ON THE ROAD AGAIN – The day had a beneficent beginning: The weather was fair and at the Nashville airport there were only three cars at the departure curb. Three cars? At 9 a.m.?
We were bound for Memphis to which we arrived after 40 minutes of airtime. We were parked ... and parked. Passengers got their carry-ons and stood in the aisle. Waiting. Those of us still in our seats waited.
And we waited. Fifteen/twenty minutes is not a long time unless you’re waiting.
A voice materialized as they do on airplanes. “Ladies and Gentlemen, we are waiting for someone to connect the jetway. We have contacted several people at the Memphis airport. It will be done. (Pause) Though we don’t know when.”
Debarking on the jetway, we caught Memphis’ scent and it was barbecue sauce.
We then boarded a small jet for our final leg into the Fayetteville, Ark., airport. Speaking of legs, it will cost you one to fly into one of these regional airports. For the same money you could fly to Munich.
We were seated and began an extended wait at which we were getting good. At length a voice said, “Ladies and gentlemen, our first officer (that’s industry speak for pilot) is not here and we don’t know where he is.”
We sat until a truly large uniformed fella jumped aboard and went to the cockpit. Then we were underway, but only after a 10-minute taxi through the Memphis airport, which extends for miles and miles.
Our destination was the University of Arkansas’ David Pryor Center, where they promised I would be interviewed for unending hours, taped and archived forever.
They wanted to get the story of a trouble-making Delta editor during those fun times of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and that ever-popular Vietnam war, where by losing we’d turn the entire Pacific Rim red. Socialism would rule and all our freedoms would edge toward demolition.
Trouble is/was: The Arkansas Delta folks liked the Vietnam War (where 50,000 American lads lost their lives) and opposed the Civil Rights bill which permitted black guys to eat in the same restaurants that were lining white stomachs with grease.
The interviewers arrived at my daughter’s Fayetteville House at 8:30 and departed at 5:15. I was not “on” only for five hours. We finished up the next day.
It was exhilarating. Here’s an intelligent interviewer – Scott Lunsford – who’d read my memoir and knew the hot buttons. The entire film, sound and computer crew could teach a course in graciousness.
A woman, hearing of my airport problems, said she was flying to Memphis once. “There was no air conditioning. We rose to 5,000 feet. The pilot said, ‘We’re going to try to make it to Memphis.’ There was rough weather. My seatmate said, ‘I was going to see Graceland. Now I may see Jesus.’”
The return trip? We flew from Fayetteville, Arkansas to Nashville by way of Minneapolis, Minn.
Mission accomplished.
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