Here it is, 2014, and we are in the airport of Springfield IL, the capital of Illinois. I’m amused to see the actual, in-use, antique airport luggage scale at the check-in counter.

Springfield Il airport

We are leaving Springfield. Landing here, less than 24 hours ago, was remarkable. The Skywest jet’s wheels hit the runway hard and—nose up—we immediately took off again, bumpily. We were in row 2, so clearly heard one of the flight attendants exclaim “oh my god!” No explanation came from the captain. Just silence.

The whole plane was silent. Deadly silent.

We rose higher and banked steeply, overlooking the green-green-green of Springfield’s farms. Finally, many minutes later, the captain came on over the P.A. It was gusty, he said, with severe wind sheer on the runway. He’d try to land once more—otherwise, we’d go to another airport.

I looked down at the trees—we weren’t very high—and didn’t see any movement at all. No swaying branches, no bending poplars. He’s probably just a bad pilot, I thought. He botched the landing.

We circled once more, then aimed for the runway. Any white-knucklers onboard must have been beside themselves.

It was bumpy, but we landed. The clothes of the tarmac personnel whipped about their bodies. I descended the airplane stairs certain I’d be blown down them with my hand luggage acting as a sail.

Springfield Il airport. More interesting than I expected.