Coonridge Digest: About ‘Travel Panic’

Greetin’s from the Ridge.

Vacations are a consternation. Herb is the eternal pessimist. Just before every vacation I can recall, Herb has re-written his will.

"Herb, we’re just goin’ to Branson. Two nights. How could that possibly change your measly estate?"

"You never know, Freida. Besides, every time I look in the paper, I’ve lost another pall bearer."

Even though every study of the matter shows that the most dangerous place to be is home, some folks just know that they’re gonna conk out enroute to Casablanca or give up the ghost while rockin’ their way to Gibraltar.

Psychologists have found the fear so plentiful that they’ve given it a name: Travel Panic. It’s a totally illogical and equally unavoidable desire to chicken out of trip on the day before you fly the coop. The experts say it has nothin’ to do with fear of flyin’ or trains, boats and Mexican burros, but simply the very act of leavin’ home.

I must of been cut from a different stripe of cloth. To me, the only thing that’s better than gettin’ the heck out of town is anticipatin’ it. Fact is, I’ve taken some excursions where the expectation was actually better than the trip itself.

Not poor Herbie. "Herb, what are the insurance papers doin’ here?" "Insurin’ us."

"I mean what are they doin’ out of the safe deposit box?" "I was lookin’ ‘em over. Makin’ sure we’re covered." "For what? Good grief! It says here ‘..any accidental loss of life or limb.’ For the life of me I can’t see anything that don’t cover!" "Does it say which limb?"

"It don’t matter which limb! Herb, we’re flyin’ to Vancouver, gettin’ on a simple little cruise ship then steamin’ up the Alaskan coastline.

People do it every day and I’ve never once heard of fishin’ boat pullin’ some Midwest farmer’s toe from the water. Forget your stupid limbs, Herb. Just tell me which socks you want packed." "What if I die and you don’t?"

"Then they’ll like as not come lookin’ for me cause I’m gonna choke you if you put on this balkin’ act again. We’ve paid our fee, we’ve signed the papers, and I got somebody to come in and water the plants. Life is complete, Herb. Let’s go."

Travel Panic comes to a frenzied head when it comes time to actually leave the house and head for the airport or train station, or simply get in the car.

"Herb, let go of the door handle."

"Just one last check."

"Of what!? You’ve done everything but roll up the porch! Herb, I made a list, I checked it twice, now get in the car before we have to make a claim on that limb-losin’ clause!"

"The door’s not locked, Freida."

"The door don’t have a lock, Herb. This is Coonridge. Besides, no better than this place is insulated you could walk through a crack in the bedroom wall."

Although finally ploppin’ hubby Herb into the Pontiac is the summit of his neurosis, there’s still a slippery slide down the far slope until we reach our destination. All the man can talk about on the way to the airport are reports of plane crashes.

"Thirty-seven people were killed on Air Tokyo, Freida." "Herb, that was eight years ago and the pilot was eatin’ raw fish. They had a reason to die."

"Give me the numbers, Freida."

"I gave ‘em to you at breakfast."

"The numbers! I gotta have the numbers!" "You’re eight times more likely to be killed drivin’ to the corner grocery store than if you flew around the world a thousand times." "Stop!"

"Herb, get your hand off the steerin’ wheel! What’re you doin’?" "There’s a grocery store! Don’t pass it! Drive around the block!" I’m writin’ this column somewhere just west of Sitka, Alaska. Herb is on our balcony lookin’ for tidal waves. Last night at supper somebody shouted ‘Whale!’ and he stabbed himself with his fork. Wish you all were here. You wouldn’t believe it.

You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door, but you’ll enjoy the trip.