Texas-shaped Indulgence

 

Those who know me are aware of my penchant for all things horror. Those who follow my blog know I was once a general manager of an amazing haunted house in Northern California (Doctor Evil’s House of Horrors). As a kid I was a HUGE fan of the Munsters and the Addams Family. And years later, my brother and I would help Mom pop corn and watch Friday the 13^th, where he’d ask her to “brave him.”

It’s hard to believe that it was only about a year ago that I met Mark, the YouTube sensation known as Frightman. He was looking for a makeup artist and heard of my pal Hayden from the Houston haunt where I worked for 2 seasons. Hayden called Mark one night when he was at my house, so I heard his side of the conversation. Next thing I know, I’m inviting Mark to join us in Bastrop for a visit to Scream Hollow, for their summer Halloween festival. (You should check it out when in the Austin area, it’s a SCREAM.)

Soon after that, I’m helping Mark with camera work and appearing in his YouTube videos helping him assemble and review animated props. Turns out he and I make a pretty good comedy team with a freakish following of on-line fans. We both feel like we’ve known one another for years, perhaps because not only do we both love horror, but we share a history of working at Astroworld back in the day, when it was an astronomical theme park. Astroworld. Rest in peace.

(Here's a link to his channel: https://www.youtube.com/@Frightman )

Last year he and I went to nearly a dozen haunted house attractions together, including a series of such held at Six Flags Fiesta Texas in San Antonio. When traveling there, we go in together on a hotel room, and he marvels at my insistence to stay in hotels that offer not just free breakfast, but with Texas-shaped waffles. Recently while in Dallas to visit Six Flags over Texas (yes, I have a season pass) I sent him a photo of my Friendly State waffle.

As I sat at the table eating the Panhandle of Texas, I began to wonder what it is about Texas-shaped waffles for me. Indeed, I am a proud Texas boy, born and raised in the Lone Star state. So ecstatic of my home state, I chose Texas History as one of my electives at the University of Houston (go coogs!). But when did I first have a Texas-shaped waffle? I can’t quite recall, but I do have one strong memory that warms my heart.

The family gathered in Columbus, Texas for my cousin’s wedding party, and stayed at a hotel with these lovely-shaped waffles. So many were we that the wait for a hot waffle off the rotating waffle iron seemed eternal. That’s not the warm-my-heart part. That part is about Mom.

Not at the hotel, but at the reception, as the families gathered to celebrate the newlyweds with good food, music to dance to, and much laughter, I caught Mom standing alone at the back of the room, just taking it all in with a glowing smile on her face. I caught a photo of her and it instantly became one of my favorites.

Mom wouldn’t be around for their first anniversary; she passed away of cancer. She had fought it for several years and kept how serious it was from us. She had beat it once, and when it came back, we knew she’d do so again. She was feeling well, looked fantastic, and was always in her typical good mood. But she knew. She knew that was the last time she would be with the whole family in this fashion, and she wanted to soak it all in.

So when I eat a waffle in the shape of the old republic of Texas, it takes me back to that family moment, the reception, and all of us in the breakfast room of the hotel in Columbus, each waiting for our turn to eat Texas. It reminds me of Mom, and how we chose where to start: I like to start in the Panhandle, because I grew up visiting my grandparents there in Borger. Mom liked to start in the south and work her way up the coast like a hurricane, flooding the state in syrup, saving the hill country for last. I know, right? Because the middle of the waffle is the best part. Yup. She and I shared the pleasure of saving the mushy part of the waffle for last.

It might seem like my taste for waffles in the shape of Texas is out of pride. But I discovered that while it is true that I'm fond of the stars at night that are big and bright, deep in the heart of Texas, it's that special moment with Mom that I'm soaking up...with maple syrup, but I prefer honey. 



Here's a link to my latest video with Frightman: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mh9XpKwIHMc

If you enjoy poetry, you can purchase signed copies of my 3 books at 

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7-Hub Run: An Aviation Geek’s Dream

I would like to say that one of the perks of being a flight attendant is that there isn’t such a thing as a typical day. That might not be entirely true. Sure, each day we generally fly with a new crew, most of whom we’ve not met, or maybe we flew together, but spend half the flight trying to remember where it was. If I don’t remember by the time we part ways once we land, it hits me at 3am.

