Circling duffels

I've been to the airport in Fargo a few times this week and will return through the snow and wind tomorrow, this time to deliver.

We live in what I like to think of as the bosom of America. We are protected from the world's madness. Outside of floods, droughts and tornadoes what else can harm us? We live under a blanket.

Family from abroad arrived recently noting that when airline, security, immigration and customs people saw their destination was Fargo, they were asked why in the world they would want to travel to Fargo, in December. FAR means instant sympathy. Nobody wants to come here, especially now. Yet the planes are full of home-comers.

Then there are the locals who wait in the recently enlarged waiting area for family and loved ones holding parkas and mittens. It's how you know you are at Hector.

Then the automatic door opens to the short term lot a few short yards away where the dirty SUVs have already been autostarted and you hear people gasping.

Then there are the soldiers coming home and the indelible image in my mind this Christmas of the woman standing sobbing, as discreetly as her Scandinavian mother taught her to, a discreet distance from a young couple, he in uniform, who seem to have melted into one person as his duffel circles. What is joyous for one is sad for another.

Finally there are those who tell the parking lot attendant whose north facing window is open a long while after a flight arrives to keep the change.