I had just opened the door to my room at Hotel Roanoke this afternoon when my phone began to ring. As I looked at the caller id and saw it was work, I knew it could not be good, It was already after office hours which meant it must be a public safety officer, CHO’s police. Before I could answer there was a knock on the door I had barely shut, and there stood Jeff Brill, CHO’s director of finance and administration. With a grimace on his face, he handed me his phone stating that Bill Pahuta, deputy director, needed to speak with me immediately.
Not having traveled with me, you would not be aware that almost every time I leave town on business for CHO, strange things happen at work. Due to this history, a sense of dread tightened my chest. It worsened as I heard Bill say “I’m sorry, I hate to call you but something has happened”. Without even listening to the rest of his statement, my thoughts immediately jumped to calamity and mayhem. My record wasn't to be broken this trip.
I vaguely heard his voice say “contractor” and I gulped air, breathing a slight bit. Maybe not so bad. Construction site: turned over equipment? cut down someone else's trees? ran over the neighbor’s shed? blew up the neighbor’s house? My pulse started to quicken but I reminded myself our contractor is highly respected and responsible, and apologized to Bill for not listening to the rest of his comment.
“Bones”. I’m sorry, what did you say? “Bones”. Bones? “Yes, bones.” Do you mean real bones or Fox Network Bones? “Sigh, real bones”. You mean like George Washington dead body in the grave bones? “Yes, Barb (long pause), those bones.” “The contractor just unearthed bones.” “We need to call the police”.
CHO has WONDERFUL police officers so naturally I think this must be really bad-murdered bones bad. CHO police are not accustomed to dealing with something like that, or bones of any kind for that matter. Or just as sinister, I wonder does this mean we just dug up someone's bones like George Washington and now have to explain? “Don’t know yet, can’t tell what the bones are”. The pitch of my voice quadrupled to rival Tiny Tim (the musician for you young folks) as I asked Bill to call me as soon as the police arrived and determined what to do next. Rationally, I knew the airport woods were full of deer, woodchucks, and coyote so they say, but my brain was on overdrive. I even recalled the archeological analysis that had to be conducted on the site before receiving final permits and approvals but that was meaningless at the moment.
I tapped my fingers and chewed on my cheek. Torn between feeling like a criminal about to be discovered and an innocent airport official with the luck of the Titanic, I noticed Jeff shooting pool. Only Jeff could be whizzing around a pool table right now, smoothly moving from shot to shot, from front to back like a cheerleader with a baton. Joy, joy as Jeff always says. Good grief I think. I commenced my wait to hear from Bill. Or from a detective. A reporter. A family member.
I am a good airport director I exclaim to myself (current state of paranoia not considered). I do my job, sometimes more, polite and courteous even when asked for information no airport employee could or should answer: what time does my son’s flight get in next week (you mean you need to know what day and airline to look it up); what is the longitude and latitude of my house on “x” street; how do I find what airline I made reservations with for my flight this afternoon; I heard flights and schools were canceled or delayed today due to snow, what about next week; what was the temperature and rainfall the day I was born; what will the weather be for my niece’s wedding next month and do you think we should we rent a tent; Airport, I didn't call the airport, I called Belk, transfer me to Belk this minute; I can’t give you my name or tell you where my sister lives because we don’t want to be put on the LIST, but could you tell the airplane that hovers and spotlights her house every night to stop it. Yes Charlottesville, these are just a few of the REAL phone calls to our office. We get them every day. Not to make light of anyone’s concern, but you know what I mean. Some days it takes great patience to be remain polite. I even admit it, I recently laughed when I received a letter that stated the sender knew we must have a well-stocked lost and found and would like to pay a reduced rate for a size 6 gold and diamond engagement and wedding ring, please check and reserve them right away. I give her credit for innovative thinking. I just don’t deserve bones!
I shook myself free of my thoughts and Jeff and I left for a scheduled meeting. I moved around the room, meekly smiling and shaking hands, wondering: has he found vertebrae on his airport? Has she discovered teeth on her airport? Our engineer took pity on me and reminded me layers of ancient ruins lie beneath many cities as he suppressed a laugh. Jeff on the other hand thoroughly enjoyed the moment, gleefully telling anyone who would listen that we dug up bones at CHO today, disturbing some ancient burial ground, freeing spirits and demons upon the airport. All I could think? Headlines, whispers in the grocery aisle, stares at the dry cleaners. A television crime show episode in the making.
Unable to cope with the months being shaved from my life, I dialed Bill. I heard his reassuring voice, and he calmly but distinctly announced “bear”.
Did you say bear or did you mean to say bones? “Bear”. What do you mean bear? “Bear, Barb, as in a bear”. You mean a real bear? “Uh, yes, a real bear”. What does a bear have to do with this (duh)? Do you see a bear? “No Barb”. “Bear bones”. “The bones are bear bones”.
I knew it! My rational self was right. Deer, woodchucks, coyote and bear! We’ve seen them, tracked them, or otherwise chased them from our property. We have chased their hunters from our woods as well.
WHEW as they say back home.
Big. Sigh. Of. Relief.
And exasperation.
Darn Jeff. Darn bear. Darn bones.
Tags #CHO #Where’s Barb #bear #bones
I am always fascinated by the varying levels of noise created by different types of aircraft. A military T-45 is doing touch and go's today and it is VERY loud. However, it appears to be a very small jet-even cute in my book. Although frustrating to some neighbors, I love when we are visited by aircraft that don't normally frequent CHO. There are so many different types, and today, the T-45 is a mighty mouse, a ferocious sounding speck in the distance that keeps zipping by my window. Go Navy!