While there can be a run of trips that are mundane—board the plane, serve a few drinks, pass out a few peanuts, laugh with passengers, talk about soup recipes with Sarah on the jumpseat, who commutes to Houston from Spokane and spends half the flight talking about her grand kids. The other half is spent talking about her cats. These sorts of trips can go from one to the next, to where you don’t recall, was that seat duplication with the blue-haired lady yesterday or today? There’s a receipt in my pocket from Chicago. When was I in Chicago? How long have I been on this aircraft? Where am I?

And then there are the times that really make for a day you’ll long remember. Like the time I served dinner to Shirley MacClaine, one of my favorite actresses. Or the flight the guy said he wanted to knee me in the nuts. Or the day they brought 2 service animals on an empty airplane for press photos in the cockpit with pilot’s hats. One time I even worked a flight to Hong Kong with a very light load only to deadhome home in first class, and because the hotel was oversold, they put us in a swank hotel at the airport in a suite with a hot tub, free breakfast, drinks at happy hour with tasty appetizers, and everything in the minibar was completely gratis. When I checked out, I don’t think there was a single item left. To make things better, it was on my company anniversary.

...Or today.

It was one of those days I thought would be fairly generic; an easy Denver turn, commenting on passenger shirts, asking if they’re going home or away, making old guys laugh when they tell me they are with the woman in front of them, prompting me to ask if SHE knows that. I don’t know why old guys like to tell us that, but it happened two times just today. 

The crew was briefing on board the plane when a supervisor boarded to let us know about a gaggle of special guests traveling with us. They were mostly our high-yield passengers flying together on what was called a Seven Hub Run: Newark, DC, Chicago, Houston, Denver, San Francisco, and LA. One was supposedly an “influencer.”

We had questions. Why? A whole day taking seven flights? Those seats in back are not exactly thrones—my butt hurt just thinking about it. Are they crazy? But, more importantly, will the influencer make us internet famous? We agreed that it sounds like fun, if you’ve got the time and money...why not? Maybe not the whole day, but I can I go with them to San Francisco?

It was a 3,900 mile trip starting at 6AM Eastern and ending at 1030PM Pacific...or 19 hours. Oh, but were they fun, with matching lanyards and racing bibs. Their enthusiasm was as if it was their first flight of the day. Service agents lined the jetbridge with signs and cheered them on. We made special announcements and received crew gift bags. A few wanted pictures in the cockpit with the pilots. As if planned, but not, the first officer was a dead ringer for late night comedian Conan O’Brien, complete with a swirl of red hair dangling across his forehead.

I was working first class, so enthusiastically informed that we’d take special care of them. My goal: this segment of their marathon would be the most memorable. One woman was celebrating a birthday, so I wrote a card for her. She said she had gotten cards from a few other crews. I replied that none were as caring as this one. Really, THIS card means something.

One of the things I like to do to make an impression in first class is presenting the hot towel service with a white coffee mug of dry ice in water, making a wave of smoke to drift across the tray and off the edge. Some passengers are mesmerized. Others hardly take note. But if I can do one little thing to really up the flying experience...it’s how I roll after nearly dying a few years ago. But catering messed up and not only did we not have hot towels, they boarded an economy bar cart that, instead of having bottles of red, white, and sparkling wine, had individual cans. And I really wanted to wow these guys with the best flight of their day. Drats.

At one point during the flight, a woman walked up from economy. She was a Global Services passenger,’ (our very top-tier passenger program, which is by invitation only). As a retiree of the airline, she had a few questions and was super friendly. Her husband is the head pilot for their union and has a seat on the board of directors, which gives him the high status. He soon came up as well and the three of us engaged in a very interesting conversation about how we love our aviation career.

There was another GS passenger in row two who stopped me with a pen and paper in hand to ask my name. “Are you the only Scott?” she asked. “I sure hope so,” I replied, making her laugh. She showered me with so many compliments I was searching for a towel to dry off. The best way to make our day is a letter to the airline of the good service you received.

The man in row five who was constantly smiling handed me a guitar pick. Larry Gowan is a member of the band Styx, and he’s got quite an impressive resume. My flying partners are too young and not familiar with the band. Larry and I had a fun conversation about my days working concert security in the late 80s and meeting bands from Stevie Nicks, Pink Floyd, and the Rolling Stones, to Henry Rollins, Adam Ant, The Ramones, and Bruce Hornsby. As I admired the signed guitar pick, I mentioned having a collection of them, including Jimmy Buffet’s and Mark Knopfler’s. But enough name dropping. 

