Have You Found Yourself Camped Out

As a teenager, I found myself visiting the Atlanta Airport lots -- I had an inside contact who would phone to let me know when the celebrity groups were arriving. I managed to meet Peter & Gordon once and there were other celebrities I rushed to greet. I imagined how exciting it would be for me when I took my first flight. I imagined sitting in first class or the budget class, eating lunch on the plane and getting great service. How silly. That would never happen now. Gone are the days of hanging out at the airport, and gone are the days of special treatment -- now, it is more like camping out -- just to catch a plane to your destination.

Now that I am a travel writer, I have experienced camping out at the airport many times. Once, I left Des Moines Iowa on an early morning flight. Arriving in Atlanta, I sat at the Atlanta Airport awaiting my plane for over seventeen hours. When I arrived at Atlanta Airport, I rushed to the gate because my plane was scheduled to leave in twenty minutes. Rushing to the gate, I arrived, expecting to hop on the next plane to Charleston. That did not happen. The gate had changed and so off I went -- rushing to another gate -- expecting that I would miss my plane. Upon arrival at that gate, I was informed the plane hadn't arrived and it would probably be here at 7:20pm. I looked at my watch -- 6:45pm. So, I had time. I settled down in a chair, plopping my carry on luggage next to me. The wait began. At 7:20, we were informed our flight hadn't arrived again. And so the story goes. I waited. I chatted with other frustrated people. I watched children dancing around the gate, obviously restless and tired. I read a newspaper left by someone. Recognizing my own boredom, I reached for my Blackberry and I did something I detest. Text messaging. I am of the generation who believes a telephone is for conversations, not texting, but it is a great way to communicate -- if you prefer the language of RU there? LOL. And all of the other acronyms used in texting. Sometimes when I get a text, I have to decipher what is being shared in those abbreviations. Texting? No, not me. But on that night, since I was so tired and restless, I texted every friend I had in my cell phone.

7:20pm passed. The flight was changed to 8:45pm. And 9:15pm. 10:20pm. Enough of this. I approached the desk to inquire as to what was the delay. "We're waiting for the plane to arrive. If it doesn't arrive before 10:30 we will have to cancel until tomorrow morning. The Charleston Airport is under construction and flights are not allowed to land after midnight." Since I am a bit of a skeptic, I decided that my arrival home, to snuggle up in my bed probably would not happen tonight. Yes, it was a rainy night and I realized that storms such as a rainy night in Georgia create delays, but I was tired. I wanted to go home. I had been at the Atlanta Airport since 6:15. Charleston was only a five hour drive from Atlanta. I should've rented a car, I thought to myself, but then I remembered one piece of my luggage was on a plane. Just what plane was the question.

The clock continued ticking away. I watched two lovers smooching and touching. Young love, I thought to myself. How nice and sweet. An older gentleman was snoring two rows away from my seat. The life and times of camping out at the airport.

Seventeen hours after arriving at Atlanta Airport, my flight loaded. Finally I would get home to rest. When the plane finally landed in Charleston the rain was torrential. Awaiting my luggage at baggage claim I noticed many people complaining about how wet and heavy their luggage was. I was thankful my luggage was light, containing only three outfits. When I lifted it from baggage claim it felt as if it contained bricks! When I got home, I opened it, discovering everything inside was soaked! The luggage had been left outside on the tarmac and was filled with rain. Two blouses were faded and ruined. I contacted Delta only to be told, "Sorry for the inconvenience." So much for customer service and hospitality!

Last weekend a friend's husband was scheduled to leave Greensboro, NC in route to Nashville, TN. He left for the airport in ample time. His flight was scheduled to leave at 4:15, he entered the airport before 2pm. His flight was delayed due to weather, so he would arrive later than expected. My friend stayed in touch by checking the flight on Delta.com. and texting her husband. Each time she realized the flight was delayed she sent anothe text, and all during the day she phoned me to let me know of his delays. She knows I don't like to text! The phone is so much more convenient! Earlier in the week I suggested he might consider driving, instead of flying. My rule is if I can reach the destination within ten hours, I will drive. He spent the night camped out at the airport -- arriving in Nashville the next afternoon. No apologies from the airlines. No compensation. Nothing. Exhaused, my friend told me the next time he would drive to Nashville, not fly.

