All You Need is a Toothbrush and Clean Underpants

Everyone has a holiday travel story filled with unfortunate events. Here’s another one for the books…

I don’t normally check a bag, but this year I decided to take advantage of the convenient option of checked bags – roomier suitcase, space for gifts, and all the liquids a woman desires - including a bottle of rum. We planned to take a flight from Wenatchee to Seattle, enjoy a leisurely dinner and a restful night’s sleep before our flight to Britain the next day. These plans were futile, beginning with the checked bag.

After landing in Seattle, we strolled to baggage claim with the other passengers to wait for bags that never arrived. While my husband walked the length of the airport baggage area searching for our bag, I stood in a long line at customer service. Apparently, all the bags where lost. All I wanted was dinner, a cup of tea, my liquids, and my comfortable pajamas from my checked bag. It was not to be. We gave up and turned in for the night…sans liquids and comfy pjs.

In the morning we lumbered down to baggage claim, and there was our bag, sitting all alone in a vast empty line of silent luggage carousels. I opened the zipper just enough to verify that this was indeed my bag - and upon seeing my socks and underwear, promptly zipped it shut without fully examining ALL the contents. We grabbed the bag and rushed upstairs to check it in before joining the security line before our flight to Chicago, which was delayed.

The flight from Chicago to Manchester was also delayed, and there was a scene at customs. The customs agent simply was having one of those days (or lifetimes) where he gained immense satisfaction from being an asshole. We watched as numerous families were loudly belittled for "wasting his time and everyone else's" for imagined slights and sent to the end of the ridiculously long line of over a hundred weary passengers and crying children. When our turn arrived, the only available agent was this power-wielding sack of flesh. We also were immediately shunned, yelled at, and sent to the end of the line for showing disrespect, when we had not been able to get in a single word to answer the belligerent rapid fire questions of "and how would I be treated if I were to travel to your country?! You are wasting my time. END OF THE LINE!" Making our way back through the maze of line forming poles and rope we were intercepted by another agent who took us back to the front of the line and hand delivered us to a different agent - they passed knowing looks and we sensed that the agent who was having a no-good-rotten-horrible-day was a regular occurrence.

With all the delayed flights and customs drama we missed the prime 10 a.m. train to Edinburgh, but managed to score tickets for the noon train. There was a bit of confusion before boarding the train, as our tickets did not match the train cars or seats. We stopped a uniformed man to ask which car we should board and were informed these tickets were for the metro train across town, not this train right in front of us, ready to leave the station. Being the calm, rational, people that we are, we tossed our luggage on the theoretically wrong train and jumped aboard. Long story short, the uniformed individual happened to be new on the job and gave us directions that would have most certainly ruined Christmas. The other passengers were very helpful in explaining the ticket and seating process.

We arrived in Edinburgh, the hilly capital of Scotland. Cobblestone streets and Harry-Potter-esque architecture make up the section known as Old Town, lined with baked potato delis and shops offering highland wool and Celtic jewelry. I opened my bag and rummaged around for the rum. It was gone. Of course it was gone. When a bag goes missing in an airport for 12 hours, so does the rum.

On the return trip, I ditched all the liquids and opted to carry on my bag instead of checking it. That was a “stable genius” move on my part because everything that could possibly go wrong in the history of air travel went wrong.

Perhaps that sentiment is overblown. We did not die, there was no water landing, and the air sickness bag was not required. However, the pilot came over the intercom and said, "Folks, this plane is smaller than the one we would normally use for a transatlantic flight and the fuel tank is not big enough to get us all the way to Chicago. We're going to stop in Bangor, Maine for a refuel." As we approached Bangor, Maine, the pilot made yet another announcement, "Folks, Bangor Maine is too windy for a safe landing, so we are going to try to make it to Boston for a refuel."

Never fly American. Who uses the wrong plane??

