One last time

Barbara elvy Strate

Until four years ago, at least once a year I returned to my birth country to spend four weeks with my sisters Joan and Diana plus many nieces and nephews.

My arrivals at London's Gatwick airport were joyous, with lively chatter over coffee and buttered scones in a coffee shop. My departures were painful and if possible speedy. I didn't want to linger in the coffee shop for snacks, my thoughts too sad for conversation. As out ages progressed, the thought crossed my mind that it could be the last time my siblings and I would meet.

I made those periodic trips from Montana to Minneapolis and then across the Atlantic Ocean starting in 1972, since my arrival on American soil in 1944. My last flight across this massive country and the Atlantic was in 1999 to be with my Brit family for the funeral of my elder sister Joan.

Leaving those whom I dearly loved and the soft, green rolling hills that I strolled through as a child was not a time for me to linger. After many hugs and kisses from nieces and nephews who came to see me off, I went through the ticket gate. I turned to wave a last farewell and saw my sister Diana, who had scurried through the entry gate toward me. "One last cuddle" she said, which released our restraining tears.

Through childhood and our maturing years she and I were as close as twins. The 18 months difference in our ages, Diana the senior, gave her the advantage of being more knowledgeable than her younger sister and allowed her to guide me through the ups and downs of growing up. Bleary eyed, through three more security checkpoints, I waved to my family one more time. Security personnel joined the farewell gesture, which perhaps they did to lighten my spirits.

I flew in and out of Gatwick on each of my visits to England and was very familiar with the way to and from arrival and departure areas. At the entrance to gates 33-37, I wavered. I blew my nose, wiped away tears and proceeded on shaky legs down the long walkway. An international flight sign caught my eye above a revolving door. I entered. I had stepped into an unfamiliar concourse. "You fool," my mind said as soon as I realized my mistake. I turned to exit through the revolving door. It moved forward a few inches then abruptly stopped. This caused me to hit my forehead on the glass. With another push the door moved an inch or two and stopped. My panic button shouted, "I'm stuck! An alarm will go off. Security guards will descend upon me. Did I push the door to hard?" A sign on the glass that I hadn't seen until too late said "DO NOT PUSH. "I'm in BIG trouble." A passing passenger mouthed through the plate glass window, "You can't exit. It's a one way." My heart pounded the tempo of the Minute Waltz. I inched my body and carrying bag backwards to freedom through a narrow gap between the revolving door and it's enclosure.

"This way Ma'am." A voice that seemed to come from outer space instructs, seemingly unaware of me being trapped in the revolving door. I went through another security checkpoint that led to the main concourse. I had left it not more then 10 minutes before. At least I was back in familiar surroundings. A weak inner voice advises, "Gate. Look at your ticket for gate number of Northwest Airlines." That found, I entered and walked along the familiar causeway. I steered clear of the revolving door trap but checked the wording on sign above it. It read, "international flights." The word my tears had blocked was Southern. Twenty yards ahead, a large sign indicated the way to international flight gates 33-37 West.

At home, after my 1999 journey, I had no thought of it being my last to see the country of my birth and my family there, but as spring came in 2000, about the time I usually made my plans to see the green landscape where daffodils bloom profusely along motorways and country lanes, I mulled over the last heart wrenching farewell. My heart told me that I had made that journey for the last time.