From the upcoming book Fujiyama Trays and Oshibori Towels:
The 1950s are often remembered as a time when Americans collectively drew a deep breath and relaxed a bit. “The War,” as many still refer to WWII, had been won. By the mid-50s the Korean conflict was over and the Viet Nam war had yet to begin. We were enjoying a stretch of unparalleled prosperity. Ike was president, Elvis was king and Hollywood Actress Grace Kelly married Prince Ranier and became Princess of Monaco. In spite of the fact that Russia showed us up by launching the world’s first man-made satellite (Sputnik I) and Ford produced the ill fated Edsel automobile, the American mood was upbeat. Nowhere was this more evident than at Northwest Airlines corporate headquarters when the Civil Aeronautics Board, forerunner of the FAA, permanently certified all of Northwest’s routes. The powers that “were” at Northwest celebrated this news by ordering dozens of new airplanes and vowing to become the industry gold standard in passenger service. The call went out for pilots and cabin attendants to staff these new acquisitions and the transformation began.
In these heady times I arrived at the NWA employment office seeking a position as a reservations agent. “Would I consider applying for a stewardess job instead?” I just needed to pass a physical and successfully complete a six week training program. When I learned that 20/20 vision was a requirement I blanched, because of the astigmatism that rendered me 20/250 in my right eye. But I was in St. Paul, after all, whose revered namesake had had HIS vision completely restored in biblical times. Hoping for my own miracle I took the physical. Instead of the usual eye chart with the big E at the top, I was asked to read glowing text about Northwest Airlines, one eye at a time, the other eye covered. I memorized the text on the screen using my good eye first, only to be told to read it backwards with my other eye. I am still in awe of the mental gymnastics that reversed the content for me and saved the day. hmmmm. I must have really wanted that job. But wait. Could it have been divine intervention? I was in St. Paul, after all.
It was 1956 and flight attendant job requirements included being young and single. Back in those days it was mandatory that we resign when we married or on the occasion of our 32nd birthday, whichever came first. I married at age 25 in 1960 which rendered me unemployable, stewardess-wise. I took a lump sum payment of $250 which had accumulated over four years in my retirement account (wow) and promptly blew it on my trousseau. Do they still have those? Trousseaus, I mean. Now if I had invested that $250 in 1960 and let it ride...
Thankfully, age caps and marital mandates bit the dust several decades ago as unions guided female airline employees out of the wilderness and beyond age 32. Yet perversely, when the commercial aviation industry hit the economic skids after 9/11, employee cutbacks drastically pruned the young from seniority lists, leaving mostly menopausal cabin attendants who “cashier” more than they “hostess.” (There truly is no free lunch on most of today’s flights.) And it’s been so long since they’ve been to “smile school” they seem to have forgotten how. Yes I know. It’s not easy being Miss Congeniality when your pay has been cut, your employer has filed for bankruptcy, your pension is under funded and your joints ache.
Let’s “slip the surly bonds of earth” together for a little while and I’ll take you back to a kinder, gentler, way more amusing time in commercial aviation...
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Travel Writing Sample:
Ogunquit under a Blanket
The fog rolls in, not on “little cat feet” as Carl Sandburg promised, this stuff is serious. As I scurry along the narrow wooden walkway toward the beach, I anticipate the remembered sensation of being enveloped in a soft, moist, cozy cocoon. Once on the beach the incessant rumble of the surf is muffled by the thick fog and becomes a low growl. No horizon, no sand dunes. Daylight struggles to penetrate my cottony enclosure. Familiar landmarks are hard to spot. Low tide magnifies the problem, broadening the enormous beach. I would be alone except for a seagull’s scolding cry and a swarm of sandpipers, their tiny legs whizzing in and out of the undulating froth.
Footprints of vanished strangers lead me on. Where the houses stop and the dunes begin the fog seems to strengthen, and the periphery blurs into nothingness. Face feels clammy. Occasionally another figure emerges from the void and we exchange greetings as we pass. Suddenly brothers in this white envelope, we share a kinship born of disdain for the deserters, the “sunny day beachers.” More shadowy figures start taking shape and these seem huge. As the distance closes between us I understand why. A couple on horseback loom up out of the fog and wave hello. I feel dwarfed by these gigantic animals as they pass by. Straining to recall the words on the signs at the entrance to the public beach I mentally dredge up “no dogs” but nothing about horses. When I turn around to confirm their presence they have disappeared again into the murk. Are they allowed on the beach? If not, I hope the fog continues to conceal their trespass. That question gradually morphs into another: “were they really here at all?”
In an effort to stave off disorientation I travel resolutely on, ignoring the voice of caution attempting to seduce me. The only thing grounding me, quite literally, is the dark, grainy sand beneath my feet, its color and texture a sharp contrast to the soft milky stuff above ground. The persistent inner voice again clamors to be heard, urging me to abandon my solitary walk. Reluctantly I obey, turning back along the dunes towards the comfort of the beach houses, which give definition to my universe when they finally appear. Although blurry and faint, as seen through a scrim, they reassuringly beckon me home. There are two vehicles in the parking lot at the entrance to the beach. A truck and an empty horse trailer with its door open and ramp extended.
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General Interest Writing Sample:
The Elephant in My Living Room
No, really. There is an elephant in my living room. It is not, however, the larger than life spirit variety often conjured up to symbolize an unacknowledged truth.
This elephant is only a modest size lamp, perched on top of a curio cabinet. Its head, trunk, tusks and legs are fashioned of antique brass and its topaz hued body glows warmly when illuminated. An accent lamp, it is not intended for utility - one would be hard pressed to read by it. Instead its function seems to be limited to service as a night light or, more likely, pure decoration. And that is what prompted me to buy the elephant lamp. Decoration.
I happened to be in Michael’s Lamp Shop one day selecting a replacement lamp shade. My gaze fell on the glowing pachyderm, its trunk lifted triumphantly in an inverted capital S, tusks arcing skyward and mouth open, trumpeting its arrival. The elephant grabbed my attention because its pose and color exactly mirrored the elephants walking through the muted tapestry covering my new living room sofa. A perfect accent for the room, I congratulated myself, and promptly bought it.
Imagine my surprise some months later, while engaged in a spirited political discussion with my friend Gretchen, when she informed me she had “finally forgiven me the elephant in my living room.” Until that moment I had never thought of my glowing amber accent lamp in political terms. I sought to explain away this perceived transgression as merely décor—carrying through the theme of the trendy elephant walk brocade on my couch. She, on the other hand, had never noticed the elephants on my couch, which only exacerbated the situation by demonstrating the presence of yet more elephants in my living room. It goes without saying, she saw republican elephants.
We recently enjoyed a leisurely chat over coffee at a lakeside restaurant. As she got up to leave, Gretchen slipped a fabric book bag over her arm. And there it was! Smack in the middle of the attractive brocade bag. An elephant! She flustered that she had never noticed it and quickly turned the bag over in an effort to hide it, only to reveal a twin elephant on the other side. I mischievously teased, “It may be perceived as even worse in some circles to be seen carrying elephants around with you wherever you go, than leaving them behind in the living room, like I do.”
Oh, I’ve forgiven Gretchen for starting the whole thing by stealing my elephant’s innocence, not to mention my own. Yet this good humored repartee between lifelong friends about the political significance (or not) of lamps and book bags illuminates something else: the not so funny divisiveness pervasive in American politics today. 
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