Years ago, flying was so convenient and quick. Didn't we have torrential storms in those years? And who would ever believe that you might actually 'camp out at the airport?' So much for flying. I think I'll drive, or take a train.

There's Been a Fire at the Bibb Mill

A few weeks ago, an e-mail from a cyberspace friend I’ve never met, left me brokenhearted. Reading the e-mail my mind rushed back to my childhood in Bibb
City, Georgia. “I’m so sorry to say this, but I don’t know if you’ve heard about the fire at the Bibb Mill.”

A fire at the Bibb Mill, sad thoughts rushed in my mind, picturing my grandparents working inside the textile factory. The mill closed in 1998. My grandparents retired from Bibb Manufacturing Company in the late sixties, during a troubled time in America. Times were tough and although my grandfather encouraged me to ‘go to work for the mill and to stop chasing my silly dreams,’ I ignored his suggestions while I pictured myself on Broadway or on the silver screen.

“There’s been a fire at the Bibb Mill,” I read the e-mail again, printing it while shuffling papers on my desk. Life has a way of changing our plans, along with our dreams. Forty years after my grandparents retired, ten years after the mill closed, Bibb Mill has burned to the ground, leaving the community of Bibb City devastated. I am married now and live in Charleston, South Carolina with my husband of thirty plus years and three precious rescue dogs we adore. Never did I make it to Broadway, or the silver screen, but words are my passion and livelihood and I have built a pleasant life while pursuing my life as a writer.

My cyberspace friend grew up in the same village of Bibb City. She and her husband and family still live in Bibb City, on the same street my grandparents lived on. Over the years, we have corresponded after she located my e-mail address on a website about Bibb City. I had posted my e-mail address to locate information from others since I was researching for a book proposal. She contacted me to let me know she still lived in the area and when I needed information, all I had to do was chat with her via e-mail.

Words cannot express the loss I feel for those who grew up in the textile mill villages. Bibb Mill was a landmark for the City of Columbus, GA. Perhaps a landmark for those who dreamed of a better life, and for those who fought for the civil rights and women's movements. I confess, I was one of them. I questioned how people could criticize (and hate) someone simply because of the color of their skin, and I simply refused to be treated as second class, or to walk behind a man. Never did I burn my bra, but I stood my ground, furious that some people believed a woman should be 'barefoot and pregnant, or a housewife.' No not me.

While it is true, I married much too young, I imagine there have been times I have truly driven my husband C-R-A-Z-Y. Never did I want him to open doors for me, and during the women's movement, well, let's just say, I went on strike many times, especially when he left a glass in the den, or socks on the floor! I'm certain he would prefer that I learn to 'keep my mouth shut, and to step off my soapbox' --- but that isn't my style. Never have I been described as shy -- advocate, and probably a few other choice words, could define who I am!

For me, the Bibb Mill was a symbol of my grandparents, their morals and family values. There was a time I rebelled about my life as a 'lint head.' Now, I am proud that my grandparents instilled the values that I practice and still believe. Yes, I am older and wiser, but I still have those morals and values, even when a fire attempts to destroy not just a brick building, but so much more.

While I do not know what will happen to the skeletal remains of a textile manufacturing company, I still picture my grandfather sitting by the only window in the mill, and I remember the Bibb overalls he wore, with Juicy Fruit chewing gum tucked in the pockets. I remember my grandmother, her cotton white hair curled into a bun, silk stockings on her legs, and I shall never forget her homemade biscuits, almost floating like a cloud, just before you bit into them. Grandma tried her best to teach me to bake them, finally shaking her head in defeat, encouraging me to continue baking the delicious lemon and cream cheese pound cakes everyone loved to eat.

Bibb Mill stands in my heart and soul. The charred remains of the mill and the village of Bibb City are part of my heritage.

Barbie Perkins-Cooper
Author of Chattahoochee Child