Category Archives: Personal Essays

Airline Food

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One summer, I believe it was between my freshman and sophomore years in college, I worked making airline food. I understand it’s hard to imagine that there are people who make that food. Who actually get up in the morning and get dressed and drive to a location wherein airline food is created, but it’s true.

Of course, this was back in the days when airlines still served food, even in the deepest depths of coach; hot food delivered on little TV dinner trays. These were also the days you could meet arriving passengers at the gate, and you didn’t have to take off your shoes to go through security, and box cutters were considered a perfectly reasonable thing to carry on a plane. So, you know, trade-offs.

The first thing you should know about making airline food is that Henry Ford was right: you can make anything on an industrial line. Cars? Ham & Cheese? It all works. I would stand there at my station and dish stewed apples into the tray as it rolled by, or place the congealed ham & egg “omelet” next to the biscuit, or the olive and cherry tomato in the salad. (This was before United figured out olives were costing them a billion a year and stopped serving them. It was the OLDEN DAYS. Also, everything was in black & white.)

The other thing you should know about airline food, at least how it was back then, is that regardless of the quality of the food, it all came from the same place. All the airlines contracted with this company (Marriott) to make their food. So if you were convinced that United’s food was far superior to Delta’s food, this may well have been true, but they both came from the same place. In addition, First Class food was made next to third-class rations. I’m not saying the quality was the same. I’m saying that the same people in the same kitchens would be producing, side-by-side, very nice and very craptacular food. It was a bit of a mind fuck.

Of course, First Class had its own “stations” where the food was assembled by presumably highly-trained, First-Class-caliber line workers. Being new and essentially transient, as most college students are, I was assigned to the Delta station, cabin class. Stations had about 4 or 5 people plus a lead. There were two ladies at my station: one from Puerto Rico who spoke excellent, if highly-accented and excitable, English, and one from Iran who spoke no English, who hated each other like East & West Coast rappers. (This was before East & West Coast rap.) Their hatred was amazing, considering there was no shared language, nor even a shared cultural animosity. As far as I know, there’s no Gaza Strip-type issue between Puerto Rico and Iran.

Most of the fights seemed to stem from control over the clean rags left at each station. There was always a box of clean rags every morning, enough to use to clean spills or wipe the station down, but not enough that each person working at the station could have “their own.” The first few people at the station would always grab a rag and tuck it into their waistband, and if you weren’t Johnny-on-the-Spot, you would miss out on your opportunity to have “your own” clean rag for the day. It caused a lot of ill will. One time Miss Puerto Rico threatened Miss Iran with a knife over a rag. She got sent home for the day, but she was back the next. Workplace security had not been invented yet.

Some days when I’m feeling particularly uptight over some work-related B.S., I try to remember the rags. It’s just a dishcloth, people. No need to knife anyone over it.

Of the two ladies, I preferred the woman from Iran even though I could never really talk with her. We communicated with facial expressions and smiles. Occasionally she would slip a treat from the line into my pocket, a cookie or a biscuit. She’s the only person I ever met who thought I needed fattening up.

Miss Puerto Rico was a talker, the sort of person who sort of claims you as a friend and before you know it you’re hearing the endless stories. My daughter wrecked my car. My landlord killed my dog. My (expletive) husband and his (expletive) girlfriend won’t move out of the garage. I was a young and impressionable audience. I might have even loaned her money once, nothing much, like a $20 or something. Whatever it was, it was worth it just for her sheer entertainment value.

Of course, this was back in the day when a pack of cigarettes cost 99 cents. The world was a happier, simpler place then.

Kati Irons is a mild-mannered librarian by day and scribbler of the ridiculous at night. She is currently homeless on the web, although she does have an ancient blog, where you may be able to read some of her classic works if they are not too encrusted with dust. 

Carrying Jayna

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I was recently asked what I love the most about my family, and I said “we work really well together.” We have good chemistry. I feel this chemistry the most after a foster child or guest has left our home, and it’s “just us” sitting in our space, being a family. We mesh well, we are comfortable together. We work well together.