All this wrong plane business resulted in an unexpected overnight stay in Chicago, as everyone missed their connections. Representatives met passengers at the gate and had dinner and hotel vouchers, and tickets for rebooked flights. American Airlines rebooked us on an Alaskan Airline flight to Seattle the next morning. This time I had my comfy pajamas in my unchecked bag, so staying overnight in Chicago was not that inconvenient. The next morning we arrived at the gate and were on standby for seat assignments. After all the passengers boarded, and just before the plane door was shut, we were assigned seats. As they scanned my newly issued ticket, the ticket agent said, "I'm sorry, American didn't complete the purchase on this ticket - You'll have to go to gate K7 and have them issue you a purchased ticket." I ran to K7 and was told, "We aren't ticket agents." I ran back to N9 (yeah, a different terminal!) and they let me on the plane anyway, sans ticket.

My advice for sane holiday travel? Forget the checked bag. Just take a backpack with a toothbrush, clean underpants, and comfy pajamas. Be prepared to enjoy the ‘scenic’ extra-long way home.

Book Reviews: Lost Homeland by E. Richard Hart and When the Sun Reaches the Mountain by Christine Cassano

I recently read two books side by side: Lost Homeland: the Methow Tribe and the Columbia Reservation, by E. Richard Hart, and When the Sun Reaches the Mountain by Christine Cassano. Reading these two side by side gave insight into how and why the First People were forced out of their homeland, and how those actions impacted later generations.

Richard is a prolific author and former director of the Institute of the North American West. He is a noted historian and expert witness for tribal matters throughout North America. He lives in Winthrop. Christine is a retired professional hairstylist, she is the 1991 Champion of the International Americas Cup. She was born and raised on the Colville Reservations, and went on to own and operate Christine’s Institute of Hair Design in Spokane, where her students also went on to win national awards. Christine lives on the Colville Reservation in her home that she built in Inchelium.

Lost Homeland gives a detailed outline of the many different people who spoke for the Methows about land use and borders without their knowledge or consent. The land was bargained out from under them, a little each year, while the majority of people were away from home each season gathering food in the upper valley, preparing for winter. The book is written from the perspective of an expert witness preparing a detailed summary and includes official correspondence of documented events, maps, and photos.  

When the Sun Reaches the Mountain is a very personal narrative of the life of a young Native American girl in Washington State during the 1940s and 1950s. Christine shares loving details of her hard-working family who lived on the Colville Reservation. The memories of her mother’s touch and her father’s instruction make their impoverished lifestyle feel rich in experience, although filled with difficult obstacles. She describes everything in great detail, down to the smell of home cooked food, the feel of the blankets, and the sounds of daily life. The story unfolds as most memories do, in bits and pieces. She begins with her first night as an adult in her newly built home, reflecting on the wide arc of her life’s path. The first memory is of a summer before school, working with her family. As most smart young women, she was looking forward to school, but then a tuberculosis diagnosis takes her far away to a specialized hospital where she spends years. From a sterile hospital bed, she draws upon thoughts of her family to get her through each day.

From Richard’s book, I learned that the Columbia Reservation - which includes the Methow traditional territory - was never officially disbanded. This detail has fallen out of public knowledge. The Confederated Tribes, which includes the Methow people, have, “an excellent record in natural resource management,” and have been a powerful ally in recent events surrounding decisions about natural resources in the Methow Valley. We have the Methow Valley Interpretive Center in Twisp, and the Methow Monument in Pateros, but there is more work we can do as a community to help preserve and honor the history of the original people, the Methows.

From Christine’s book, I gained a perspective of how the human spirit perseveres from someone who lived through tumultuous changes during the 40s and 50s in the Pacific Northwest. Native Americans straddled multiple rivers of change at a time when public health epidemics and changes in the economy affected all of America. Healthcare, livelihoods, and education were far from home if you lived on a reservation. Christine details hard challenges, but does so with an inspiring frankness. Her story is an uplifting narrative of strength and perseverance when it nothing in life seems certain.

