End of the road

Once upon a time I put a car--a rental car, natch-- in a ditchwhen I was driving south from Green Bay to catch a plane in Chicago. But the road was snow-packed, and a pick-up truck was spinning toward us up the opposite ditch that divided the highway, so. It was momentarily scary, but not tragic--especially since there wasn't a scratch on that Dodge, and I had cash for the tow in my wallet. Didn't even miss the plane. But I kind of missed a pick-up, that same year or the next when I drove down, again from Green Bay to Chicago, to pick up my friend from O'Hare. Except they re-routed the plane to Midway. So I went. Except, while I was driving cross-town, they sent the plane back to O'Hare. So I went. Back to where I just was. Except, at that point, hours later. And you know, O'Hare does not at all resemble a mammoth haystack for one person seeking one other, especially in those days just before cellphone ubiquity. It was awesome. Awesomely frustratingly awful. Suffice it to say I am not at all scarred to this day, and that it's only coincidence that I've never stepped foot there since. These are my Chicago Airport Stories I'd Rather Not Re-Live or Recall.

But at least I am not that erstwhile lucky bastard, who, I can only assume, kept his plans and left Lambeau after the NFC Championship Game to make a 6 a.m. flight from O'Hare. Could have been an improbable, worth-the-pain ending to a remarkable day. A story to tell and retell. Coulda been. Can I imagine what it was like to be him, heading south in that frigid dark? Oh, I could, but I won't. I'm trying to move on.