The Less Friendly Skies
It was most of the way down the Interstate on the two-’n-a-half hour drive to Sacramento International when I heard about beefed up security at Three Mile Island, and I wondered if I was making a mistake, taking this trip to the East Coast. It wasn’t about being afraid of being killed, though I certainly had other priorities. Rather, I was concerned about being trapped on the East Coast. When you think about it, there’s very little secure in our society. Tunnels, bridges, dams are virtually unprotected, and unprotectable; there are too many of them.
I wondered if we offered to stop the bombing if they would stop mailing the anthrax. I wondered if we told Israel that we would guarantee their right to exist, but would not sanction any more new settlements, if that would unplug the terror campaign that could be waged seemingly without restrictions in our free and open society. I wanted to put that all out of my mind for a few days. Let the New England fall colors and the Atlantic surf pounding on Cape Cod beaches wash away the horrific postulations of what could be.
Sitting in the hot tub the other day, looking up at the tree-sided canyon sloping up to blue skies and wispy clouds tinged orange in the early morning sun, I thought it would be a ridiculous waste of this extraordinary beauty of Earth to be crippled by fear. Surely such larger reality as would compose such a beautiful planet — and the human consciousness to appreciate it — would not want it wasted in a plague of fear of plague, and the rain of bombs.
Maybe this sounds anachronistic, but when I first started flying, there were no metal detectors. And it wasn’t that long ago that I could arrive at an airport minutes before the plane would push away from the gate, and know that I was going to make the flight. Under dire warnings of security lines stretching into the next county, I dutifully got to the airport this time two hours before my flight was to depart. Twenty minutes later, I had not only parked my car in the long term lot, shuttled to the terminal and gotten through security, but I had bought tea and a muffin and had parked my butt in one of a vacant sea of seats across from my gate.
There was an unfortunate roust at the checkpoint. In my shoulder bag, in which I carry all my stuff -- books, other reading material, wallet, glasses, Palm pilot, you get the point — I had also dropped in my keys. Which were on a keyring that included a two-inch Swiss army appliance which included a small, thin knife blade. They wouldn’t let me carry it on the plane. I suppose I could have retraced my steps back to my car — there would have been enough time — but I decided to let it go, even though it was a gift from an old friend which I’d had in my pocket for eight years.
Much more dangerous as a potential weapon was the Cross ballpoint pen in my pocket, but I didn’t think a productive conversation would ensue from my raising that point. I shrugged and handed over my knife. A minor sacrifice, in the scheme of things. Maybe I’ll find a replacement on this trip.
And that’s SetonnoteS...I’m Tony Seton.
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