We spent the past weekend in a cabin in the woods. Amidst the snow-covered terrain of Leavenworth, Washington, I took a hard look at what defines and creates our family dynamic.

We bought this weekend vacation at an auction. I pictured a long weekend of sledding, building snowmen, and lazy afternoons in front of a wood fireplace. When we arrived, we found 3 feet of frozen snow on the ground. It was dry and icy, and therefore no good for snowmen, but at least when you sunk to your hips, your pant leg didn’t come out soaked.

Our first obstacle was getting into the cabin itself. The bridge leading to the front door was covered in snow. The owners had warned us of this, and had described carving “steps” into the bridge snow, as a means of getting into the house. We weren’t exactly prepared for the hill from the road to the bridge (sinking thigh high with every other step), but we managed to get our belongings to the cabin on a sled.

When the belongings were in, Ryen had crawled to the cabin door, and all that was left was moving Jayna to the house, Jaime carried her . . . until he sunk in, and couldn’t step out again while still carrying her. You could see the fear on Jayna’s face and hear the panic in her voice. I stepped out and took Jayna from Jaime and carried her in the rest of the way.

Jayna does not mind looking at the snow, or even standing in it, but walking in it, sledding in it, being cold in it, does not suit her. She is not stable enough to walk on uneven or slippery surfaces. So, other than a 10 minute walk on a cleared and dry road, our outdoor time at the cabin was spent apart. Jaime and I took turns staying indoors with Jayna, while the other explored, sledded and on our final morning, played in newly-fallen snow with Ryen. Even then, our time with Ryen was limited, as it just didn’t feel right leaving someone “stuck” inside with Jayna.

Our family vacation felt little like vacation or “family” time. In essence, what we did was spend a bunch of money on the same thing we experience every day, just in a new location (and without feeling the need to do laundry or clean bathrooms). We were so limited by Jayna’s disabilities that we spent the majority of the time sitting together in front of the TV. I would have loved to cross country ski, or go for long hikes in the acres of forest behind the cabin with snow shoes on. I would have loved exploring, building and playing in the snow. I would have loved to recreate the family vacation I remember so vividly from my own childhood spent in the same tourist town.

The reality is, that no family vacation is ever going to look or feel like the ones I had when I was a child. The reality is, that someone will always be standing on the sidelines with Jayna. Someone will always be trying to find an appropriate place to change her diaper, or tube her, or locate the nearest elevator if the stairs are too steep. Someone will always be on her “team” when we play board and card games. Someone will always hold her hand while on the uneven surfaces of life. We will always carry Jayna. And when one of us can’t take another step, someone else steps in to carry the load. The reality is . . . that is our dynamic. Jayna is our dynamic. Our lives are spent celebrating her accomplishments and working around her disabilities. We are limited in our ability as a family because she is limited in her body’s ability to function.

And that realization makes my heart heavy.

Our family chemistry is still my favorite thing about us. We work well together. But outside our four walls, the world is not designed for us, and it will always leave me wanting and wishing for a day, when Jayna can carry herself.

Sunshine Glynn isn’t a writer, but wants to be.

Thirty Minutes

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It’s just before 8:30 a.m. I’m heading out of the subway and going to my therapist’s appointment when my sister calls me. “Celena, Dad started having chest pains. He called the ambulance . . .” Something in me breaks as I tell my sister, “I . . .was just at a Shiva for my friend’s mother last night . . .” Tina loses her barely composed voice and we both are crying. A stranger passes me by and quickly averts his eyes, embarrassed, and I think, My dad might be dying. I’m not embarrassed I’m crying. Why are you? My sister promises to call when she hears anything new.

