Welcoming members of the military home hasn't changed much over the last century, although now they arrive by commercial jet instead of a train or troop ship.

The welcoming party waits outside an airport corridor marked with all sorts of dire warnings against entering. The plane, the illuminated board assures you, is "at the gate." The first passengers come striding out, and then more and more, lugging improbable amounts of carry-on baggage, and then the arrivals slow to a trickle and inevitably there is an agonizingly long period when nobody appears. Where is he? Did something happen? Did he miss the plane? Surely he would have called.

There is the mandatory interval of standing on tiptoe and craning to see over the guard. And suddenly there he is -- a huge grin. His camouflage uniform and patches seem, well, so natural. There are hugs, backslaps, his mother's suppressed tears, compliments -- "You look great!" -- and he does. His girlfriend says so, too.

Then there is a controlled stampede to get to the baggage carousel and get out of the airport and go somewhere where there is beer, no uniforms and none of his periodic gripe about the military: "They're always asking you to do stuff."

Then comes the subdued day when he has to go back. These departures are stilted and awkward; the usual jokes and bromides sound so lame. At least ours do. We've seen both of our sons off after mid-deployment leaves and we still haven't gotten the ceremony down.

The problem, I think, is airport security -- and no one is blaming Transportation Security Administration officials for this. Everyone understands why they do what they do. But security has ruined a great ritual. If security had been in effect in "Casablanca," Rick would never have been allowed out on the runway. He would have been stuck behind a barrier back in the terminal and Ilsa would be putting her seat back and tray table in the upright position.

First you arrive at the airport early because of the two variables -- checking in with the airline and clearing security. We civilians know that the military doesn't shoot people for missing flights but we also don't want to take the chance. The rule of airports is that the earlier you arrive, the shorter the lines will be at both check-in and security. Cut it too close and there are about a thousand people ahead of you, all with tickets that need elaborate rebooking and carry-ons so suspicious they must be checked at length.

Family and assorted friends cluster at the entrance to security and watch as their soldier shuffles through the maze, first going past in one direction and then in the other. He is too far away to talk to and too close to begin waving.

Finally, he arrives at the agent who makes those mysterious marks on the boarding pass. Suddenly, he disappears. Then just as abruptly reappears. He had bent down, it seemed, to take off his combat boots. Security, you know.

Finally, he is through but too far away for all but a token wave. And then he's gone.

The way most airports are set up now, at least in my experience, is that all the cool stuff -- the bars, restaurants and shops -- are on the far side of security, available only to ticketed passengers whose shoes have cleared the x-ray machine.

What I would like to do is sit down with my son in sight of the gate and buy him a couple of beers, helpfully pointing out in a fatherly way that it's the last one he's going to have for awhile.

And then to add punctuation to the departure ... to watch him walk down the gangway, to see the cabin door close, the airliner push back from the gate and taxi off in the direction of Kuwait.

Surely the Department of Homeland Security can figure out a way to restore our farewells to our soldiers, sailors and Marines.

Cartoonist Rob Rogers does "Rob's Rough," an early look at his work and his creative process, exclusively at PG+, a members-only web site of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. Our introduction to PG+ gives you all the details.