I was having so much fun working first class while the purser was slaving in economy (all those high-yield passengers get free food and drinks, slowing down the service), and that’s why I prefer longer flights. When surrounded by so many wonderful people, I love the chance to mingle and chat.

We kept the aircraft returning to Houston, a real treat from having to change planes. Our load home was lighter as opposed to the one to Denver, which was 100% full. In first class was a woman in her 80s who started to get up with the aid of her 60-something son. The seatbelt sign was on and the ride was quite bumpy. I asked if she couldn’t wait a little bit because I was concerned for her welfare. She said she could with a smile.

When things smoothed out and the sign came off, I asked if she was ready to give it a try. But this time her son stayed in his seat, so it was all me holding onto her as she slow-stepped from row one to the lavatory, complaining of the pain in her right leg. I sympathized with the pain in my right hip from my auto accident last summer.

When we landed in Houston, there was another wheelchair passenger seated in row four. Her daughter assisted her as the purser helped with their bags. I let her take my arm; as we rounded the corner, and with nothing else to hold onto, I lent her my other arm. She was most appreciative, and I said, “Think nothing of it. It’s not every day I have two pretty ladies on my arm. Her daughter was bowled over and her mother laughed, telling me that she was one-hundred and two years old. “I’m SO happy I got to meet you today,” I said to her, as she reached for the aircraft door to take a seat in the wheelchair.

I was aglow as the four of us that worked the two flights walked to the employee bus together, chatting about how fun our day was. It could have been just another day, serving drinks and charming senior ladies at 36,000 feet. Even our worst days are better than most people’s best days. But the fun group of 7-hub marathoners was certainly a far cry from the norm.

No two days are alike when you’re a flight attendant. I knew it was going to be a great day when seeing a bag tag that read, “My second favorite F-word is Flying.” Fondue being the first, perhaps?

Here’s the exact 7-Hub Run itinerary:

6:00–7:19 a.m.: EWR-IAD, UA 1366
8:25–9:38 a.m.: IAD-ORD, UA 2440
10:35 a.m.–1:29 p.m.: ORD-IAH, UA 2483
2:50–4:40 p.m.: IAH-DEN, UA 241
5:59–7:45 p.m.: DEN-SFO, UA 1007
9:00–10:32 p.m.: SFO-LAX, UA 2409

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Grapes of a Lesser God

 

After the last dinner tray was set down in first class, the purser left me alone to finish up while he went to help the two flight attendants with the service in back. It’s rough for them back there, serving 130 people a hot meal and drinks, with many wanting complimentary wine as well as a soda or water. And with more seats than spaces for trays, some of the trays are double stacked, meaning we have to separate the two trays and then divvy up the dinner components from the top tray to the bottom one before handing them to starving passengers.

As the last person in row four got their dinner, Andrew joined the cart in economy, which was near the exit rows, not quite halfway to the back of the plane. I began picking up trays from the first couple of rows, every now and then walking to row four to see if anyone needed another drink or was finished eating. After a few minutes, I had collected most of the trays from my first class passengers when I heard the familiar chime of the call bell. I peered around the corner from the galley to see who had pressed this offending button. I jest. I’m glad to help make someone’s day, but the way most flight attendants feel about call lights, it has the rap of being offending. The guys in back were about a dozen rows from being done; the call light was illuminated over row 7ABC.

When I passed through the sheer curtain that does little in keeping economy passengers from coming forward to use the first class lavatory, and I reached row seven, which is the first row of economy, a nice man in his sixties smiled at me, raising a mostly empty cup. “Would it be possible to get more wine?” he asked. “Sure,” I said, asking, “Red or white?” His eyes rounded, I’d like red,” and he looked to the woman seated at the window next to him, “Would you like some more white, Dear?” She responded positively, and in a friendly manner I obliged, promising to be right back.

