I am not much for sleeping on a plane.  For one the noise, chattering announcements about the great selection of 4 dollar soda and chips to be offered and 7 dollar cocktails to be poured to the willing and dubious at 6:10am.  I also find it hard with the baby three rows back trying to figure out what all this change in pressure with altitude is all about and communicating the confusion in a 3 hour drone of crying.  That said, I slept most of my flight from Los Angeles to Fargo.  I was dead tired despite an elaborate plan to avoid it.  I came down to LA a day and a half early to hang out with my friends (who live in Irvine) and go to sleep super early the evening before the flight.  But between working nights and general flight apprehension there was no way an 8pm bedtime was going to work for me, in fact, I doubt I slept more than a few minutes before giving up at 2:45am and heading to the airport at 3:15am.  I barely noticed the 45 minute drive to the airport, probably not a notation one wants to make about driving a car in a metropolis.  It is a direct flight to Fargo which is somewhat rare for the "Gateway City to the West" (The formerly emblematic statement on all city stationary and police cars before someone said, "Hey, you know, this town can be more than just a doorway to somewhere else.")  The direct flight means I don't have to switch planes in Denver or Minneapolis, and saving at least an hour and a half of extra travel.  Even losing 2 hours flying east I still was off the plane before 11:15am local time in Fargo, ready to hop in a car and drive 3 more hours to St. Cloud, Minnesota.  

My Dad was the only person to greet me at the airport by design, we had work to do.  A stop in a convenience store was in order.  My regularly caffeinated blood was mounting an internal protest.   The first culture shock was that there were not several Starbucks per square mile.  I walked into a North Fargo "Zip and Go" (or something like that) and the woman at the counter was in a longer form conversation with a regular about the lottery (the man had apparently won some prize but judging from the appearance it was not a lot).  The exchange was full of the brogue spoofed in the movie "Fargo" and covered in sayings like "Ya, geez" and "super".  Neither could be interrupted by my business.  My Dad hates when these stereotypical moments happen and I mention them in my writing because he feels they make the upper Midwest appear like a caricature of the real thing, but after he tried to simply buy a newspaper from the same people he seemed to side with me that it was provincial and very funny.  

We had to drive an hour to Detroit Lakes and get my kids who have been summering in Minnesota with their other grandparents before continuing on another 2 hours to our final destination.  My Dad is the kindest man alive and long car rides with him are wonderful.  We quickly ran through topics ranging from my personal life, through American foreign policy and the latest technological advancements in cell phones and computers before settling in on discussing the Minnesota Twins and their tough battle with the Rangers.  Long before I got into the news business my conversations with my father were always long and thoughtful, and it is nice to know some things don't change no matter how long you are away.

  

My reunion with my kids was done at a Perkins parking lot.  They sprang from their grandfather Al's truck like they were shot from a cannon.  There were hugs and kisses as I chocked back my emotions, because it is Minnesota after all.  After more than a month they seemed taller and spoke even faster than before, there were 6 weeks of stories to be told and they tried their best to squeeze that into 15 minutes.  They were so excited that the next two hours on the road flew by.

The color of the landscape defies description.  Green seemed to glow from every plant and tree and was a shock to see after watching the Central Coast color of life fade months ago.  The air smelled of cut grass and a strong wind ripped through shaking leaves on trees filling the space with a wooshing noise.

The best part of the story is the part I will tell you over the next few days.  It involves elfs who live in trees, messages kids write to missing faeries, pleasant retirement villages, and everything else that makes Minnesota an interesting place to have grown up and visit.