The iconic pictures of summer -- sunsets, beaches, mountains and landmarks -- have filled my social media feed for weeks.

Pent-up demand for travel has delivered legions of airline passengers to far-off destinations. We joined these masses last month to take a family vacation to Europe, which we had postponed since 2021.

We enjoyed the sights in Germany, the Netherlands and Belgium before heading to England. Exactly 24 hours before our return from London, my husband attempted to check in for our flights. He kept getting an error message.

I tried the American Airlines app. It showed us leaving on a flight three hours later than the flight we had booked. This was strange. We are old-school enough that we print copies of our reservations before we travel, so we double-checked the paperwork. How were we mysteriously rebooked on a later flight? I messaged customer service, not knowing when (or if) I would get a reply.

Normally, the delay wouldn't be a big deal. But we had a connection through O'Hare airport in Chicago, where we would have to go through customs. This later flight left us only an hour and a half to make it. That seemed unlikely.

Were we victims of involuntary bumping? I learned this term during last year's Southwest Airlines meltdown, when thousands of flights were canceled. I watched TikTokkers explain that airlines owe passengers refunds and compensation when this happens.

We boarded our later flight, planning to hustle off the plane on the long-shot hope of making our connection. But when we landed in Chicago, our plane was stuck on the runway behind a broken-down tug and couldn't reach the gate.

When we finally got off the plane, we had less than an hour, and I gave up any hope when I saw the line at passport control. It was longer than most queues we've waited in at Disney. A young boy in the line, 8 or 9 years old, got so tired standing that he sat on the floor in between starts and stops.

He also threw up in front of me. On the floor. Twice.

When we finally made it to the customer service desk, long after our connecting flight had departed, I asked if they knew anything about our mysterious flight change or possible compensation for the delay.

They did not. The agent advised me to email the airline or go through social media. They did, however, pay for our hotel that night and give us $12 meal vouchers for dinner.

Twelve dollars for dinner in an airport felt like salt in the wound.

Given that the delay was happening on the return portion of our trip -- we weren't missing an important event or shortchanging our vacation -- I kept a healthy perspective on the inconvenience.

But that evening, things got more complicated. Our son woke up in the middle of the night with a piercing earache. The last time he flew with an ear infection, his eardrum ruptured, which he said was excruciating. Rather than risk that on our morning flight to St. Louis, my husband and son bought tickets on Amtrak.

My magnanimous attitude was wearing thin.

My daughter and I got on the flight the next morning. It was delayed on the runway. At that point, I wondered if the train would beat us home.

Thankfully, we all eventually made it back.

I received an email and phone call from American Airlines in response to my queries. Apparently, they had emailed both my husband and myself, weeks in advance, that our flight time had been changed. Strangely, neither of us could find these messages in our inboxes or junk folders. Then again, Congress recently held hearings on aliens and UFOs, so anything is possible, I guess.

They blamed the runway delay on air traffic control, and the broken tug on the airport. As far as rebooking us on an international flight with such a short connection time, they said it still met the minimum time regulations. The bottom line was that they didn't owe us a refund or any compensation.

They did say they would refund the two unused portions of the Chicago-to-St. Louis flights, and they offered each of us a travel credit that could add up to a single round-trip fare if we combined them all. It's better than nothing, I suppose.

In an era of airline chaos, I've adopted a mantra to help me deal with the stress of delays and cancellations, especially when traveling with kids: It could be worse.

Also, things are never as easy as they look on TikTok.

I can see why right-wing commentators are so worked up about "Barbie."

On a Wednesday night in a suburban theater in the Midwest, the lobby and concession areas were flooded with girls and women in shades of pink. They were posing for photos holding hot pink beach balls in front of a cardboard movie display, under a canopy of rose-colored balloons. There were grandmas and young girls, mothers and daughters, girlfriends and sisters.

I was there in a hot pink blazer with my book club. I had wanted to see Greta Gerwig's live-action film with my daughter, but she had already seen it with her friend.

This sea of pink filled nearly every single seat inside the theater screening the movie starring Margot Robbie as the iconic high-heeled doll and Ryan Gosling as Ken. The movie smashed box-office records with a $162 million debut -- beating Tom Cruise's latest in the "Mission Impossible" franchise -- making it the biggest opening weekend of the year.

It is, indeed, a Barbie world.

The film provoked conservative commentator Ben Shapiro into such a frenzy that he posted a 43-minute rant about it featuring a Barbie doll set on fire in a trash can. There have been scores of others on social media calling for a boycott of a film they describe as "woke trash."

I don't think this apoplectic reaction has anything to do with the content of the feel-good, sumptuously designed, intentionally silly film itself. Rather, it's a reaction to its success. They are unnerved that so many people are flocking to this megahit.

The message of Gerwig's film is about accepting oneself without relying on outside validation and treating others (and oneself) with compassion and respect. Even in the film's alter-Barbie world, matriarchal as opposed to the "real world's" patriarchy, Barbie's journey makes her realize that it's unfair and unkind to keep Ken subordinated and dependent on her gaze. Her human friend, Gloria, played by America Ferrera, offers a rousing self-empowered speech near the end of the film. The monologue is a rather conventional critique of the mixed messages and unrealistic societal expectations placed on girls and women.

Noting that men hold greater political and financial power in the real world is hardly a groundbreaking insight. Just because a script talks about patriarchy doesn't make it a feminist screed. There's nothing radical in the ideas presented in this film, but its delivery is inventive and entertaining and engaging.

