At the DFW airport Sunday afternoon, a TSA lady greets me as I walk through the security scanner. She looks at my shirt and says, “Arkansas Raisinbacks?”
I let it go. “You bet!” I say.
She smiles. “Okay, den, go Raisinbacks.”
I laugh as I pull my x-ray-blasted belongings from four gray plastic bins. In all my years living in Arkansas, that was one alternate pronunciation for “Razorbacks” that I had not heard.
I am on my second work trip of this month, headed back to my homeland. No, not Ireland (Dad’s side). Not Russia (Mom’s side). I’m flying back to the state where Shannon and I were born, and the city where where a wet, screaming Benjamin first shivered into our hearts.
The even better thing about this trip? Shannon’s going to join me and, despite my touching comment about the youngster’s birth, she’s leaving Ben back in Texas. With any luck, my co-worker and I will finish on time each day and Shannon and I will stroll down as many memory lanes as possible.
Yes, it would be fun to show Ben his first house and where he was born. That trip will come later.
The lady sitting next to me on the plane tells me she lives in northwest Arkansas. I give her an, “Oh, really?” look.
“Yeah. I hate it there,” she says.
A few minutes later, she leans over and asks, “So, do you work for Wal-Mart or a Wal-Mart vendor?” Northwest Arkansas is eaten up with Walton influence for about a 40-mile stretch.
I smile and say, “Nope.”
So, there’s one to chew on.