One Day in Miami

I still clearly remember the day my father died, even though it was exactly 36 years ago as I am writing this. It was also a Sunday, and I had had a restless night at the Miami International Airport Hotel. I was already awake when the telephone rang around 5 a.m. I had flown in the previous night from Montreal, and was scheduled to fly out that day to Quito, Ecuador. I was to join a tour with the Freelance Council of the Society of American Travel Writers, my first trip with that august organization.

On arriving the previous evening, I had called my mother in Columbus, Ohio, to see how my dad was doing. She sounded worried and exhausted. He had undergone heart bypass surgery about 10 days earlier, just before his 80th birthday. I had been in Columbus for the operation, and the doctors assured us he was recovering , so my mother encouraged me to return to my home in Montreal and pack for the trip I had been anticipating. It was scheduled to cruise the Galapagos Islands, a destination I had longed to visit to see the tame animals. So, with a heavy heart, I left.

I assured my  mother I would return to Columbus as soon as possible, then called Eastern Airlines to cancel my Ecuador flight and book a flight to Columbus. I was able to get a flight to Columbus via Gainesville, FL and Atlanta, but I would be on standby out of Atlanta. It was long before the time of the public internet, so I also sent a cable to Herb Phillips, the man I had been dealing with at the Freelance Council.  As it happened, he also suffered a tragedy that weekend and never made the trip either, so no one down in Ecuador knew why I did not arrive. 

I felt numb while going about all these arrangements. This was the first major personal loss of my life. When we landed at Gainesville's small airport, I marvelled at the deep green foliage on that winter morning. Then at Atlanta I had to change gates and register for standby. I asked the gate agent whether I was number one for standby, and she said I was. The man behind me said, "Aren't you lucky." I replied, "Not really," without explaining further.

I did get on the next flight to Columbus, and arrived home by taxi at about 5 p.m. When I pulled up to the white Colonial house with green shutters and a large swamp white oak tree in front, the Hammonds, who had been my parents' friends since my childhood, left and my mother and I embraced. It turned out that the clothes I had with me were all wrong for a funeral in January--light weight and bright colors, perfect for a tropical cruise.