The Big White Truck cruised slowly across town on I-64 to the airport. It was a cold morning, and the heated seats and steering wheel felt strangely good to this older gentleman. No need for speed, as I had plenty of time to make the direct flight from Richmond to Detroit. 

The garage spaces challenged my parking ability, as usual. With four doors, the truck length makes turns and fitting between the lines a chore. I traipsed from the North Garage to the TSA checkpoint with my new OGIO backpack and inexpensive hardshell baggage. Thankfully I was Pre-Check and was warmly greeted by an associate whose fashion choices made me wonder.

At the gate, I realized that I had forgotten to put a luggage tag on the carry-on. At the desk I grabbed one of those paper tags and reached into my shirt for a pen. No luck. I went to the backpack as I recalled setting it up for the trip, putting my two white Shell V-Power Gasoline pens from the recent trade show in those little loops in the front pocket. The ink didn’t flow at first, as I had never used them, but soon enough I had scribbled my info on the tag and returned the pen to its proper place.

The trip up to Detroit was uneventful. After arriving, my colleagues and I worked for a few hours fine-tuning the presentation to a committee the next day, then went to dinner at the usual place. Andiamo’s is one of those go-to restaurants, where service is far above the norm and the plates are flavorful. Being somewhat famous as the restaurant where Jimmy Hoffa enjoyed his last meal, we hoped for the best. Although the drinks and wine were oh so fine, at least one entree was lacking. Three average sized shrimp in a shallow bowl of pasta? For $36? It must be inflation causing deflation in my portion size.

The next day, we gathered for the discussion. Four hours. It was a long discussion. Good thing we had those Powerpoint slides as talking points. Thankfully we learned more than we hoped from the committee members, and we didn’t have to talk through too much data. Test data is boring. But it is what we often do — try new ideas, perform tests, and report on the results. We left the office and headed to a restaurant called Tria halfway to the airport. Uber drivers are everywhere in Detroit, and we had practically no time to get down from the 11th floor to the pickup point where a person speaking very little English met us. ”Five stars?” he questioned as he dropped us off. Clearly he wanted to keep his Uber score high.

With so much time to kill, we logged onto a Webex where we listened to a VP share good financial news for 2023. Dinner followed, and this meal was both filling and satisfying. Not wanting to miss the only direct flight home, another Uber driver was summoned. Unlike the first, this fellow was as gregarious as you can be. We learned all sorts of facts about him, from vital statistics, family members, his pet dog name, family hometown, workplaces, favorite combat aircraft, and all in twelve miles. 

The airport came into view, and I let him know we needed McNamara terminal for Delta. To me, this is the new terminal. To our young Uber driver, it was the ancient building that needed a renovation. Rolling up to the departure lane, I remembered my first trip to DTW, some forty years ago. Had I been visiting Detroit for forty years? The Israelites wandered in the wilderness forty years…

We made it through the TSA checkpoint, passing our bags through new CT scanners. I was selected for additional screening and stood in the little scanner where the TSA looked for who knows what. We trundled across the A Concourse and headed down to the tunnel. There, in a mesmerizing mix of muted colors with soft spa music playing, the trip began to catch up to me. In the dark tunnel, with no perspective, I slipped into a fog of “where am I?” Soon enough the escalator beckoned, and we made our way to the end of B Concourse, to await the direct flight home to Richmond. Convenient to our gate was an airport lounge, and I broke out the credit card to buy drinks for us all.

With the flight boarding at 8:50 pm, and arriving in Richmond at 11:09 pm, I wondered how I’d feel the next day. Boarding was typical chaos, with complications from a wheelchair patron being settled at the rear. It was another tiny jet, and as I walked hunched over down the aisle through first class, I stopped in some surprise. In about the third row, all by herself, there she was. What was she doing on a flight to Richmond? Her long brown hair fell across her shoulders, her blazer covered a festive red sweater, and her woolen pants had the sharp crease a Marine Drill Instructor would approve. She was staring into a tablet, through classic gold-rimmed glasses, as she sipped on pre-flight coffee. She was beautiful.

“Sir…sir…you’ll have to keep moving” jostled the flight attendant. I must have been just standing in the aisle, and as I began moving again my eyes couldn’t leave her. Hearing the flight attendant, she looked up. Her eyes met mine.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered. ”I thought you were someone I knew…” She smiled, and returned to her reading.

