Eugene’s Mahlon Sweet Field is one of the nicest airports I’ve ever used. It’s like Oakland’s in the 70s: small and friendly and easy to understand. I spend time there nowadays, and I collect little experiences.

In mid-October I was there, with descendants, to pick up our ancestor (Mom). We endured a cascade of mishaps: dead battery, flat tire, all with a van full of barefoot unjacketed kids (we thought it would be a quick pickup). We came away from the adventure laughing, grateful to Dave and his gear-packed tow truck, proud of ourselves for staying calm, and thoroughly amazed about the individual who helped us charge the battery before we discovered the tire.

It was a she. She wasn’t young and she arrived in one of those motorized ride-on chairs. Most of our car assumed she was an older disabled traveler who just happened to steer her chair too close to our van.

We were delighted when we realized how wrong our assumptions were. She wasn’t disabled. She was aiming for us. And she knew exactly what to do with a dead vehicle battery.

A week later I was back at Mahlon Sweet and this time my people-watching expectations were satisfied. I was at gate A4 awaiting my little plane to SFO and I took a seat opposite a man about my age. He was white-bearded, sparse-haired, big-bellied, dressed in casual western clothes and accompanied by a backpack and a jacket. He looked like an aging hippie.

A few minutes later he started chatting. He told me this was his first flight in 12 years. I had to observe: airport security sure has changed in that time. Yes, he agreed, and he went on to share: he just discovered he left his glasses at home, so he wasn’t going to be able to read on the flight; he was going from SFO to Chicago and then on to South Bend, to see the daughter he hasn’t been with for 12 years; he wasn’t sure how he was going to handle the layover and security in SFO, but he was determined to have a cigarette (his chronic cough made that no news); and he’d just hurt his back, preparing for this trip.

I answered his questions and listened to his complaints and then it was time to board. He struggled to his feet and began hobbling toward the jetway. He was bent forward at the waist and obviously injured.

“Wow,” I observed, “that looks painful. I guess you need eyeglasses and narcotics.”

“I don’t take pills,” he asserted.

I was pleased to discover that his seat was about as far from mine as possible in the small plane. I didn’t want to hear that story.