To Grandmother's house we go

Down to the airport and into the sky,
To Grandmother's house we go.
We park our sedan and get in the van
Our luggage we do tow.
After lurching about from lot A to Z,
At the concourse we arrive.
We froze our toes as well each nose,
We barely got there alive.

The building is full, and the lines are long
The ticket gates are a-jam
With holiday travelers testing the skies.
All are headed to visit the “fam.”
Our luggage we check, and its fees we all pay
Our passes are in hand.
Now on up the concourse we all head
For more lines in which to stand.

The longer we wait, and the closer we get
To to the gate marked “security.”
The more we do stress and the more confess
That we don't like what we see.
The look of distress on the faces we find
Ahead of us in line
Is the same one I wear—for right up there
Is the choice that must be all mine.

“Show me your luggage” the TSA warns,
“And take off your belts and shoes.
Now full-body scan (show me your tan)
Or a pat-down you may choose.”
I never have had, at least not until now,
A fear of going by plane.
But I am not a fan of a pat nor a scan,
Or am I just insane?

No wonder we long for days gone by.
I'd rather hitch up the horse and sleigh,
And take to the woods than fly through the skies
For to have a Thanksgiving Day.