This week I’m really getting into the deck-the-halls, hang-the-stockings spirit. (I don’t have a place to hang any stockings, but that doesn't crush my good mood.) Saturday and Sunday were busy with holiday parties—a sixty-person shindig at my aunt’s house in Gresham, and a smaller group at Jeff’s parents’ house in Lake Oswego, both with visits from Santa and gifts for the whole clan—plus a trip to the airport to get Christyn.
She flew home from Houston on Saturday, nearly missing the first leg of her flight. She says the freeway was closed, forcing her to take a detour, and she didn’t get in line at security until thirty minutes before the plane was scheduled to take off. When several security guards told her they couldn’t help her, that she’d have to stand in line and wait just like everybody else, some good Samaritans let her take their place in line, and she quickly climbed her way to the front. (If Christyn were like my dad or me? She would have been at the gate with two hours to spare—coffee in one hand and a good book in the other—detour or no detour.)
As she pushed her way through the line and forced her feet back into her winter boots after they’d been scrutinized under the x-ray machine, a little girl about eight or nine years old yelled, “Run! Run like the wind!”
And she did.
She fled to the gate with the Home Alone soundtrack ringing in her ears, images of the McCallisters racing through the Chicago airport flashing through her head.
She made the flight. And when she arrived at PDX, Mom, Dad, Jeff and I were waiting for her with a balloon that read “Welcome Back!” (Not quite the same sentiment as “Welcome Home,” Mom pointed out, but it worked.)
And now the whole family is home, and it’s time to deck the halls and hang the stockings and attend another Christmas party. (Jeff and I are hosting one for our families tomorrow. I'm staying home to cook and prep the apartment for fifteen people.)