Some stories are difficult to write about for a variety of reasons. This falls into that category, but not for the reasons one may conceive, such as “too sad,” or “too morbid,” both of which I write without much trouble.

No, this is about diction and sound. It relies heavily on the reader “hearing” particular words phonetically so one can understand the misunderstanding.

Here’s what happened:

Many years ago I drove my parents to Norfolk International Airport for a flight to Islip, Long Island. It was early, just after six, and nothing was open at the airport food court yet except an “A&W Root Beer” joint serving breakfast biscuits and coffee. Dad was still tired, so he and I sat at a table while Mom went to get two coffees and two breakfast sandwiches for them. I opted out.

I could hear my mother repeating the order several times to the Filipino woman working alone behind the counter, and frustration grew between both of them. After fifteen minutes of Dad wondering where Mom disappeared to, she returned with a brown tray with their order.

“Somethings not right,” she said.

“Why?”

“It came to $27.50.”

“Airport food is very expensive,” my father chimed in, reaching for his bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit.

“That sounds wrong, Mom.”

“I couldn’t understand a word she said.” And at that, Mom grabbed the sandwich out of Dad’s hand, put it back on the tray, and walked to the counter.

“They’re speaking Spanish. No wonder.”

“No Dad, it’s Tagalog.”

“Why don’t you help your mother. You speak Spanish.”

I walked to the counter. The woman looked at me. I simply repeated what my mother had said from the start, that the sandwiches and coffee should have come to just over $8. I swept my hand across the plate and showed her the receipt for $27.50, and she put four more sandwiches on the tray. I took them off and asked if she was the only one there. She walked into the kitchen.

Exasperated, I put my hands on the counter with my head down and said, mostly to myself, but my mother could hear, “We’re not going to get anywhere unless we speak Tagalog.”

My mother stood up as if she had new life breathed into her. “Well! Then let’s speak to Galag. Is he the manager?“

The woman returned with an older, Filipino gentlemen, and my mother, very politely, told him, “I’m sorry but we paid almost thirty dollars for sandwiches that only cost about eight, so we’d like to speak to Galag.”

“Mom…” (it was hard for me to speak as I was laughing)

“I think my son here knows him, but we’d like to speak to Galag immediately.”

“I don’t understand!” the man said.

“Is Galag here? We’d like to speak to Galag please.”

“I speak English,” he said to her, and then, just as I was finally calm, added, “I’m sorry but it takes quite a while to speak Tagalog.” I lost it when Mom looked at me and asked when the flight leaves and if we had time to wait for him.

The man, figuring out the problem quickly, refunded all of Mom’s money and gave her new sandwiches for free. On the way back to the table, she turned to me and said, “How do you know Galag?”

Dad had wandered across the hall to Starbucks which had opened by then.

I was at Mom’s this week. We talked about Long Island, and about Dad, who passed away eight years ago on October 21^st. I think of him when I’m in airports, or when I see a payphone. He had an 800 number at his desk back when the only way to call home was “long distance,” and it cost a fortune. So throughout my techless twenties, I was able to talk to Dad several times a week. I’d call from the Arizona/Mexico border, from New England, New Orleans, and everywhere in between. He was a quiet man with a deep sense of humor. One of my biggest regrets in life is I am not more like him.

In their later years I brought them to the airport or Amtrak more than a few times. Once, we were on the train and I disembarked just before they left. But it turns out my officemate Tom, who knew them, was on the same ride north and kept them company the entire way. Another time I brought Dad to some flight somewhere, I forget where, but we had a drink at Phillips Seafood Restaurant in the airport and talked about travel and books and plans. When we talked like that I felt close, of course, but also more connected; as if we shared something larger than ourselves. I could always tell when he was thinking about travel, though he rarely went very far. He didn’t miss a chance to talk to his kids about it, though. The signs were there to show me where his mind was; the way he liked to ask where I was going next. The way he listened so closely, responded always with such encouragement.

The first time I flew in my life I was fifteen. Dad had a convention in California, and Mom refused to fly. So Dad and I dropped her off at the Amtrak Station in Norfolk, played golf, and went home. Spent the next day around the house and then we went out to dinner together. The following day we flew to Los Angeles business class—my first ever flight—with dinner menus and a large screen on the wall so all the passengers could watch a movie together. It was Rooster Cogburn with John Wayne. We arrived in LA, rented a car, and drove to the train station and waited for Mom to arrive. We laughed about that for years.

One time we remembered that story when he brought me to the airport to fly back to Buffalo for college. He said he couldn’t stay, so he shook my hand and left. I got something to eat, wandered around, found my gate, waited, boarded, and the plane taxied out to the runway.

It had been about ninety minutes, but when I looked out the window, I saw Dad at the observation parking lot standing near his car, waving.

“My life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man.”

–d fogelberg