Here is an example of the frustration I sometimes go through with my mother’s mischievous sprite. It is a story involving both of my parents years ago when my father was alive.
My father and she were coming home from a vacation and I always take them and pick them up from the airport. In those days you could go right up to the terminal and meet the passengers as they come off the plane. When the passengers start filing in, I am standing there waiting for my parents to come out when one of the passengers ask if I am Jim Williford’s daughter. “Yes, I am.” (I’m thinking, he is such a gregarious guy, he makes friends wherever he goes.) “Oh, we are so glad you are here. He was so worried that you would not be here to meet them.” WHAT???!!! I have NEVER flaked on them!
Okay, we go down to pick up the luggage from the baggage claim. It is one of those small round ones that takes the baggage around and around in circles. I ask my mother to stay with the carry-on luggage so I can help my very sick, weak father get their large suitcase off the carousel. Here is the root of all my frustrations. My mother loves to create chaos whenever she gets an opportunity, so, of course, she quickly takes off to go up and stand by my father so she can watch him get their suitcase. I am left to stand watch over the carry on. My father sees the suitcase and tries to pick it off the carousel, but he is too weak and so stands up on the carousel to get a better hold when he falls in with the all the luggage. As he starts to go around and around, a nice, strong man lifts him up off the carousel, places him on the floor, and then grabs his luggage for him. As I stand there horrified watching this scene unfold in front of me, a woman comes up from behind and sympathetically asks, “Is he yours?” All I can do is nod. My mother has a smug smile on her face.
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