"H ere," I said when we reached the security check at the airport, "let me put your purse on the conveyer for you. You'll need to give the attendant your cane before you go through the gate, too." I deposited her carry-on bag on the conveyer and dropped my car keys in one of the small plastic bowls placed on the counter for that purpose. She was such a sweetheart, but she got confused sometimes and we all tried to make new things easier for her. I couldn't imagine what we would have done without her through our early and very lean married years.
"I'd rather keep my purse," Mom said clutching the strap that crossed her chest protectively. "What are those bowls for?" she asked the attendant, peering over the counter and into the colorful blue and yellow, plastic bowls.
"They're for your keys and change and anything else metal that might set off the alarms," she answered, smiling patiently.
"I'm supposed to put my money in there?" she asked. The attendant nodded.
"Why?" Mom asked.
"So the alarms don't go off when you go through the gate." Mom peered in the bowls again and started to ask another question but stopped.
She hesitated but finally pulled her purse strap over her head and hoisted the large, bulging black purse up onto the counter, unsnapped the big flap and opened the first of several sections. She began piling the contents on the counter next to the purse. Out came a TV Guide, a handful of bills rubber-banded together, a packet of Kleenex, five bandaids, a set of keys, fingernail clippers, a brush and comb, a bottle of Oil of Olay, hair spray, a pocket mirror, an envelope of clipped coupons, a packet of notecards, a zip lock bag with strips of postage stamps and return address labels in it, two lip sticks, four eyeglass cases, five hair rollers, seven bottles of medicines whose labels she meticulously read out loud as if to commit them to memory, several candy bars, an apple, a half a bananna and two fat, stuffed wallets. One of those she carefully opened, unsnapped the change purse and shook out the coins that promptly bounced and rolled to every corner of the counter. Retrieving the coins, she leaned over to look into the blue bowl that held my keys then dropped her coins into the yellow bowl. We watched as she began unzipping all the little pockets inside the now half-empty purse and started extracting coins, sorting out the rest of her change.
"No, no," the attendant stopped her when she finally realized what Mom was doing. She gently put her hand on Mom's arm to encourage her to listen, "You don't need to do that. You can just put everything back into your purse and put the whole thing on the conveyor. You don't have to empty it first."
"But I want my purse," Mom said, pulling it closer to her and further away from the attendant who had attempted to help replace its contents. Mom eyed her with a certain amount of suspicion and retraced the "emptying" steps, carefully reorganizing everything back into her purse one item at a time including every coin into it's allotted place. She zipped her purse shut and pulled the strap back over her head, settling it securely and protectively like a diagonal ammunition belt across her chest. She turned toward the security arches as if the matter was now settled.
The attendant turned to me apologetically, "She'll have to put her purse on the conveyor to be scanned in order to enter the concourse," she informed me quietly.
"Here, Mom, that purse is heavy, let me just put it up here for you," I said.
"My purse is just fine where it is. It's not too heavy," she dismissed me.
"But we have to let them scan it's contents in order to get through security," I explained.
"Do you mean they want to look at what's in my purse?" she asked. "I don't want anyone snooping in my purse. It's none of their business what I have in my purse!" She clutched her purse tighter.
"It's for everyone's safety. They need to make sure no one is taking something dangerous with them."
"Like what?" she wanted to know.
"I don't know. Like a bomb or a gun or something," I said.
At that Mom was indignant. "Do I look like someone who would have a gun in my purse?" she demanded. "Who would think that?" Now her gaze swept the entire security staff to see if she could determine which one of them would dare to think such a thing about her. She was thoroughly offended and didn't trust any of them one bit.
"It's OK, really. Everyone has to do it. Look, I'm putting my purse up here. They won't open it, they just do an x-ray of what's inside and the girl sitting right over there just looks at the x-ray as it goes by. Then it comes out the other end and you can pick it up just as soon as you go through the security gate." I was getting visions of my mother-in-law and I wrestling for possession of her big purse. She finally, although reluctantly, started to pull the strap back over her head again. I all but snatched her purse from her and placed it on the moving belt before she could change her mind. She watched skeptically as it disappeared.
Getting her through the gate proved to be yet another challenge. It took three tries, lots of explanations, and much cajoling to finally convince her to relinquish her cane and let me put it, too on the conveyor. I guided her through the gate scanner to the other side, stepping quickly to rejoin her as soon as I, too, had passed security. I retrieved the car keys and her cane, shouldered the heavy carry-on and picked up both purses, carefully handing hers to her.
The gate alarms sounded behind us and she turned. "I've never heard that before. What does it mean?" she asked.
"He probably just forgot to empty all his pockets," I tried to reassure her as she watched another attendant carefully waving a wand over the man's body after he had failed security for the third time.
"Things have changed a lot since the last time I took a plane," she informed me. It didn't appear that she considered the changes for the better.
"I know," I agreed, "it's too bad, too, but security is getting tighter and tighter for everyone's protection."
Now that we'd finally gotten through the gate and were on our way I relaxed a little and chuckled to myself. Maybe the guy who set off the alarm was just wearing cowboy boots. I thought of the first time I went to the airport after the new security gates were installed. Passengers were not yet used to arriving more than an hour early to be scanned before being admitted to the terminal concourse and I found myself in a long line of people all impatiently waiting their turn. As we inched forward, a tall cowboy several travelers in front of me headed through the gate. All the alarms sounded. Confused, he backed through the gate and they sounded again. He then emptied his pockets of all his change and keys as they suggested and stepped into the gate. Alarms went off and he took one step backward. He then emptied a large pocket knife from his pocket and tried again. Alarms went off. Next he removed his hat which had conchos braided into the band. Again the alarms sounded. Next went the belt previously hidden by his suede jacket but sporting an impressively large bull-riding belt buckle. Alarms. Next went the jacket and his shirt that had snaps instead of buttons and his watch. Alarms.
It was before the security check-points had hand wands available and the entire airport was now at his mercy. Not only was the line getting longer with hopeful passengers, the alarms which could be heard throughout the terminal, were drawing a crowd. Young women in particular had gained quite an interest as the cowboy continued his slow and alarm punctuated strip.
I watched as a lively discussion took place that I couldn't hear. The attendants were pointing to the cowboy's boots and he was shaking his head in the negative. They seemed to be at an impasse. Now anyone who knows anything knows that you don't ask a cowboy to take off his boots. Among possibly many other reasons, a cowboy's boots do not come off while he's still wearing his pants. Any simple farm kid knows that. Anyone who rides knows that. The keepers of the gate didn't seem to grasp the concept, however. At any rate, they were not prepared for the tall drink-of-water who rode bulls. There were no privacy screens. There wasn't even a chair. The cowboy, now clearly at the end of his patience, looked up at the crowd rather sheepishly, blushed, shrugged and bent to his task. He unbuttoned his jeans, sat down on the floor and wrestled his boots off. He stood, picked up his boots with his jeans still attached, handed them to the security gestapo and sauntered through the gate in nothing but his boxer shorts and his socks. No alarms sounded. The entire crowd broke into wild clapping and cheering with a few whistles and cat calls from the females. The cowboy retrieved his boots and pants, his shirt, his jacket, his belt, stuffed all the little things in his carry-on bag, bowed to the assembled throng, put his hat back on his head and headed off down the concourse dragging a jangling belt buckle behind him.
This trip was much less entertaining and the security staff was much more organized. Mom, however, appeared to be deep in thought as we proceeded down the ramp to the gates. Finally, she stopped walking and looked at me quizzically, glancing back down the concourse toward the security gate. "I still can't figure out what we were supposed to put in the offering bowls." she confided.