Two weeks ago, I was standing inside my parents’ house in Maryland, looking out on my husband sharing beers with my father on the deck. They were talking about car insurance, and I remember being glad the two men I loved could enjoy a sunny day, drink beer, and talk about the mundane things in life with enthusiasm. I wonder at this moment if I’ve ever told my father I’m glad he loves the man I love. I wonder if he knows how much his opinion has always meant to me.

I enter my therapist’s building and the minutes begin ticking away. I barely know what I’m doing. Should I leave for Maryland now or should I just wait until I hear news? Should I go see my therapist? It seems dumb to sit and talk about myself for 45 minutes.

I remember a time, long ago, when I last felt this aimless and lost: I was waiting on hearing results from a biopsy about a lump that was possibly malignant. I had called my father and he had told me soothingly, “You don’t know anything yet. You can get scared about what you don’t know.” My father has a booming voice that sometimes intimidates people, but the sound of it comforts me. I want to hear my father’s voice again. I wonder if he is in the ambulance or on his way to the hospital. Is he awake or is he unconscious? Is he talking? Or is he hurting too much to talk?

On the elevator ride up to my therapist, I start thinking about dancing with my father at my sister’s wedding, having drunk one too many wines, and telling him “I love you” for the first time. For a moment I feel grateful that I had said those words to him, that no matter what happened, he knew how I felt.

Then I remember dancing with my father at my own wedding, which was only two months ago. Dancing to Andrea Boccelli’s “Time to Say Goodbye,” he twirled me around on the floor, and we both pretended to know Italian and belted out the words together. I didn’t want to be grateful that I had had that moment with my Dad, that he had walked me down the aisle, that I had seen him cry when I read my vows to my husband. I had meant to tell him that I loved him that day. I don’t know why I didn’t. Maybe I thought I would have more time to make it more of a habit.

When Janet, my therapist, opens her door, my face feels rough, splotchy with tears. I’m grateful that I don’t wear makeup at times like these, but then I wonder, Am I a bad daughter if I’m thinking about my appearance?

I stutter what’s going on. Janet nods quietly, allowing me to break apart in front of her. I take a seat, but I don’t know how to put into words what is going through my mind. My mouth is moving and I’m not sure of the words coming out. I know I’m talking about my father, but it’s not matching my thoughts. I’m telling Janet, “I don’t tell my father I love him enough,” but I’m thinking Daddy knows. He always knows how I feel. Doesn’t he?

I’m remembering myself as a kid, how my father used to carry me in his arms when I was tired and how this is one of the first memories I ever have. I remember how my father always knew to pick me up before I even told him I was tired. I remember how my father looked when I told him that I was leaving Maryland for New York; how sad he seemed at the thought of empty hallways and empty rooms, but he wasn’t surprised by the fact I was going to New York to be a writer. He seemed to know that’s what I wanted to do with my life.

When I was twenty-four, my job at the time was killing me and keeping me awake at nights. I had come home to Maryland for comfort. My father heard me tossing in my bed and said quietly through my closed door, “Celena, do you want to talk?” I remember sitting there with my father, at 7 in the morning on a Saturday, the cruel glare of the kitchen light hitting my eyes as my father told me, “I believe in you. This is just a job. It won’t defeat you.”

I tell Janet, “I was just at my friend’s mother’s Shiva last night. Our parents are all dying. Four of my friends have lost their parents this year and I was telling my husband, ‘We’re too young to be losing our parents’ and I know I’m wrong. There’s no age limit to when you lose a parent. It just happens.” In the moment that I say those words, I realize that I feel that way because I still think of myself as a kid, my daddy’s little girl. I always see myself in my father’s arms, being carried, but I know now that’s not who I am now. It’s what I can never be again.