In the galley, I obtained 2 plastic cups. I was amused thinking about the way the man smiled at me knowingly. He seemed aware of the crew’s proximity in the rows behind him, as if assuredly the guy from first class would answer his call light for more wine, and not the ones now serving passengers in the back. We have a much higher caliber of wine in first over what we serve in economy. Smart guy—innocently asking for the good stuff. I liked him. It’s something I would do if having fly in cattle class.

I poured one white and one red, my standard heavy pour...I’m such an enabler. I placed them on my silver lined serving tray and delivered them with a smile, asking the man in the aisle seat if I could get him anything. He was still eating his dinner and denied wanting anything. I smiled at the man and his wife as they toasted one another with their wine and returned to the fancy side of the curtain.

It’s all in the approach. Had he pressed the call light and demanded a glass of wine, I would have walked to the beverage cart in economy and filled a cup with wine from lesser grapes. But he was kind, smiled, and asked ever so nicely for a refill—my kind of people. I was happy to make his day. Hopefully, the good Karma will come back my way.

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One Night in Bogota

 

It was a cloudy evening in Bogota, Columbia when we landed. By the time we got to our hotel it was dark, cool, and breezy. I had mentioned to the other three guys I worked with that the roof bar was open-it’s only open Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. My crew had a great time up there last week when we arrived on Thursday. It was raining, but half the roof is covered, and there are heat lamps to help deal with the cool Columbian nights 15 floors above the streets of Bogota. This was a Friday, so surely it would be a bit more lively than the prior week.

After signing in at the front desk, I stated I needed fifteen minutes to change and I’d be up there. The purser said he wanted to check it out, but probably wouldn’t stay. He was returning to Bogota the following weekend with a friend, so would save drinking for then. The other two didn’t say anything, but I assumed they would be there, based on the enthusiasm they had before we left Houston.

The elevator doors opened on fifteen and I was greeted with loud music. Like the week previous, it was dark and attractively illuminated with low-level LED lights that slowly morphed from blue, to purple, to red, and back. The only other lighting was from the strand sort of party lights you’d find in contemporary back yards. There were a group of about six young college-aged ladies dancing and having a large time. Several tables under the awning were occupied. Beyond the planters along the covered portion is where the rooftop is exposed to the sky, with attractive heat lamps; flames flickering to its arched cover. I was happy it wasn’t raining—this is where I had hoped to sit. It was quieter and had much better views of the city than where the girls had taken hold of the dance floor.

I found a nice 4-top table near the glass railing and between two heat lamps. According to my phone, it was in the upper 50s, and the sky was mostly cloudy. There were dark areas with views of the heavens, but I suppose due to the light pollution, were no stars visible. I ordered a Columbian beer and perused the menu for dinner, thinking I’d wait for my flying partners to arrive before ordering. I had my eye on the chips and guacamole with beef.

Andrew showed up as promised. He walked to the railing to take in the views of the city and of the nearby mountains before returning to the table to announce that he was going up the street to have Italian food. I thought it strange to be in Columbia and not eat Columbian food, which is quite good. But flight attendants know good places to eat in cities all around the world, and who knows, this could be the best Italian restaurant in the entire country, so I didn’t judge.

As he walked out, the DJ hit the girls with a request, making them squee and rush to the dance floor to shake and gyrate, belting out the lyrics to a popular Spanish song. Everyone was happy. At the table next me, two women and a man with fancy drinks of various colors chatted away. At the edge of the garden sat a man alone eating, his toes tapping to the beat of the music. A lady walked by my table, and as Andrew had done moments prior, went to the glass to see the views. I noticed her in particular. She appeared to be my age, or perhaps a younger 50s than I, with short hair and a colorful sweater. Her face was kind and she came across as a contemporary woman in a colorful sweater.

She turned and surveyed the area to select her perch for the evening, then walked up to my table. Her smile widened and she asked to join me. Without hesitation I obliged, rising to invite her to sit and immediately introduced myself. She was Joanne. I told her I was expecting a couple others, but that it had been half an hour and they had not appeared. They probably chose to slam-click, as we call it in the industry, when a flight attendant slams the hotel room door, locks it, and stays in for the night to do whatever tired flight attendants do behind doors with Do Not Disturb signs hanging from the handle.