Perhaps that's what has triggered Shapiro and his ilk. It puts the language of empowerment in an iconic American symbol of femininity and beauty.

It gives voice to those who saw Barbie as a ballast of the patriarchy and allows her to acknowledge her role in it. Barbie's discomfort in realizing she may have perpetuated the very oppression she is fighting is refreshing to see in such a commercial, mass-market production. It's the subtle moments of self-awareness, like when Barbie loses the unnatural arch in her feet, making her high-heeled shoes painful, where the film shines.

While the movie never uses the word "feminist," it's clear that Barbie enjoys both her beauty and power. For those threatened by women seeking independence, agency and self-acceptance, I suppose the film is subversive.

But young girls (and boys) don't need Barbie to sell them these basic notions of empowerment. They are plenty aware.

The right uses the word "woke" as a political shorthand to describe whatever they don't like or consider progressive. Originally, the term was used to mean being politically conscious and socially aware. Being awakened to various forms of injustice or oppression is a good thing. But in the same way conservatives turned "diversity" and "inclusion," long considered positive American values, into dirty words, "woke" is ammunition in a culture war.

Meanwhile, Barbie was woke and embracing diversity and inclusion more than 50 years ago.

Barbie started her career as a fashion designer in 1959, and she's had more than 200 careers since. She joined the space race as an astronaut in 1965. She traded a nurse's cape for a surgeon's coat in 1973. Mattel introduced a Black doll, "Francie," in 1967, and the first official Black Barbie in 1980.

Part of the film's rousing success is how it taps into our nostalgia and ambivalence toward Barbie and turns it on its head. I am part of the generation that both played with Barbies and later scorned them.

The film is both a send-up and a love letter.

It's not a feminist act to dress up and go to the movies. But sharing collective moments of joy and reclaiming a symbol of feminine beauty and success are powerful in themselves.

That's worth watching.

Candi Halbert wanted a special gift for her mom's 100th birthday. Her quest led the family to an unexpected world record.

Candi's mom, Ira Halbert, is the eldest of 11 children, seven of whom are still living. Candi, a consultant who lives in New York City, grew up hearing her mom's stories about the siblings' childhood on a farm in Shuqualak, Mississippi.

Ira graduated from high school, then from a teachers' college in Mississippi. She taught for a while. In 1945, she came to live with her grandparents in East St. Louis to find a better-paying job. Four of her siblings eventually followed her to the area.

Today, the living Coleman siblings are Ira Halbert, 100; Marie Goodwin, 97; Thomas Coleman, 93; Marjorie Simms, 91; Clytice Dancy, 88; Yvonne Streeter, 81; and Reese Coleman, 76 -- although they go by the nicknames Cute, Honey, Bear, Heart, Kitty, Baby Sis and Partner. Brother Julius Coleman, nicknamed Cricket, died on June 19 at age 78.

Last year, Candi started wondering if her mom's long-lived family might qualify for an entry in Guinness World Records.

"This is probably a long shot, but I'll go ahead and apply," she thought. She gathered everyone's birth certificates, which took several months, and submitted the application last August. She received a notice in February that the claim had been accepted.

As of Aug. 26, 2022, when the record was established, the Coleman siblings (including Julius) had the highest combined age of eight living siblings: 701 years and 302 days. They'll keep the record until someone successfully challenges it.

Their longevity is even more remarkable given that life expectancy for Black Americans lags behind other races and ethnicities. Catherine O. Johnson, lead research scientist at the University of Washington, published research last year examining these disparities in detail.

"These differences are not innate," she said. "This is all because of the society we live in."

Missouri had the biggest disparity among the states from which the researchers collected data. In fact, Black men in Missouri have the lowest life expectancy for all Black men across the U.S., according to the research.

So, what factors -- beyond luck and good genes -- helped the Coleman siblings beat these odds? I recently met with some of them to find out.

Growing up under Jim Crow segregation and racism in Mississippi took a toll on the Coleman kids: They walked for miles on dusty gravel roads to get to their segregated schools, while the white children rode buses. Still, all 11 graduated from high school.

Their family grew all their own fruits and vegetables and raised chickens and cattle. They picked plums, blackberries and wild grapes, and grew squash, rhubarb, peas and corn. They fished and milked the cows. Everything they ate was homegrown and organic before "organic" was a thing.

Candi says her mom attributes her long life to "all of the sunshine and all of the hard work from all of those years." She also attributes it to her deep faith. Their father always told them to treat other people the way they wanted to be treated.

Marie Goodwin recalled her father's frequent advice: "Anytime you can help someone, help them. Don't get puffed up and all that sort of stuff."

Their parents took them to church, and the siblings have maintained strong bonds their entire lives. Ira continued to play piano for the Sunday school at her church until she was 94. The sisters in St. Louis, nicknamed "the Golden Girls," regularly visited Julius in his assisted living facility before his passing.

"They don't look like they are slowing down," Candi said about her aunts, who are in their 90s.

Recently, 164 members of the extended family gathered in St. Louis for a reunion. Three of the brothers were unable to attend because of health issues. The family members filled a ballroom, and Candi told the story of how the siblings set a world record.

She also read proclamations issued by the mayors of three cities where the families have lived -- St. Louis, East St. Louis and Shuqualak. The relatives clapped and cheered for their elders.

Despite their advanced ages, they were down to party. The sisters ended up staying until the very end.