In those thirty minutes when I don’t know what is happening to my father, my thoughts are everywhere, scattered pieces of my life with my father floating in front of me. In those thirty minutes, I see what my life was and is with my father. And in those thirty minutes, I imagine the future, whatever it is. If my father does survive, I imagine how much help my mother will need in caring for him and how I will have to be that help. If my father does survive, I will see myself more of a fixture in my parents’ home in Maryland, grateful for whatever time left I do have with my father. Then, I imagine what will happen when or if my father dies. I imagine how much it’ll take my breath away, how I’m not sure I’ll ever really recover from the loss of someone that’s protected me my entire life. I imagine how my mother will be without my father, how empty the house, how large the silence. I imagine how I will have to spend more time with her, help her as she transitions to a life without him.

I will learn that my father was lucky. He was sitting in front of the TV, eating a small plate of egg and cheese with his morning coffee. My father then felt a stabbing pain in his chest and called my mother, who was already at work. Haltingly, my father described the pain to her. My mother was alarmed and told him to call an ambulance. My father carefully got dressed, dialed 911. He opened the front door as 911 advised him, and sat on the stoop to wait for their arrival.

The ambulance will be there in record time, Franklin Square Hospital being only two streets away. My father will be grateful that he chose a house so near a hospital. They will bring him in and prep him for surgery as my mother rushes to be with him. He will get a stint in his heart to unclog his arteries. I will be on a train and with my father at the hospital later that day in time for the last visiting hours. He will feel bad that I came all the way down from New York to be with him. “I’m fine now. You didn’t have to go away from work.”

I will see my father fragile for the first time, tubes snaking in and out of his arms. I will see for the first time that he’s not always the strong man that I imagine. He is as fragile as the little girl he carried in his arms all those years ago. I will hold his hand. I will think the words in my head: You don’t have to be so strong now. I’ll be strong now for you and Mom. I won’t say the words because I know my father already knows this. He always knows how I feel.

 Celena Cipriaso has written for a soap opera (the one with the chick that got nominated 19 times), and her work has also been in Seal Press’ P.S. What I Didn’t Say, HarperCollins’ Yell-Oh Girls, Word Riot, AsianAvenue.com, and The Beer Sessions.

Pretty is as Pretty Does

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“Pretty is as pretty does.” What the hell is that supposed to mean to a ten-year-old?

“If you can’t say something nice, say nothing at all.” Oh, that one was productive.

“Men are like streetcars. When one leaves, another one comes along.” Well, kind of . . . sometimes.

“You have such a pretty face.” And the rest of me is for shit?

“Pull yourself up and be strong. You will get over this.” But . . . what if I’m not strong like you?

“Clean your plate.” But I’m full.

“Do you really need another helping?” But I’m still hungry.

“Never call a boy first. Let him call you.” Oh, and if he never does? What then?

“You know better than that.” Than what? I’m eight.

“Were you raised in a barn?” No, you raised me in our house.

“I swear, you’re going to walk down the aisle with your thumb in your mouth.” Well . . . that was helpful.

“I’ll give you something to cry about.” Trust me. I have enough to cry about right now. I don’t need something else.

“There are starving people in China.” And I can help them how? I’m five.

“If you know what’s good for you . . . ” Um, well, I don’t. If I did, I wouldn’t be doing this.

“Cigarettes will kill you.” And you didn’t stop because . . . ?

Mom: “Please talk to your children about telling me their church is the only true church.”

Me: “Please talk to your children about telling me I’m bad if I don’t go to church.”

Ad nauseam.

Wow. Sometimes we really do a great job of fucking up our kids! And other times?

“I love you forever, darling daughter.”

“I don’t like what you are doing, but I still love you.”

“How can I help you through this?”

“No one is perfect.”

“I’m here for you whenever you need me. Night or day.”

“I made mistakes when I was raising you.”

“I wish I had known then what I know now.”

“We all just want the best for each other, don’t we?”

From my mom in her last days: “Do you think I will go to heaven, even if I haven’t been to church in a long time?”

Me: “Yes, mom. You did the best you could with the information and knowledge you had.”

What’s my point? My point is exactly the last statement: “You did the best you could with the information and knowledge you had.” We all do that. Some of us seek out additional knowledge and information. Some of us don’t. Some of us flounder and wallow in our insecurities and ineptitude. Some of us just give up.

