I was driving west through Arkansas, stopped for gas at an ordinary station. The air was very cold, pungent with the scent of fuel. Snow, fat wet flakes, whirled in the wind, sticking to my coat and gloves, collecting fast on the streets, and it looked like a not-so-ordinary holiday taking shape. People inside were talking, in no hurry to leave.

How often does a gas station feel like shelter from the cold? Like all that is real and warm and lit is inside the little store with its shelves of packaged nuts and chips, and outside, all is wilderness?

The real became surreal, the coffee 53 cents. Two young parents carried in their school-aged children, barefoot and in pajamas. I drove back onto the freeway, heading west. Twenty minutes later, the sun was shining. There was no wind. There was no snow.