I could close the book, I turned and met her gaze.  “Would you like this?”

 

“Really?  Do you mean it?  You don’t want to keep it yourself?”

My heart burst with pleasure.  “Absolutely not.  I want you to enjoy it.”

“Oh, thank you!  I love to keep things like this.  I’ll have it for my whole trip, so I can think of my kitties.”

 

A little part of me still felt strange.  If I succumbed to the draw of the Coca Cola napkin, was I giving up on what I truly believe?  I don’t want Coca Cola in my world.  I don’t want polluting air travel, either.  I don’t want to watch my fellow Americans make themselves sick on processed and packaged foods.  I don’t want those products polluting the world’s rivers, soil and air supply.  But I suddenly didn’t want to miss the chance to look at the world through Mrs. Kennedy’s eyes, either.

 

So I put my book away, then shoved my iPod back in my pocket.  I leaned back and settled in for the remainder of my flight with Mrs. Kennedy.  With a few more periodic swats to make sure she was holding my attention, she took me on a tour of her world through the airplane window.

 

“Look!  Behind us!”  She exclaimed.  “If you look back through this window, you can see the wing of the plane.  This plane has a wing!  Ain’t that somethin’?”

We watched the clouds, we studied the landscape as we began circling over Atlanta.  She marveled at all that I seek to avoid — the neatly lined up suburban houses with their postage stamp lawns, the sewage treatment plants, the other airplanes circling the airport.  She admired their speed, their colors, the miracle of their take-offs and landings.  She pointed out the beauty of the flowing traffic, the impressiveness of the mighty rumbling rigs as we drew closer to the ground.  She gave me a play-by-play on the progression of our landing.

 

I stopped thinking about recycling, about less resource-intensive modes of transportation.   I  stopped thinking about nutrition, about how to homeschool better, about how to make our family farm even more ecologically sustainable.  I just rode the plane and let Mrs. Kennedy be my pilot.  From her view, everything was a marvel.  There were no evil corporate bastards, power-hungry politicians, or polluting lifestyles. There was only a series of awe-inspiring moments.

 

Mrs. Kennedy has stayed in my mind all week since returning from that trip.  And I have thought, with some guilty pleasure, about how much I suddenly enjoyed those rumbling trucks and that Coca Cola napkin.  But how do I reconcile taking pleasure in this current consumptive world, when I so badly want to change it for something better?

 

I try to put that question to the imaginary Mrs. Kennedy, who now inhabits my mind. I picture her marveling at the creations of man – the trucks, the airplanes, the Coca Cola napkins.   Maybe they do pollute.  Maybe they do  manipulate through advertising.  But they are human creations.  And they are astounding inventions.  And if we can defy gravity with airplanes, and perform magic by putting polar bears on cocktail napkins, then the miracles I seek are equally attainable.   We can have good food.  We can have clean water.  We can find ways to live better.  And that, too, will really be somethin’.

 
This essay was written by Shannon Hayes, whose blog, GrasssfedCooking.com and RadicalHomemakers.com, is supported by the sale of her books, farm products and handcrafts. If you like the writing and want to support this type of creative work, please consider visiting the blog’s farm and book store.

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