I guess I am somewhere in the middle. I refuse to accept the boatloads of guilt that could come into my life considering everything that has happened to me and to my children. I have done the best that I could with the information and knowledge I had at different points in my life.

And yes . . . how I wish I had known more when my children were little! Oh, I wish that above all. But we are what we are. We strive to grow and be better. We struggle. We fall down. And hopefully, we “pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and start all over again.”

I feel a song coming on . . . a very old song . . . pardon me while I go sing some karaoke.

Judy Ball is a wife, mom, stepmom, grandma, sister, friend, and working woman. She just tries to get it right most of the time, but knows she doesn’t get it right all of the time . . . and that’s okay.

Amy

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Everything was coming to an end: moving from Utah to New Mexico, leasing her condo, finishing residency, taking the test that would validate her status as an Internist. The test would take eight hours, and was the most difficult test she had taken to date. The school monitored when she studied, what she studied, how long she studied. Three months of studying with only short breaks had her almost as exhausted as the years of residency and 30-hour-days had.

We watched as she would fall asleep to awaken not knowing what day it was and sometimes not even where she was.

Medical school had been as rigorous for her as it had been for the rest of the candidates, except that in the middle she was diagnosed with lymphoma, the cancer that had only a few years earlier taken the life of her grandfather. We wept together and grumbled and wondered as she did the hair-depriving chemotherapy treatments.

When she applied for a fellowship the interviewer said, “I thought you had cancer during your schooling.” She replied, “I did. I took the treatments during a month of vacation.” And gratefully, she is now in remission. But, there was still the test.

Amy has always been conscientious about health and exercise. Exercise equipment, gym membership, jogging, cycling. While she was studying for the exam she would take regular breaks for exercise. She decided to enter the Bear River Brawl Triathlon, Sprint division, which took place two days after her exam.

She said she had done cycling and running, and running and swimming, but she had never done all three. In training for the triathlon she balanced studying and running and swimming and cycling, helping handle the stress she was under because of the testing.

Thursday came and the test took a lot, it was extremely difficult. She had little sleep the night before and because of the triathlon she got little rest Thursday night and Friday. She had to be at the race at 6 a.m. Saturday, so not much sleep Friday either. Then, after driving up to the race, she discovered she had forgotten her running shoes.

She did the swim course first, swimming 750 meters or a half of a mile. As she jogged up the sand to the cycling event she smiled and pressed forward. On to the bike with head gear and quick water and energy bites. Back 24.8 miles later, she was off in biking shoes not running shoes to complete the run which was 3.1 miles.

I waited at the red ten-feet-high and twenty-feet-wide inflated finish line as runners from the three events sprinted in, bent and removed the ankle tag that announced the race they were competing in. Husbands came across the line supporting their wives in the race. A young girl raced with her mother for the last 500 yards and both received the high five at the finish line. And I was waiting for Amy.

She came flushed, breathing labored, and running.  The girl next to her sprinted and crossed the finish line just a little before Amy did. Amy bent, removed the ankle bracelet and stood. I called to her. She came to me and fell into my arms, in tears, and then said, “I need water.”

Afterward, several times that day she said it was the hardest thing she had ever done: as hard as the medical exam, as hard as residency, as hard as cancer. But she did it. She crossed the finish line, regardless of how hard it was. And we all agreed that not winning, but crossing the finish line was the most important thing.

And then I thought how nice it was to have someone waiting at the finish line, when we all come across. And, what a comfort that hug would be. Knowing that life is hard, the hardest thing we have done; knowing that life is like a triathlon, with different events, and that we need to do our best in each event. But also knowing there will be someone there to hug us when we cross the finish line.

I promised my children that day that I will be there to shout, “Well done! Good job!” as they cross the finish line, and give them a hug as they pass in to the next event in their progression.

Nancy Plagge is a ghost writer emerging from a cocoon.