“The breakfast club” I said, holding up my brown bag as a form of a toast, and took my seat next to an elderly man, my companion for the next four hours. He was eating a pungent breakfast burrito and I had an Asiago bagel with butter. Asiago was Grandma’s favorite. He offered to let me put my things on his tray while I got situated, a kind gesture met with an abrupt and unintentionally shrill “you’re good!” as in, “I got it”, or “stay in your lane, bud.” I knew I had come on too strong, and my introverted husband would have been mortified at the thought of being so social this early into a flight. Luckily, despite my loud self-introduction, we sat mostly in silence. He read his paperback, and I worked on the cream sweater I started two years ago when I first picked up crochet. A conversation starter for sure, bringing yarn work on a plane. I brought it out at our cruising altitude of 34,000 feet. He leaned over and asked in a very thick accent, “Are you making a frock?” Not sure what a frock was, I replied “a sweater.”
“For your husband?”
“For… someone”
I struggled sheepishly to find the words to politely describe that I was making it for myself.
“Ah” he said, perhaps knowingly, “for someone.”
“I think it will be too big for me”, I added.
He mentioned that his wife enjoys knitting and asked if I had any troubles getting through airport security on account of his wife’s knitting needles were 15 inches long and sharp. I tapped my finger on the blunt tip of my crochet hook and explained, “thankfully, this one is not that sharp.”
More silence. A pleasant flight.
We began our descent. The sky was overcast. Moody. On the ground were hundreds of pointed evergreen trees. Little houses with brown roofs were sprinkled in between. The dark navy shore could be seen nearby with choppy, warning waves. A mystical fog was hovering over the water.
We landed and my new friend asked me if I was here for work. I affirmed.
“Will you be at an office?”
“Actually, a hospital” and explained that I work in the medical device industry. We talked about his daughter who is completing her residency as a doctor in Chicago, where he had been visiting, and how his wife would be there one more day before heading home tomorrow. He asked jokingly if my company made double wide hospital beds, and followed up quickly with an apology.
“I couldn’t help myself for asking. I’m French.”
We both laughed. What a ridiculous and kooky old man. I think my crochet project and line of work reminded him of his wife and daughter, both whom which he was missing very much. There is solace in the shared human experience. As we parted, he wished me well on my journey and added warmly, “Welcome to Seattle”.
The Lavender Locket 