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Seat 8A

I don�t really know where to start. Today�s story ends with me wiping tears from my eyes as I pulled into the driveway, home, finally from a three-day business trip. When I travel, I find myself tuned into a lot of the 24-hour news machine. On the way to the airport, I get my last dose of NPR before being subjected to the talk radio or easy listening station of choice for the local cabbie who picks me up at the airport. While I wait for my flight, an airport friendly version of CNN or Headline News bleats from awkwardly placed televisions with closed caption following a five second delay that prevents you from hearing the end of whatever story is told just before the commercial break. The only stations guaranteed to be in every hotel in every city feature news from around the country and around the world again, 24 hours a day. I go to sleep with Aaron Brown and wakeup with Solidad O�Brien. As I try to maneuver my luggage out the door of my hotel room, I typically trip on a copy of USA Today.

I was in Boston when they caught the sniper that terrorized the DC area. I was docked in the Bahamas when the space shuttle Columbia broke into pieces upon reentry. When Roy Williams finally won a National Championship, I was in New Orleans on Bourbon Street. It was the wrong year and the wrong team and the wrong city. When the bride ran away, I was in Las Vegas, for the third time in 8 weeks. This morning, as I watched the story on the plane crash in Toronto, I was completing my online check-in in Philadelphia. It is easy to remember notable news stories when you are on the road. The unfamiliar places strike a chord with the unfamiliar stories. I didn�t realize how much I�d started focusing on the headlines and had stopped paying attention to the actual events until my plane ride home tonight.

When I close eyes and think of the war in Iraq, the images that come to mind show my ignorance for what is happening in the world despite all of the exposure I have to world events via the news. The images in my head are simple sound bites. President Bush standing behind a podium. Men in fatigues crouched behind a corner weapons aimed ahead of them. An unpaved road, the shell of a car in the ditch, people. I haven�t been paying attention.

I didn�t have much choice tonight. As I waited to board, a man stepped forward to the counter at the gate and presented his ticket. The agents behind the counter punched their keys and handed him a boarding pass. He entered the line one person in front of me. As he boarded the aircraft, the flight attendants helped him secure his bags in first class. As I passed, he was settling into his seat. He wore his military dress uniform.

My mind quickly shifted away from this young man to the more pressing problem of where to put my bag. Of course the bins over my seat were full with small personal items that could have fit under the seat. I grumbled. I spotted an empty space in the bin two rows behind my seat. With little choice, I reluctantly began to hoist my bag up over my head into the bin knowing full well that I was setting myself up for a delay when it came time to exit the aircraft. People don�t much like to let you sneak back a couple of rows when it means they will be stuck on the airplane for a few more seconds. As I reached down to lift up the bag, a man a couple of rows behind sprang from his seat and helped me lift the bag. I was surprised by his kindness! Most people like to watch short people like me struggle with their bags. It makes for good entertainment, especially when there is little chance of an in-flight movie. I thanked him and took my seat. The businessman in the aisle seat made a comment about thinking he would have the row to himself. This was evidenced by the fact that he�d spread all his belongings out in all three seats. I waited while he moved his things, and the people in the aisle behind me shifted their collective weight impatiently. Nothing unusual about this flight.

The flight progressed without issue. A toddler shrieked on occasion, longing to be free from her mother�s captive arms. A baby behind me echoed a few cries. The pilot woke me just as I was about to fall asleep to inform me that we would fly over Knoxville and Nashville and Springfield and then finally home to Kansas City. Good to know.

As we taxied towards the gate, we received the usual reminders to remain in our seats with our seatbelts fashioned until the pilot turned off the Fasten Seatbelts sign. A few seconds later, the flight attendant made a second announcement. With a slight tremble in her voice, she asked that we all remain in our seats once the plane arrived at the gate. A member of the military was traveling with us, and he needed to be able to gather his things and exit the plane first. You see, he was on that flight, in his uniform because he was escorting the body of a soldier back to Kansas City. Beneath all of us were the remains of a soldier killed in Iraq just last Wednesday. It was this soldier�s duty to meet the soldier�s family and deliver their son to them to be buried.

I stared out the window of the plane with tears welling up in my eyes. I caught a glimpse of the soldier as he walked down the jetway, his shoulders back, his eyes straight forward. My fellow passengers sat silently on the plane. The flight attendant released us with a simple �Thank you.�

It wasn�t until after I had said goodbye to my co-worker, collected my car and entered the highway that I let myself fully think of those soldiers. As I�d boarded the plane, I was caught up in self-pity thinking how long and hard the past couple of days of travel had been. Little did I realize then that a long and hard day was just beginning for the soldier settling into his seat in first class.

So the story ends with me driving home, tears in my eyes and so many thoughts in my head that I am unable to explain in words.

10:56 p.m. - August 03, 2005

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