My dad’s in California. Long day. Everything did not go exactly as planned.
He’s fine. Exhausted. Well fed. Asleep.
His flight from Milwaukee to San Francisco was flawless. For those counting, WN4233 flew the 1,843 mile MKE-SFO route so directly it added only 17 miles to the mathematical minimum!
He sat in the first row, window. The middle seat was empty. Airplane nirvana.
At SFO an unannounced change of equipment! This route was chosen specifically because it was direct. Poof.
My father reports it was handled well with a waiting wheelchair, though he did have to show ID two times while in San Francisco.
Dear TSA —
Really? Seriously? The 89 year old guy in the chair who didn’t expect to get off the plane? Do you need a Director of Common Sense?
All the best,
The SFO-SNA run wasn’t nearly as direct, avoiding LAX by flying mainly over the ocean. The flight left two minutes early, arrived twenty minutes late.
My father was in transit nearly seven hours. Exhausted. We all sat and watched football then had (for him a late) dinner.
We walked to the patio–larger than he thought. It’s not. We are just small people. However, it is this magical little space that’s inside and outside and private with a view when desired. And hummingbirds.
My father’s petted Doppler a few times. She licked him back. We never had a family dog. It will be interesting to see this relationship develop.
He is upstairs now. At least in-the-beginning my father’s days will be divided into upstairs and downstairs periods. Not a lot of up-and-down. We work on his stamina starting tomorrow.
He walks fine. We have no chair or aids for him to use. He just doesn’t walk far.
Hold on. He reads this. Daddy, we’re going to get you stronger, more physically active.
Lofty goal. We’ll see.
Welcome to SoCal, Harold Fox.