I was recently in Las Vegas for Day Job business. My flight was scheduled to depart at 2:00pm. I had just enough time to hit the restroom and grab a fast food burger before catching my flight (the taxi situation was silly). Boarding started a bit late (the flight crew was late), but no biggie. The temperature was around 108F. We were told there was some paperwork that needed to be approved because of the temperature, the altitude, the wind, and the weight of the plane. Hey, I believed the pilot (and still do). Because of the factors I listed, we needed to take off in a non-standard flight pattern. We taxied out to the runway and prepared to take off.

Except the tower said no. They couldn’t disrupt all the other flights taking off. We sat on the runway for 2.5 hours. Yes, they brought us water. The pilot suggested we try to rebook our connecting flights if possible. Not possible for me: I don’t have a smart phone. Others did.

I said to one of my seatmates: “Oh well, they’re concerned about our safety. Can’t fault them for that.” He gave me a dirty look. I then said something about an adventure. More dirty looks.

Eventually, we were taken back to the gate and told there would be agents standing by to help us. Except there wasn’t. After fifteen minutes, a very cranky agent came over to assist. But she was being verbally abused by some nasty customers, and that ate a lot of her time when she could have been helping more people. Why take it out on her? It wasn’t her fault the tower wouldn’t let us take off. My third seat mate was able to change flights to continue on to his anniversary date with his wife in Montreal.

Behind me on line were two British couples. Mean, rude, nasty people. One was eating a sandwich, and the filling kept falling on me. Eww. I texted one of my Canadian friends and asked if it would damage international relations if I turned around and bitch-slapped one of them. My friend replied, “Not if you yell ‘1776’ first.”

I laughed.

I was the only one smiling. I figured getting upset wouldn’t solve anything.

I had almost made it to the overworked agent when they announced we would be re-boarding the plane. I made a decision: follow my luggage.

(to be continued)

I have never understood the appeal of camping. I like indoor plumbing. I don’t like bugs and/or insects.

A few weeks ago, three of us sat around a fire pit at the side of a lake and reminisced about our childhoods. My two friends both grew up “in the city.” To them, camping was playing with their cousins, catching lightning bugs, fishing, watching the stars at night. It was a fun time.

I grew up next door to some of my cousins, so we did things together on a regular basis. We lived in the country, where life included catching lightning bugs, playing hide-and-go-seek, and watching the stars at night. Those activities weren’t special; they simply were. At least, back then.

I never considered it camping.

That said, many of my cousins now go camping. There is even a Crazy Compton Cousin Camping Weekend in September. Really.

As much as I would love to join them, I have lightning bugs in my own backyard–and indoor plumbing.

I went to sleep-away summer camp a couple of times. For a week.

I went to Girl Scout day camp once. That, too, was for a week.

My husband went to sleep-away camp for years, 6 weeks at a stretch. But he grew up in the Bronx, and I grew up in the middle of no where. I didn’t need summer camp.

When I was in elementary school, the town in which I lived had a pool (converted frog pond). Every Tuesday and Thursday (unless it was raining) in July and early August a school bus picked us up to take us to The Pool. It was a daylong event. There was a concessions stand. There were arts & crafts. There was swimming. Two full weeks were given over to swimming lessons. Looking back at it, I guess The Pool was a summer program.

But The Pool was only on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The other days of the week were spent:

• trying to write novels on an ancient Remington Rand cast iron manual typewriter
•  picking wild whatever-berry-was-in-season
• building forts
• playing with my cousins (who lived next door) along with a slew of other neighborhood kids

No one drove us anywhere (my mom didn’t drive).

We caught frogs by day and lightning bugs by night. There were boxes of old clothes for dress up. Trees for climbing. We had bicycles without helmets, croquet sets, and badminton rackets (using the hedge dividing my aunt and uncle’s driveway from my parents’ as a net). We did somersaults and tried to do back flips and cartwheels on the soft grass of our yards. There was a mountain behind the houses to explore. Massive games of hide-and-go-seek and Wolf at night, and Annie-Annie-Over in the day. We lay on our backs and stared at the clouds or the stars. We didn’t need summer programs.

We were expected to amuse ourselves. We managed.

I sometimes wonder if we aren’t raising a generation of people who are incapable of amusing themselves. Play dates, summer programs all summer long, with no downtime to curl up with a book or teach yourself to play guitar. Or day dream. Are we annihilating the imaginations of our youth?