I hadn’t thought about her in so long. What had it been, forty years? I think it has been forty years. Forty years ago it all started.

 I trudged my way down the narrow aisle, and settled into exit row aisle 13A, hoping my seat mate would be a reasonable conversationalist. No such luck, and I set up the iPad to watch a few downloaded videos. Nothing like watching Matt’s Off-Road Recovery pull a broken Jeep out of the wilderness, viewing a self-defense expert commentary on how to best protect myself from bad guys, and learning all about “The Golden Ratio” which describes a mathematical relationship defining beauty in nature and architecture.

I was glad when the videos stopped playing. We were finally in Knoxville. As people started gathering their carry-ons, I reached down for mine. The hard plastic grip of the handle loop felt familiar, and I brought the Samsonite attache case to my lap. I flipped the two latches and opened the case, to put away my newspaper and the Car and Driver magazine I had purchased at the gift shop. I laughed, silently, as I saw the unused pad of engineering graph paper and my pocket protector there in the case. A few file folders were in the top section, where I had put my itinerary and passes and luggage claim. 

It was a good trip. It was my first trip to Detroit. I couldn’t believe my boss had asked me to join him there, as it was quite literally the third day on my first job. January 2, 1984 I started working as an engineer. My excitement over being employed was magnified by visiting Detroit and Ford Motor Company the very next week. We were to visit the engineer at Ford to discuss the new EGR valve design, which of course I had no idea what that was. My boss, a Hokie from Virginia Tech, just knew I would benefit from being there and listening to the conversations.

In the meeting, which lasted four hours, I met the Ford product engineers, and listened as they outlined their goals. We sketched a few concepts out, and even came up with a new name for the EGR valve, the PFE. I just sat there, trying to be as helpful as possible, and not to screw anything up. My boss and our local OEM representative walked out with me at the end of the long day, and I stopped in amazement. There, covering everything, was six inches of snow. In the time we had been inside the massive EEE building, with nary a window to look out, Detroit weather had moved in and dumped six inches of snow. It worried me a bit, but to our local OEM engineer, it was another day in paradise. He swept the snow off the Taurus and we jumped in for the short ride to the airport.

Now that we were back in Knoxville, I shuffled off the plane with the rest of the business travelers. My wool suit, a muted grey Glen plaid, was more wrinkled than when I put it on earlier in the morning. I straightened up my tie and draped my London Fog trench coat over my arm. The pilot and stewardesses thanked me for flying Delta, and I headed out to the terminal. It took only a few minutes to find my way up the deep red brick terminal hallway, to the baggage claim escalator. Boy was I glad to be home.

“Chip! Chip!” came a familiar voice. I looked up, and there she was. Her long brown hair bounced off her shoulders as she hurried my way, arms wide, with a huge smile. She hugged me for what seemed like five minutes, and I couldn’t return the gesture with my trench coat on one arm and the Samsonite in the other. With a kiss, she released me and exclaimed “You’re home!”

“Suzanne…what in the world…why…how…it is so good to see you…but…”

“I couldn’t let you come home without someone to meet you! It’s a special occasion, your first business trip. In your life! How was it? What did you do? What happened to your new shoes?”

I looked down at my new Alden tassel loafers. I had purchased them for the job interiew a few weeks back, at M.S. McClellan’s. They were perfect for the look, I thought…young hard-charging engineer with a sense of style. I put them on my well-abused MasterCard. At this moment, they were covered with what looked like a sugary white crust, from the soles halfway up the formerly black leather.

“I guess…yes…it was snowing…and we had to dash out of the car at the airport…I must have stepped into the slush from the road right where the snow plow pushed it.”

“Snowing? You’re kidding?”

“No, it just slammed the city as we were in our meeting. Had no idea ’til we walked out to the car.”

“Let’s go get your luggage and then I have a surprise for you.”

We hurried down the escalator to the stainless steel sorter, and found my bag. It too was a bit weathered, from being out on the tarmac in the snow. We walked towards the garage to my car.

“Wait, how’d you get here?” I inquired.

“My sister was kind enough to bring me here, so we could drive back together.” Suzanne related. ”She was going back to Straw Plains anyway, so this wasn’t too much out of her way.”

