Chicago Sun-Times: Dented, scuffed--but it would be a beautiful sight

Scripps Howard News Service

At the end of a long weekend away, I'm standing in baggage claim with a throng of other weary travelers, watching an empty carousel spin like a giant roulette wheel, hoping to get lucky and collect my bag.

As luggage goes, it's not much to look at--a battered old "roll- aboard," small enough to fit in an overhead bin, big enough to hold the barest of necessities, assuming you don't need much.

We are old friends, traveling buddies, that ugly bag and I. When I bought it some years ago, I thought I was being clever to choose a color no one else would ever want-- a drab forest green that would surely single it out, I thought, in a sea of black on a baggage carousel.

Little did I know, at that very moment, thousands of other "clever" travelers were all buying the same ugly green bags, and somehow, sooner or later, we would all end up taking the very same flights.

What are the odds of that?

Then I came up with a really smart idea. To make my bag stand out from the crowd, I tied on its handle a piece of bright red yarn, thinking who else on Earth was going to do a tacky thing like that? You guessed it: The same tacky bunch who thought green was good in the first place.

I considered spray painting it with flames or some kind of graffiti, but feared it might slow its passage through security.

Instead, I gave up, resigned myself to having a bag that looked more or less like any other, save for a few tell-tale signs known only to me: A series of scuffs and scratches and dents and stains collected over miles and years--ugly, maybe, but distinctive--and distinctively my own.

I love that bag. Not for its style or convenience, but for its scars and imperfections. Every time I spot them on a carousel in some strange city--silently calling out to me like a limo driver's sign -- I light up and whisper a prayer, "Thank you, God, for a safe flight, and most of all, for a toothbrush and a change of underwear."

I'm still waiting, along with everyone else from my flight, for our bags to show up when I hear above the drone of airport noise the voice of a child, age 3 or 4, babbling on, all excited. She's sitting with an older couple whom I assume to be her grandparents, watching a baby, probably her sister, crawl around on the floor.

Suddenly a young woman emerges from the crowd and the little girl, I swear, lights up brighter than the sun, shouting, "Mama! Mama! Mama!"

I'm not sure what there is in that moment that makes me start to cry. I'm happy for the child and her mama, and especially for the grandparents who look noticeably relieved.

But I remember what it's like, how good it feels, to have someone light up that way, all shining and bright, just to see my face. My children did that for me when they were little. They still do sometimes, when we've been apart for too long, but when they were little, they did it all the time, every day, for no special reason. They didn't care how I looked or what I did for them. Just to see me made them that happy.

I miss lighting people up like that. I still manage to do it on occasion, but I have to work at it a lot harder than I used to.

It was easy when I was little to light up my grandparents or my dad, or even my brother, who was blind, but would grin at the sound of my voice.

People tell me to wait until I have grandchildren, that there is no lighting up like that. That's fine. I can wait. But I'd like to be an everyday kind of light to someone, if only to a stranger. I want to smile at people and make them smile back. I want them to see all the scuffs and scratches and dents and stains I've collected over the years, and realize that while I may look quite ordinary, I am in fact, one of a kind--someone worth lighting up about.

Maybe I'll try to do that more often in the future. For now, I'll settle for finding my bag.