Comedian Louis Szekely, known professionally as Louis C.K., believes that we live in a world of momentous technology that is wasted on the biggest group of unappreciative babies. I know with chemo and “mom” brain I can’t recite his sentiments verbatim, but I do my best relating Mr. Szekely’s thoughts. I tell my children on the way to the airport, “People talk about delays. You can get from New York to California in five hours. Before, it would take thirty years, and people would die or give birth on the way. You end up getting there with an entirely new group than you started with. Now you can pretty much watch a movie, use the bathroom and you’re home.” It truly helps put things perspective.

“B.C.” (before children) flying was a completely different adventure. “B.C.” I would take reading material that I would actually delve into, wear highly inappropriate shoes and eat assorted “adult” munchies instead of being armed with Cheerios, fruit snacks, and
apple juice.

My first major solo flight as a young adult was to Rome, Italy. I sat between two Italian men that could not speak a word of English. I fell asleep and woke up to find the man to my left stroking my hair. With his fingers still embedded in my HUGE 80s hairdo that had its own zip code, I quickly grabbed my “Learn Italian in 10 Minutes a Day” book. I soon regretted that before the trip I’d opened it an average five minutes a week, but somehow managed to firmly say, “Tenere le mani a posto.” (Keep your hands to yourself.) At that point I thought it best that I inch my way closer to the older gentleman to my right. He was excited to show me something he bought and leaned over to produce a plastic bag from under his seat. He opened it to reveal a heap of crustaceans and a foul stench. It took me a moment to contemplate whether it was best to stick with the man with smelly crabs or head back to the one that could give them to me. Smelly crab man won out. I truly believed that nothing could top the odor of crabs on a nine hour flight until I sat next to a woman who continually fed grapes to her pet ferret. We ended up hovering over Atlanta for three hours. You will understand why the little varmints ended up on my “no way in &^%$ we will ever own one of these” list.

Years later I was blessed to have the opportunity to take my children to Rome. There was a massive delay, and we had to be rerouted to Germany. After my dark-skinned, Mediterranean-looking daughter was “randomly” picked for a pat down at the security checkpoint, we boarded. Our first major priority was to sit together. I knew it wouldn’t be a problem. If someone refused to change seats, I would calmly tell them how best to deal with a preteen with severe motion sickness and would hand them a half-dozen “barf bags” to be on the safe side — works every time.  

Hours and hours and hours later, having lost sleep, one DVD player, the contents of Lauren’s stomach (I wasn’t kidding about the motion sickness) and a boarding pass for our next flight, we arrived in Germany. Knowing we had six hours before our flight to Italy departed, I had grand thoughts of us seeing the sights of Munich. Instead we spent the ENTIRE time in the airport trying to get a new boarding pass. My child’s diary was not filled with images and stories of Europe that day. It read, “The people here in Germany are mean. And I counted four people who didn’t wash their hands after going to the bathroom.”

You don’t know what you’re made of until you’ve taken three children through the Atlanta airport. That being said, there is a part of flying that I LOVE. I enjoy looking around the plane and watching the interaction of people sitting next to each other bonding. Out in the world without turbulence, slight delays and $3 pretzels, they might pass each other by. Recently on a flight home, I watched a tattooed 6’5” gentleman with earrings protruding out of all sorts of places, showing photos of his kids to the grey-haired grandma sitting next to him. My girls, who get lost in their electronics on flights, always ask me why I usually end up hugging the person I’m next to. I guess I’m just lucky, and like comedian Louis C.K., I appreciate the true miracle of flight. We are sitting in a chair in the air — it’s pretty incredible. So bring on the delays and the temporary frustrations, and remember you’re heading toward loved ones, adventure and
times remembered.

“Hello, daddy.” It was the small, high-pitched voice of my daughter coming through my cell phone as I was driving.

“Hi, Elizabeth. How are you this morning?” I had left the house before she woke up. Hearing her voice raised all kinds of thoughts and emotions. Particularly, the need for a good explanation of why I’d left for a trip to begin with.

“Good. How are you?” 

“I am doing fine. I’m driving right now,” I explained. “I am so happy to hear from you. Are you ready for school?”

“Yes. I miss you.” Ouch. Those three words are a vacationing dad’s kryptonite. I missed her too.

I was headed out on an annual trip to the Appalachian Trail. My friend Brian and I have been hiking since we were in college and, with some interludes, have made a tradition out of our hobby with an annual trek. This year would be a seven-day adventure in southern Virginia. I was looking forward to the trip because I would get away from the office, and it was a small fulfillment of a dream to complete the entire Appalachian Trail. But at the same time I was dreading it, because it meant so much time away from my family.

As I was driving and remembering my daughter’s voice I asked myself: how is my enjoying a hiking trip a benefit to my children? My dilemma is obviously not as difficult as what other fathers have to go through. Fathers have to leave for military service, travel for jobs, and are separated because of divorce. My separation was voluntary, but created a dissonance. 

I needed a reason beyond my own happiness — I wanted to know my time away would benefit my family in some indirect way. I found what I was seeking through the brief passersby and locales on the trail — two sisters, a father and son, and a community long abandoned. 

The two sisters, traveling the trail together, were completing a dream that had begun over forty years before. They had started hiking with their parents, and continued when they were adults, attempting to hike the entire Appalachian Trail. But that attempt ended in central Virginia. Husbands, children and life got in the way of going back again. Now in their early sixties, they were still hiking, again trying to conquer the more than 2,000 miles of trail.  

The father and son were continuing a tradition started when the son was just a boy. Now he was married and still hiking with his dad. This sport was the bond between the two and kept their relationship alive. Anyone who knows the ebbs and flows of fathers and sons can understand that this is an accomplishment.

The long-abandoned community was a settlement of freed slaves who lived along a creek near the base of a mountain. Though nature had now reclaimed most of the property, the community was still alive in the stories and remembrances of those who once lived there.

So how do these three interconnect? The sisters taught me that a lifetime dream is something to be pursued, and although family can cause roadblocks to that dream, they can also help facilitate it. The father and son taught me that things important to us are worth sharing with our children, and that giving them dreams to pursue is not the same as making them live out our dreams. The abandoned community taught me that traditions and family heritage are something we create every day through what we do, much more than what we say.   

So I did find some value in my trip for my children. They know that hiking is important to me; they know that I have a dream and am pursuing it; and they may want to involve themselves in that dream when they are able. I think they will also know that the reciprocal is true: I will help them pursue their dreams. In the end that is what family is all about — helping and supporting each other as we travel along the path of life.  Sometimes that path may involve carrying a backpack, both literally and figuratively.