I dropped the suitcase and attache at the bumper, and opened the door for her. The faded grey paint of my 1970 Volvo contrasted with the shiny red vinyl interior, which the previous owner had recently upgraded. I held the truck lid open with one hand while I dropped the luggage into the compartment…one day I needed to replace those lift springs. But, with a new job, and not much money from my short career as a cook at McDonald’s, those would have to wait.

“Guess where we are going?” Suzanne beamed. ”Guess!”

“I don’t know…McDonalds?” 

“Of course not! You are now an engineer, with a great new job, and a traveling man. We are celebrating!”

“We are?”

“Yes, we are. I’m taking you to the Pioneer House restaurant!”

“You’re kidding!” The Pioneer House was a locally famous log cabin family style restaurant with a great steak.

“If we hurry, we’ll just make it. It’s just down 129 on the left.”

The old Volvo’s six-cylinder engine started, slowly, and I shifted the four-speed into reverse. We made it out of the garage, and down Alcoa Highway to the restaurant. With thirty minutes to spare, we sat at a booth looking across the table. Suzanne was still excited, almost vibrating, and I couldn’t imagine why. We ordered, and soon we had sweet iced tea to enjoy while we waited.

“I can’t wait any longer. I just can’t. Here!” And, with a flourish, Suzanne reached into her hobo style leather purse and pulled out a small gift-wrapped box. It was about eight inches long, not too wide, and only about a half-inch thick. The wrapping paper was a deep crimson, and the bow was a thin golden ribbon, tied in a decorative knot.

“Open it!’ 

I carefully slipped the paper from its tape, and unwrapped what must have been a professional gift wrapping job.

“Just open it!” she smiled again.

There, on the table, was a most beautiful box. The word “Cross” stared at me, in gold leaf, centered in that classic black box. I eased the lid off the box, and there was a silver pen and pencil set, nestled in the tray. I couldn’t believe it. I had always wanted to buy myself a nice set, but had no money for such niceties.

“Look close…right near the clips” she suggested.

To my amazement, there on each instrument was the engraved word “Engineer.” Just that word. In block letters, like a draftsman would write on a blueprint. I took the pen out, and gazed at the word. Tears welled up, as I realized what Suzanne had done. Not only was the gift way out of her budget, but she had confirmed in those engraved words my very identity. I was an engineer. Finally.

“Thanks!” I sniffled. ”Thanks so very much. I can’t wait to wear them at work.”

“You’d better wear them at work. I can’t be dating an engineer who actually uses a pocket protector!”

Thankfully at that moment the waitress arrived with my chopped steak and mashed potato dinner. Suzanne had the chicken-fried steak with green beans. As the last of the light vanished, and the incoming planes roared overhead, we talked and talked. It was good to be home in Knoxville, but it was really good to be an engineer, calling on Ford, way up in Detroit…”

Kawump! My head banged against the window of the plane, and the lights came on. What? Wait! Where was I? The plane engines roared in reverse as we came to a taxi speed and rolled up to the terminal.

There in front of me was the iPad, still suggesting the next downloaded video. My earphones had fallen out during the landing, and I grabbed them to stuff the iPad and phones into my new black OGIO backpack on the floor in front of me. It was a long way down to the backpack, in the exit row legroom, but I managed to snag it. With all the zippers and pockets on this backpack, I couldn’t remember just where everything went. I slipped the iPad into the main compartment, next to that monster Dell workstation I had to carry. I found the zipper of the front organizer pocket and opened it for the earphones. Cramming them into the compartment, I couldn’t help but notice the glint of silver steel. What were those? I wondered. 

Unzipping the pocket a bit more, I saw two pens in those two little loops. My head turned quizzically, as I stared at them. Those were my Shell V-Power pens…brand new…right?

I reached towards them. Slim, bright, silver. Black tips. Cross. I drew one out of the fabric loop and looked at it. Engineer. Block letters. Just like a draftsman would make on a blueprint.

The woman from the plane! Was it her? I put the pen back in the pocket, and rushed to get out of the aircraft. I ran up the entry ramp, and jogged towards the main lobby. Was she here?

I checked the baggage claim area. No one. I rushed out to the arrivals area, hoping she would be waiting on her ride. At nearly midnight, only a few cars and a single airport policeman were there. 

With my head down, I slowly found my way back to The Big White Truck. It took a few minutes, as I couldn’t remember which aisle I had parked. But soon enough I was back on I-64 and headed to Short Pump. Forty years later.