The Flight Before Christmas: A Holiday Horror Story

'Twas the morning before Christmas last year. Positively giddy with holiday anticipation, my husband and I entered the San Antonio airport.  Only a few hours of flying separated us from the Currier and Ives Christmas awaiting us in Minnesota. Or so we thought! That’s because we never had flown at this time of year and had no idea that we would have been better off hitching a ride with Santa himself!

With jaunty steps we lined up with holiday hordes picking up boarding passes and dropping off luggage. Then we strolled over to Security and found those people completely lacking in Christmas spirit. They didn’t find it the least bit amusing that my oversize jingle bells earrings set off their metal detector, and they delayed us so long we feared missing our plane.  That caused two fat, short-legged old people to do something totally unnatural – we ran to our distant gate, one of us jingling all the way.

Before we – gasping and jingling – reached the gate, we heard the ominous sound of group grumbling; our plane had been delayed an hour. We risked heart attacks for this? But not to worry – we still had plenty of time to make our connection in Chicago.  Apparently from the expletives we heard in both English and Spanish, this was not the case with everyone.  We sat down with our books, and I smiled and jingled at the man next to me. “Tis the season to be jolly,” I trilled.  He responded in a most unjolly manner, and the word he used guaranteed coal in his stocking.

About then I realized how cold I felt; even my hot-blooded husband agreed that someone had put the AC on the meat-locker setting. Through the windows we saw palm trees and sunshine and knew it to be in the 70s. But inside we endured polar conditions. This did not help the mood of the crowd, most of them complaining loudly on cell phones, when the first hour delay stretched into two, then three.  I suggested we’all sing Christmas carols to pass the time. The reaction to this made me happy Security didn’t allow these Texans to bring their weapons.

By the seventh or eighth delay of one or more hours, the crowd turned ugly. Early on, the employee who posted the delays had been christened “The Grinch,” and by now she symbolized all that is wrong with the world. Some passengers screamed at her, hurled barnyard epitaphs at her and offered their own sage solutions. The others were really rude to her. The woman snarled at each of them, but in a professional sort of way.

We watched behavior deteriorate around us – meltdowns, tamper-tantrums, uncontrollable sobbing and thumb sucking. These were the adults.  It was late and most of the kids were asleep, their needs having been met by vending machine junk food and over-priced newsstand trinkets.

At this point some of the biggest whiners just left. It occurred to those of us who remained that we had a lot in common with hostages, and didn’t hostages have some rights? My husband – I was so proud of him – led the delegation that demanded blankets and sandwiches. The Grinch came up with two blankets and three ½ oz. size bags of mini-pretzels. Everyone declined the pretzels but fought over who was more blanket-worthy. A ninety-year-old nun scored one; the woman who thought she might be in pre-term labor deserved the other.

I’ll admit that our own spirits spiraled downward. In a peckish tone,’ my husband told me, “Lose the earrings.” I was shivering so much the jingling was deafening, and I actually considered mugging a baby for her blanket.

Midnight came; I whispered “Merry Christmas” into my husband’s icy ear. Just as I concluded that the survivors would spend Christmas right here and that the rest of us, the old and the weak, would be dead of hypothermia within hours, The Grinch announced that we could board! The crowd sent up a deafening cheer with hugs all around. Four guys with tats and piercings lifted the Grinch-turned-angel aloft while singing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” in perfect barbershop harmony. Such unbridled joy! Then another employee came with bad tidings: “There’s been a mistake. We don’t have a plane after all. Sorry ‘bout that.”

Before the crowd tore both women limb from limb, a pilot entered the waiting area. Determined to be The Pilot Who Saved Christmas, he said, “We’re outta here!” and led us to another gate, out to a waiting plane. We sat on the tarmac for over an hour, and rumors flew that we might have to return to the terminal. But with a riot looming, we received clearance to take-off!

Finally we reached O’Hare. We had been advised that we could not expect a connecting flight for days; but at least it was warmer here in Chicago. Then it happened – our own personal Christmas miracle, granted to only two passengers who had kept the spirit of Christmas through it all – more or less. A flight to Minnesota with two available seats soon would depart. If we could make it to the next concourse within minutes, we could board. Without hesitation, we ran like the wind, while other travelers urged us on.

By 4:00 AM we landed at Twin Cities International only to learn that our suitcases, apparently tired of waiting for us, went to South America. We rented the last available car, the convertible everyone else had rejected because it was snowing and hovering around zero, which we knew was a lot warmer than where we almost spent Christmas.

Alice Marks lives in the little island town of Port Aransas, Texas, and is the mother of four adult children and six grandchildren. After retiring from a career in early childhood education – part CEO and part Mother Goose – she has dedicated much of her time to the lifetime passion of writing. Her greatest success in publishing, however, was gaving birth to a published author of two books. She also owns a victory in a recent poetry slam!