Joys of air travel – not

Recently, flying back here from Iowa and traveling east to go west, I spent several hours viewing the parade of the great unwashed in Chicago before boarding for the final leg. I found my seat quickly and was enduring the usual filling-up hubbub when suddenly a hush fell over the plane. All froze in place.

We watched, like cobras watch their pungi horn; a young woman had entered and was heading for her seat. Glassy-eyed and ashen-faced she hauled a screaming, kicking 3-year-old with her left hand; in her right arm she cradled a crying baby with the lungs of Pavarotti. Grandma trailed with an armload of baby bottles, toys and diapers.

Smiling maniacally she cheerfully informed everyone along the way, “Eighteen hours non-stop from New Delhi.” Closer and closer she came as gods, saints and lesser deities were invoked. From the section she just passed one could discern muffled sobs and a heartfelt, “Thank you, Jesus.” I too, mesmerized by her progress, stopped breathing, as I noted the several empty seats around me. Great exhalations from all nearby as she kept going. I even gave her a smile of sweet sympathy worthy of a Botticelli Madonna, or at least Lillian Gish, as I cooed, “Precious child.” Actually, I was offering a toast to King Herod.

Once airborne, my hulking companions monopolized the armrests crushing my limbs against my body until I felt trussed up like a Costco chicken. On arrival four hours later my legs and arms were in serious danger of blood clots. I had to be helped down the aisle feeling like the old lama in “Lost Horizon” (ask a senior). As for the new shops etc., I still can’t report as they were all closed for the night. Who cares? I was home.

The old folks home

The sign on my building announces to the world I live in a “Senior Residence.” This rankles me, but it reminds me of the day when many cities had worse signs. For example, a “Home for the Feeble Minded” was thoughtfully placed on the outskirts so as not to contaminate the good citizenry. In my neighborhood there was a Victorian mansion whose deceased owner had kindly turned it over to a more Christian purpose and, assuring the wrong class of women didn’t get in, had a large sign on the lawn proclaiming it the “Lucy B. Tyler Home for Indigent Gentlewomen.” It undoubtedly saved many lucky ladies of high birth but low finances from becoming companions, teachers or nuns.

Today we would use names like “Sunshine School” and “Tyler Terrace.” I agree with these changes, but many current substitutions puzzle me. For example, the rejection of the feminine form of various occupations. I have been told the terms in themselves are demeaning, but I could never understand that. Some, like waitress and stewardess, are completely forbidden, but somehow staffer, wait-person and server do not ripple off my tongue. My favorite example: “If you have any questions, please contact your in-flight passenger service representative.” Strangely, I heard that only once.

When “man” is an ending, it makes sense to change it; “firefighter” is a particularly good example. But stranger to me is switching completely to the masculine as with “actor.” In a recent article about films I first wrote “hero” then “hero/heroine,” but then pondered, “If there are no actresses, can there be heroines?” The linguistic gymnastics were so mentally exhausting I changed to “star.”

Back to my original problem. What might my building be called: “Senility Center, Bachelor Barracks, and Fogey Facility?” When you think of it that way, “Senior Residence” doesn’t sound so bad.