Joanne and I spend the next ninety minutes in discussion of such interesting things. She asked where I was from and said she hailed from Toronto. I told her that I have had some really great times in Toronto, it’s such a beautiful city for someone like me, who loves modern buildings and vast skylines. “I can tell you aren’t from Canada,” she said. “How is that?” I asked. “You said Tor-ahn-toe. Canadians don’t pronounce the T.” She pronounced it “Tronno.” I’d never noticed. “I do enjoy saying that I’m going oot and a-boot,” the way Canadians say out and about, which made her chuckle.

We spoke of the pleasures of life, my close shave meeting Mr. Death after my eight days in hospital with COVID, and my four years of recovery from the brain fog effects of long COVID. I had given up on ever returning to the career I love so much, so now that I’m flying again, I’m happier than ever, even though I still struggle with fatigue, and spend most layovers slam clicking in bed.

She recently lost her father and I lost my mother in 2020. We shared our common thoughts on death and afterlife. We briefly touched on politics and the mutual disdain for the cray-cray we are enduring in America, and the shock of Canadians and other countries, of how America has chosen such a dark path. She asked about my favorite places (Sydney, Australia; Munich; Beijing) and I asked why she was spending two months traveling around Columbia.

Joanne had been in Bogota for a week and was about to transfer from the hotel to a B and B for another two weeks. She had spent time in Medellin, which she adored. The contract job she was doing concluded; she had some money come in from her father’s passing; and had always wanted to visit Columbia, saying that as a Spanish speaker, it was her opinion the language in Columbia was the most pure and beautiful Spanish, even more so than in Spain.

At one point I mentioned my love of heights and the pleasure of being at the top of the CN Tower in “Tronno.” She was impressed that I pronounced it so well, and asked about my lack of a Texas accent. Although my family all speak with one, Mom’s was never strong, and for some reason, as a kid who traveled a lot with exposure to many cultures, I seem to always blend in with where I was, fairly easily picking up local dialects, and not wanting to give myself away...keep ‘em guessing. I guess I wanted to sound more worldly, or sophisticated.

She smiled to herself as she looked to the girls, line dancing under the awning. “What?” I asked. “You’re talking about Texas accents and yours came back.” I laughed, “You know, it’s funny. Years ago I was dating a girl from Annapolis, where I lived before my job with the airline, which took me to San Francisco. My brother was getting married in Austin and I wanted to fly her in to be my date. She asked what there was to do in Austin, and I talked about the grand state capitol building, the town lake, the numerous clubs with live music in what is the live music capitol of the US. She laughed on the other end of the phone. ‘What?,’ I asked. ‘Your accent’ she said. ‘I have never heard your Texas accent so strongly.’ So apparently, when I talk about Texas, my accent sneaks in.”

I was so enjoying our conversation. I mentioned how it was akin to being on a cruise, where it isn’t at all odd to sit with a stranger. Sadly, it’s much more accepted to do so outside the US. We each ordered another drink. My nachos were better than the previous week, the beef winning over the chicken. “I’m back next weekend, when I think I’ll try the fish and chips,” I said, continuing, “I’m SO glad you stopped by and asked to join me. I would have had a nice evening alone, but it was so much better getting to know you. It’s these little gems in life that really make this job so wonderful.” “You’re fortunate,” she said. “You get to see the world and meet people, probably good and bad, but you so much more appreciate the good with the bad to compare to.” I couldn’t agree more.

“This is the only job I want in life,” I told her. “I used to own a Harley-Davidson dealership with my dad when this job fell in my lap, I didn’t want to be a flight attendant. I thought I’d use it to move into management. But one week in and I fell in love, and have never looked back. At one point I considered becoming a pilot, but realized I was much happier on the passenger side of the cockpit door. As a pilot, you only go where your plane flies. As a flight attendant, we work all of our aircraft fleet, so Sydney one day, Spokane, Washington the next.” “And here you in Bogota,” she beamed.

It was after 11pm and she was growing tired. We made our farewell pleasantries. Meeting Joanne and having a rich conversation was such a joy. I hope she looks me up and that I get to hear from her again. If not, I know that I made her night as much as she made mine. I’m certain that neither of us will think of our time in Bogota without thinking of the night she stopped to ask a stranger if she could join. I wish people did that more often. The wold is such a lovely place, as are the states, with gems hidden throughout. All you have to do is be open to them. I’m fortunate to be one of the US citizens with easy access to the wonders that lie outside our borders.

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