The Poosey Digest... by Freida Marie Crump
Heck, I'm smiling already
Greetings from Poosey.
You may not believe this, but I'm old enough to remember a time when I drove to St. Louis, bought a plane ticket to Boston, then simply walked onto the plane. And I know this sounds like some fantasy movie, but I was allowed to keep my clothing on during the entire process. I was neither scanned, prodded, nor patted, and the only background check I received was from the man in the seat behind me who watched me try to squeeze my frame into the TWA seat. To complete this idyllic dream of yesteryear, they served me a meal with real silverware, complimentary drinks, and even a little hot towel to wash my face. Sounds like an episode of Ozzie and Harriet Go to Branson.
I have no idea how frequent fliers keep their sanity in the stand-wait-scan-and-sneer world of today's airlines. Yes, I know fuel prices are rising and I'm well aware that terrorism has everyone firmly seated in the Land of Paranoia, but dog-gone it, we can surely do better than this.
Okay, I didn't expect to get a direct flight from Poosey to Vancouver to begin our cruise. Everybody knows that Minneapolis is directly in line between St. Louis and Alaska. I mean, that's real money saving, flying 500 miles in the wrong direction. I'm glad they're conscientious about fuel costs.
Seriously, the airlines have been put into a squeeze by both the economy and wads of new federal security regulations, and I'm not suggesting they do anything to make me less safe when the plane takes off, but I do have one little suggestion.
A Department of Niceness.
What would it hurt to simply assign one airline employee at each terminal whose sole job is to simply be nice? To make me feel better?
The lady behind the ticket counter can't be nice. She's the one who must tell Aunt Gladys that her flight was purposely over-booked by an airline that can't count to 120. She's the one whose job it is to tell the Jones family that the flight no longer has four seats together and that their two-year-old will have to ride in the baggage department by himself. This lady not only has no reason to be nice but it's not in her power.
So why not hire a small fleet of overly understanding and consoling people to simply stand in the terminal and help people feel better about this misery that we call airline transportation in the 21st Century? I'd advise taking the job applicants from the ranks of retired kindergarten teachers, retirement home chaplains, Jr. High guidance counselors, and grandmothers.
They'd be dressed in something colorful... maybe knee-socked soccer outfits, and would cruise around each airline's series of departure gates handing out balloons, perhaps a fresh daisy, a coloring book or the USA Today crossword puzzle. They'd be schooled in phrases like, "Well, at least we're all alive and well, aren't we?" "You know once you're at your vacation destination this will all be a distant memory!" "Please... tell me about your grandchildren! I insist!" and "Did anyone ever tell you that you have the most beautiful smile?"
Okay, a bit cheesy but what's it gonna hurt? Once you've established pockets of civility amid the anger and frustration of the airport angst we'll get to where we'll smile when we see these folks coming. Heck, I'm smiling now just thinking of it.
And maybe... okay, it's an outside chance, but just maybe... some of this kindliness will actually rub off on somebody. Maybe the fellow in line behind you won't bump his suitcase into yours every time the line moves up another inch. Maybe the mother with three tired little children will welcome the distraction and even adopt an "Oh well" attitude herself. And if the stars are aligned just right, perhaps the man behind the counter will look at you with something other than a "You think I'm supposed to care about your problems?" demeanor.
I might even apply for the job myself. Even an irascible old cuss like me might be able to bring a little sunshine into the darkened halls of air travel. Of course, I'd best not apply on the day I get off a plane.
You ever ‘round Poosey, stop by. We may not answer the door but you'll enjoy the trip.
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