Another brunch, and then a late lunch in Syracuse (Haitch: have you found L'adour on Water Street? very frainch), and then trying to sneak onto an earlier flight.
At the ticket counter we encountered other wedding guests. The clerk greeted the five-year-old boy enthusiastically and asked how many were traveling. They responded, "Three," and I said, "Four!" because of the bear peeking out of the boy's backpack. But the clerk said he could fly for free. I asked the boy what his bear's name was. "Teddy," he said, as if that were painfully obvious. Maybe it ought to be, but none of my bears was ever named Teddy.
We had a whistler and a screaming baby on the Chicago-ward flight, and the same two happy-makers on the Denver flight with the baby right behind us kicking our seats for 1000 miles. There was also a 19-month-old boy in our very row, who was charming and merry and looked over the seat at the grizzler with interest but not mimicry. The grizzler was seriously in love with his own voice, and would wind down for a few minutes before remembering his purpose. Climbing Tree be thanked for earplugs, without which I will never fly again.
Home.