Takeoffs and Landings Read Online Free PDF Page B

afterward.
    They got to the huge banquet hall, and Mom showed Lori and Chuck their seats.
    â€œI’ll have to be up at the speakers’ table during the meal, too, but you’ll know where to find me if you need me,” she said, just like they were Emma’s age. Lori rolled her eyes. Mom didn’t seem to notice. “I’ll come and get you afterward,” she finished.
    The other people at Chuck and Lori’s table were business-people who gave them “What are you doing here?” looks and then ignored them. Lori picked at her dinner: stringy chicken, lumpy rice, and tough pellets of zucchini. Lori tried to imagine what a 4-H cooking judge would have to say about the meal, but that was a boring game. Lori didn’t even like 4-H cooking projects. She just took them because everyone else did. You had to win your blue ribbons somehow.
    Lori was actually reduced to daydreaming about whether she should take chicken croquettes or chicken divan to the fair for her cooking project this year when she heard an announcer say, “Our speaker for this evening . . .”
    Lori turned around and started paying attention.
    He seemed to be introducing some other person—some wildly successful businesswoman—but then he said, “Joan Lawson,” and Mom stood up to a burst of applause and even a wolf whistle or two. You could tell she was standing on a stool, but the man still had to bend the microphone down for her.
    â€œThank you,” Mom said firmly, making a motion with her hand that effectively ended the clapping. “I knew I could ‘count’ on a group of bankers for a warm reception.”
    It was an utterly lame joke, but somehow Mom made it sound funny.
    â€œPeople are always saying time is money,” she continued. “I figure that’s something you all would know about.”
    For some reason, getting behind the podium made Mom sound different. Her vowels got longer, and the “you all” practically became one word. She sounded like she was from the Deep South, instead of southern Ohio. What was that all about?
    â€œI just can’t see someone walking into your bank, strolling up to one of your tellers, and declaring, ‘I’ve got a little spare time on my hands right now, and I’d like to open an account. What kind of interest are you offering on deposits of three hours or more? Will it be up to four hours by the time I’m fifty-nine and a half?’” Mom was saying. “‘How many minutes will I have to forfeit for early withdrawal?’”
    Lori didn’t get it. Sure, she understood that Mom was pretending that time really was money and that people could put it in the bank like dollars and cents. But why were the people around her practically falling out of their seats with laughter?
    Mom went on and on, in that strange, folksy, down-home voice. Then she stopped and looked out at the crowd, waiting for the laughter to die down. When everyone was silent, she shrugged and said, “Now, that’s just silly, isn’t it?”
    The whole room burst into laughter again, as if everyonewas just waiting for another chance to be silly together.
    These bankers must not get out much, Lori thought.
    â€œBut, you know,” Mom continued in a more serious tone. Even her drawl flattened out a little. “For all that we keep saying time is money, we all really know it isn’t. The problem is, we seem to have forgotten that money isn’t time, either.”
    She paused, letting her words sink in.
    â€œI have five kids. Back when I had three of them in diapers all at the same time—and usually all dirty at the same time, too, I might add—there were some days when I thought I’d need about five more of me just to take care of my own children. Money wasn’t in very great supply back then either, so I didn’t often have the option of hiring someone else to take care of my kids for