Mae Ellen Libby Smith

Originally published in the Methow Valley News, November 22, 2018

May Ellen Libby Smith was born on a late summer day August 15, 1918. Her mother, Marian Libby, was harvesting corn from the garden when her water broke within view of Leecher Mountain from Twisp River. May’s father, Chester Libby, grabbed his horse and rode to summon Cora Scott, the midwife. Her given name at birth was, “Mae”, but she has always signed her name as “May”, the gardeners favorite time of year, when Emerson’s words come to life, “What potent blood hath modest May.” She was born at home later that day – although, you could say May’s first introduction to life was the rich Methow soil of her mother’s garden.

May’s paternal grandparents, Ashbell and Sarah Libby, built the first schoolhouse on Libby Creek. They continued on as school administrators for many years. A deep appreciation for education was firmly planted in May. From her parents’ home on Twisp River, May rode the bus to school in Twisp, and attended the large school that is today’s Methow Valley Community Center.

May fondly recalled the teacher who introduced her to poetry, Ms. Virginia Ramm. “I loved poetry. I’d lean my head into old Daisy while milking and I’d write poetry!” she exclaimed. “Give me a word, any word, and I’ll write a poem around that word.” With a twinkle in her blue eyes, May raised her hands and gestured as she recited “The Day is Done” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. “The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather…” her hands swept the air in a gentle downward waft, “From an eagle in his flight…” she continued to the very end.

“I’d get up early, while it was still dark and go sit at the ponds with my dog, waiting for the sun the rise. The moment dawn hit the water, it seemed like the whole world came alive, all the frogs and birds, it was so loud!”

After the 8th grade, the family needed May to go to work. She was heartbroken to leave school, but she enjoyed her time working at various places, starting at a restaurant in Tonasket, and including the original Logan’s in Twisp.

During WWII, May got a job at the Vancouver shipyards. She was outfitted with a Harley Davidson motorcycle, sidecar, and a team of women to manage the tool warehouse and deliver tools to ships. “That is where I met Eleanor Roosevelt,” she said.

The First Lady had arrived in Vancouver to christen a ship. May let the other women off early so they could get a good seat in the crowd. The crowds grew that morning while she continued her deliveries via motorcycle. She was summoned by a commanding officer, who indicated that someone needed a ride. May drove up to the curb and nodded to man to get into her sidecar. “He was a real fancy dude with a top hat,” she recollected. May drove him up to the gates, where Eleanor was waiting. The man got out and stepped up to the First Lady, turning to wave to May. “Eleanor Roosevelt blew me a kiss,” May pressed her fingers to her pursed lips, and tipped them forward, “just like that. She had a nice smile. She was not as homey as the pictures made her out to be.” After the ceremony, Eleanor Roosevelt’s motorcade drove by May, as she waited on her motorcycle. Eleanor singled out May, as she blew another kiss.

May soon traveled to Spokane, where she was hired by the Air National Guard. “Let me tell you about my good time job,” she grinned. “All the other applicants had finished school. I didn’t think I had a chance. But they picked me, I had the smarter answers!” She smiled, the memory still potent decades later.

May knew that things were done one particular way in the military. But she found her job to be inefficient, especially during an emergency when she had to quickly compile a report from multiple file sources. May changed the filing system to better respond to emergencies. One day, the commanding officers strode into the room. May thought, “Uh oh, here comes the brass, there goes my job.” But instead, they shook her hand and congratulated May on her quick response time. Her filing system was implemented nationwide. Later in life, the Air National Guard recognized May with a Letter of Commendation.

Throughout her adult life, May continued to write poetry, and yearned to finish her schooling. In her late thirties, she achieved that goal and received her college degree in interior design.

At 99 years old, May is still very much young at heart, the embodiment of Emerson’s words, “What potent blood hath modest May.” When complimented on her youthful complexion and air of health, she holds up a jar of Gardners Gardens beeswax skin cream, made in the Methow Valley by David and Marilyn Sabold. (It’s been my long time favorite, too!) May also credits a spoonful of honey every morning, sometimes mixed with peanut butter. From her home in Wenatchee May has a request of her friends, “Bring me some Methow dirt. The good kind, some Methow soil!”

Mae passed away peacefully shortly after this publication on January 8, 2018