Posts Tagged ‘flying’

Taking flight

Posted: September 16, 2019 in Personal, Travel
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Tomorrow I’m taking flight to France, although by plane, not by my own wings. God willing, I’ll be back in October with lots of photos and stories to share. BTW, we celebrated our 35th anniversary yesterday. Bless my husband for not minding that I’ll be vacationing when he can’t go! He’s a keeper (obviously). 🙂

I was finally able to get all my photos off my phone so I’d be ready for all the vacation shots, but it took hours and hours. I’d try one thing and it would work, but the next time it wouldn’t (or I’d forgotten how I’d done it.) Or I’d find empty files while my phone was filled with photos. Ah, for the days when I’d plug my phone into my laptop, the photos would show up, I’d copy, then delete. Sigh. Such is life in the virtual world.

Be safe and happy while I’m gone!

copyright janet m. webb
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for One Word Sunday

Silent Sunday…No kidding!

Posted: September 30, 2018 in Humor
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Normally on Monday I’d be walking with Jo, but with our younger daughter home, we’ll be biking at the Indiana Dunes again today and as I get a post ready on Sunday night, I’ve decided to go with the Lens Artists Challenge of action.  Here are two different action shots for your viewing enjoyment.

© janet m. webb

Land-based action

© janet m. webb

Flying high

for the Lens Artists Challenge: Action

© janet m. webb

taken with my iPhone 6s

for Debbie’s Six Word Saturday

It used to be that when you flew, as soon as you made a reservation, you could choose your seat.  These days, that’s changed.  On Southwest, my favorite of all airlines, you get a letter and number assigned when you check in.  You board in the order of your letter/number combination, from Group A1 to Group C 60 or something thereabouts.  When you board, you choose your seat from those remaining.

© janet m. webb 2014

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The car reeks of gasoline.

It’s the car from the service company taking us to the airport and it reeks of gasoline. Bill says it makes him nauseous. Although it’s winter, we put the windows down three or four inches. I have my nose as close to the opening as I can get without climbing on the seat. I think of the way dogs poke their noses out the window and wish I could. The driver keeps apologizing, suggest we call the company, that they’ll take more notice of a customer’s complaint. Bill calls them from the airport. He says they just said “Thanks.”

We’re motioned into the priority line—nothing has to come out of the luggage, shoes stay on My shoulder bag gets pulled aside and I follow an unsmiling agent to a table where she begins to take everything out. “Don’t touch anything once I open the bag,” she tells me. She finally finds a small pocketknife I had no idea was even in the bag. It gets tossed, leaving me feeling furtive.

The waiting area is crowded and noisy. A child screams continuously. It seems as if half the passengers pre-board, although there are mostly empty seats when our turn comes. We choose aisle seats across from one another. I get lucky—the middle seat stays free. The little dog seven rows up keeps yipping. The child, blessedly, is quiet, no doubt exhausted from her crying bout inside.

The wings are de-iced, flight attendants do their shtick as stand-up, we take off, immediately entering the bank of clouds dooming those below to entire day of gloom. We go up and up. It’s as if we’re flying through the debris in a vacuum cleaner bag, fluffy and grey. The man in the window seat half-jokes about whether he should worry that the pilot can’t see anything. We laugh.

It grows gradually lighter and finally we emerge into the sunshine that’s always on the other side of the clouds. The snow field of white fills the sky. We exchange wondering glances, smiling at the beauty.