REPORT FROM THE FROZEN HEARTLAND

By Juan Montoya

I got the call from my friend on Tuesday.

He was moving his frail mother-in-law from New Milford, Connecticut, and needed some help driving her back with his wife to Houston.

Could I help?

Caught in the middle of early voting (I write this blog and also do some consulting with some of the candidates), I thought for a short time about it before I said I would help. Ten minutes later he called and said the airline reservations were made and I would take off the next day from Harlingen on Southwest. (He had frequent-flyer points, so Brownsville was not an option, sorry).

On Wednesday, I showed up at the airport, underwent identity scrutiny checks worthy of the Gestapo, did my strip tease for the TSA, and off to the wild blue yonder we went.

At Houston, I boarded another plane to Baltimore, and from there on to Hartford.

The flight to Baltimore was uneventful. The plane was about three quarters full, and I rode on the three-seat Side A alone by the window. I did munch down on two bags of peanuts.

When we got to Baltimore, the plane filled up. As the other passengers entered the plane, man-trees appeared scraping the low ceiling of the plane.

"Look how big those guys are," said a stewardess as we contemplated the coming down the aisle. "God those guys are big."

The "big guys" turned out to be the Reno Bighorns, a minor league professional basketball team on their way to battle the Springfield (Mass.) Armorers.

The biggest, a tall oak in a forest of black walnuts, was moved to the front seat so his legs would fit in some kind of comfort for the flight.

Once in the air, the clouds below us looked like giant snow drifts spreading into the horizon under the bright light of the sun and the clear blue of the sky above.

Cramped, as we were (there were 126 passengers), I got to sit by the window next to a salesman of wall water boilers and a 6 foot 5-inch shooting guard for the Bighorns. In no time at all the salesman had struck up a conversation with the guard (who attended Southern Florida) over the player's profession.

"You know, I played a little ball in high school," he started. "Of course, I could only reach a six-inch vertical jump, you know," he said.

Chuckle, chuckle.

I realized that the temperature outside had changed drastically from Houston, or for that matter from Harlingen. When the plane maintenance crew came on board through the rear in Baltimore, icy winds chilled the rear.

"That is really cold," said the stewardess, her distinct soft Memphis twang.

Meanwhile, the salesman had began to tell the athlete how much salesmen and athletes have in common.

"We both like competition," he said. "We're just like you because we like to have goals we can accomplish. By the way, how long do you think you are going to last in basketball before you know you're too old to play anymore?"

The guard winced, but laughed along with the salesman.

Then the hot water guy told of how he had been working for General Electric for the best part of 20 years, was laid off, and walked away with a golden parachute and government retraining to enter another field.

"The trick to this business," he told the player, "is to get tax credits from the government on the energy savings. We have been lobbying them and if we get them, that's another 10 percent in profit. I love this business. I wouldn't trade it for the world."

As the plane pulled into Hartford, the talk dissolved as passengers retrieved their carry-on luggage. Once in the terminal and waiting for my friend by the door, I was reminded of just how cold it is in the northern part of this country. Huge snow piles left by the plows blocked the view at eye level.

Ah, America. Professional basketball, government subsidies, and the cold Northeast. You gotta love it.