105 Reasons to Dissemble

Every so often, I fail miserably in my effort to be a good example for my children.  One such occasion was on the way home from Uganda last week.

An inspirational figure in my life is 104 year-old Herb Nootbaar.  Herb and his dearly departed wife Elinor have generously endowed the law school’s Nootbaar Institute, which is the home of Pepperdine’s Global Justice Program under which my work in Uganda operates.  Each year, we have a birthday party for Herb in the fall to celebrate and honor his longevity and generosity.

Just before I left Uganda last July, I purchased an ornate walking stick to add to Herb’s collection from around the world.  It was a few inches too long to fit into any of our bags, so we paid to have it shipped home along with the checked luggage.  Unsurprisingly, the baggage jockeys rode it hard and broke its spirit, not to mention its handle.

Cane Transport Fail

Fortunately, I returned to Uganda in advance of the actual party and returned with a replacement gift – a personalized ornate bowl for the occasion of his 104^th.

Undeterred by my previous failure, I decided to renew my efforts to add to Herb’s colorful cane collection.  Joline picked out another winner a couple days before our trip home.  At the airport, I tried to reason with the ticket agent and explained to her that I needed to carry it with me because it was a gift for a friend’s 105^th birthday and last time I tried to bring one home, it broke in transit.  Her scowl signaled the length of my odds.  Fortunately, a supervisor walked by and inquired as to the problem.

I once again regaled my tale of surprise-birthday woe, to which he responded, “Unless you have an injury that requires you to use a cane, we cannot allow you to carry it on.”

Thinking quickly, I reached down and pulled up my pant leg to reveal the after effects of my knife dual with Tyrion Lannister.  Somehow I knew my nine left knee surgeries would come in handy someday.  I pointed at the carnage and asked with a devious grin, “Is this good enough?”

He grinned back and said, “You had better be convincing.”

Oh, so it’s a challenge?  Game on.

The problem, of course, was that the walking stick’s craftsmanship focused more on form than function.  While the handle was comfortable enough, the polished and rounded butt of the stick skated on the tile floor whenever I placed more than a modicum of weight on it.  But I hobbled on like a good soldier.

My oldest daughter Jessica could barely contain her stares and giggles, which threatened to blow my cover.  Her comment that “this is something Bob Goff would do” strengthened my resolve to do Bob proper honor.  (She wasn’t too far off – Bob managed to convince the airlines to allow him to transport a prison door back to the United States during a prior visit).

But my acting debut was not destined to be an easy one.  When we arrived at the gate, we discovered we were on the same flight home as two mission teams – one from Jessica’s school Oaks Christian, and another Joline and Jessica had encountered out on the road on one of their mobile clinic days.  Fortunately, the waiting area was carpeted, so the cane was behaving under me, but the area was teeming with airline rep’s, including the gate agent who had initially tried to poop on my party plans.

After three weeks of being stared and pointed at because I am white, one would think I would be used to the glare of strangers.  I wasn’t.  At one point, it got so awkward that Jessica felt like she had to tell her classmates that I was faking an injury to get the cane home.  It only got more awkward from there.

Playing my Part

I am used to boarding planes early.  Each round trip to Uganda earns me 20,000 Delta Sky Miles, so I am Elite Plus.  We, the privileged class, get to board the plane before all of the common folk.  That is, of course, except those traveling with children and those who need special assistance in boarding.

As the first boarding announcement rang out, I happened to be in the general vicinity of a seventy year-old lady with a bona fide cane – polished alloy with a holster gripped handle beveled for each finger and tipped with a rubber snout that suctioned to even the iciest of surfaces.  So when she hobbled to the front along with the handful of parents towing behind their grouchy little ankle-biters dragging their teddy bears and blankies for the red-eye flight, all eyes turned to me.

So I ducked my head and played my part.  Appropriately, the party-pooper was the agent assigned to escort the first wave onto the plane.  She didn’t blow my cover and even gave me a crooked smile of quiet respect.  As I ambled, the oldster with the Ninja cane chatted me up a bit.

“Sports injury?”

“Um, what?”

“Did you injure yourself playing sports?”

“Oh, that.  Yeah.  Football.  And you?”

“I was dancer.”

“About a million years and a hundred pounds ago?” I barely kept myself from asking as we traveled at a lapped-by-a-tortoise-with-a-bum-flipper pace.  By the time we reached the plane, I needed to shave again and had learned she was a nurse/nun who had been out of communication with the developing world for almost four months.  I caught her up on the world’s events and still had time to spare.

Just as I finally (and mercifully) reached my seat, I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder and heard a deep voice say, “Excuse me, Sir.”

Gulp.  I turned and looked into the face of the supervisor who had given me the green light to dissemble.

“Good show,” he said and gave me a wink.

I slid my cane to the back of the luggage compartment with a sense of pride and gingerly took my seat.  Midway through the flight, I limped down the aisle (just in case anyone remembered my entry) to the water closet.

Leg one of the trip.  Check.

Upon landing in Amsterdam, I nearly forgot the cane.  A smile and a wave from the dancing nun jogged my memory.  The stewardess had stowed her cane in the closet, but mine was at the back of the angled luggage compartment out of immediate reach.  I stole a glance around before hopping up on the seat to retrieve it.

I maintained the charade the entire way through the Amsterdam airport until we got to the storage lockers.  We stowed our backpacks and my walking stick and ventured into town.

My typical layover in Amsterdam is three hours, but we had six this time through.  On my first trip to Uganda back in 2010, my layover had also been long enough to see the Amsterdam sites, but Joline and Jessica had not been with me then.  On that prior trip, I had taken a tour of the Anne Frank house and wanted to give Jessica the sobering chance to see first-hand the devastation and tragedy of Hitler’s holocaust through the courageous eyes of this young girl.

It was every bit as emotional the second time through as was the first.  While we were pressed for time due to some of our wandering and snacking on the way to the house-turned-museum, it was well worth the one-hour wait in line to get in.

Joline and Jessica at Anne Frank House

Determined not to miss our connection home, we jogged about half of the way back to the train station where we caught a ride back to the airport.  Still pressed for time, I got impatient with a group of loafers who were just entering one of two side-by-side upwardly sloped moving walkways that connected the train station to the airport.  The one of the right was steadily gaining altitude while its passengers stood clutching the rail.  The one on the left, however, was both still and empty all the way to the top.  As further evidence of my miraculous healing, I darted left and bounded upward with Joline and Jessica on my heels.

It turns out that the Dutch are rather technologically advanced.  They have actually invented (and perfected) motion detecting moving walkways.  As we ran north, the heretofore motionless walkway hummed to life and transformed itself into a southbound treadmill.  This unexpected development brought a grin to my face, but it brought uproarious laughter to Joline and Jessica.  My surgically repaired wheels were more than up to the challenge and I raced to the top against the current in a matter of a few seconds.  It took the two ladies in my life at that moment, however, closer to a minute.  When they finally reached the apex, a crowd of disapproving onlookers scoffed their disapproval in guttural Dutch, while Joline and Jessica wiped away their tears of hysteria.

We jogged the rest of the way to the lockers, whereupon I retrieved my cane and resumed my palsy.

Twelve hours later, I limped out of LAX onto the sidewalk, stowed the cane in my sister’s waiting mini-van, and declared victory over the airline industry.

Herb will get his intact cane three months from now, and I will have a fun story to tell at the party.

Cane Transport Success