Have Yourself a Snowy Little Christmas, Part 2

On December 23 my brother, Matt, text messaged me most of the day. "It's not looking good." "No Frontier flights have gone out." "They're not letting planes land." And so with trepidation I headed up to the Denver airport anyway that evening. Toby gave me a ride (after I promised him we'd sing "Carol of the Bells" repeatedly and in various keys) and was nice enough to stick around the airport for awhile after I went through security, just in case my flight was canceled.

But it wasn't.

I happened to be on the only Frontier flight to make it into Portland that day. We had no difficulties, and Matt picked me up in Portland with the help of his Suburban and chains. As we walked through the airport, sad, would-be travelers lay in all corners, trying to get comfortable on their luggage. "Don't smile," I whispered to Matt. I didn't want to make them feel any worse. With my 11:30 p.m. arrival, we didn't get back to Matt's house until 1:30 a.m.