I must
confess to more than my normal confusion when it comes to this Nation’s
airlines. Not only am I perplexed but
think what it must be like in the airline industry when one of its members is
sued for serving peanuts while another absorbs a wealth of bad public relations
when a mother and daughter are kicked off a flight because a flight attendant becomes
convinced the child is squirming, a
situation to be revisited in this tale. Then, there is the bizarre case of a three-hour flight on a toilet seat
inflicted upon a passenger because it was the only seat available.
While these
are increasingly challenging times, it seems as though the airlines more than
most industries offer a greater contrast to the way things were. My confusion becomes even more pronounced
when the words of philosopher George Santayana are recalled: “Those who cannot
learn from history are doomed to repeat it.” Few have accused Santayana of being a dummy.
I’m not sure
I even knew of Santayana in the days when air travel was so different than
today. One of the joys of flying when we
were, roughly, half-way through the past century, was the relationship between
customers and the many air lines whose ticket agents worked in concert. The air travel industry’s role then in
routing passengers was as a highly professional cohesive group rather than
self-involved component parts. If a
passenger, for example, had to get from St. Louis to Birmingham, then a second
airline was brought into play for the Atlanta to Birmingham phase. The customer was always right (having been
declared so by Merchandise Mart Hall of Famer John Wannamaker) and when was the last time you heard that line
of warmth and intelligence?
Proof of the
contrasts of my then and now airlines attitude occurred in 1957 while employed
by TV Guide in Rochester, N.Y. I had to
make station calls in Plattsburgh and Burlington, Vermont and the only way by
air was Mohawk Airlines to Albany where a New York Eastern flight to Montreal
stopped before landing in Plattsburgh.
Arriving in
Albany via Mohawk with a roaring headache, I learned aspirin were not sold at
the airport, then about the current size of Bellingham International, a rather
fanciful name arrived at because of 10-minute flights into Canada. Four years a ‘hamster as we laughingly call ourselves, I remain baffled
that the Empire State back then had a postage stamp-sized airport with an
unfathomable aspirin attitude. Fortunately, a woman passenger sympathized with my headache and offered
one of Bayer’s best.
The woman
had three very attractive and well-behaved kids in tow—all under kindergarten
age. Also on their way to Plattsburgh,
we shared the disappointment that came with the cancellation of the flight from
New York. Today, that would have been
that—passengers told to fend for themselves. Suddenly, an Eastern employee materialized and began herding us into an airline
limousine that would take us to Plattsburgh. Not to worry.
The
Plattsburgh trip was something like 150 miles and I recall my rather intense
appreciation of the limo’s luxurious interior whose approximation I would not
encounter for another 11 years—not until my employment by Playboy Enterprises and the decidedly euphoric use of Hugh Hefner’s
limousines. The mother had her hands
full with the kids and I thought I’d be a nice guy and pay some attention to
one youngster thus lessening the woman’s burden. I began bouncing the boy on a knee—not a wise
decision.
Halfway to
Plattsburgh, the youngster I was entertaining decided to throw up on me, an act
that created an embarrassing check-in at the Witherill Hotel, a charmer of some
20 rooms and the kind of place Rodgers & Hart had in mind when they wrote “There’s a Small Hotel.” The night manager sized up my plight: The
suit I was wearing being a one and only for the two-day trip. Further, this was a Sunday evening. “I think we can take care of that,” said the
manager with a difficult-to-believe take-charge manner.
Sure enough,
the suit had somehow been dry-cleaned overnight enabling me to make possible the
Plattsburgh call plus Burlington, an uncommonly attractive community across
gorgeous Lake Champlain.
When I
returned to Rochester, my unpacking produced the only coat hanger I ever took
from a hotel. Property of The Witherill
Hotel, the hanger hung for a long time in closets of a number of homes I either
rented or owned. The sight of that
hanger always reminded me of a mannerly time most young people today would
regard as antic or without understanding.
If Santayana
is right about the consequences of not learning from history, it appears the
airlines haven’t learned a hell of a lot from their experiences. Or, maybe they have. To introduce further honesty into these more
than 50-year-old memories, Eastern and Mohawk Airlines flew off into the sunset
(the later becoming part of Allegheny Airlines eventually evolving into US Air
and US Airways) and the Witherill’s lights were turned off a long time
ago. Maybe customers’ rights, those limo
rides and weekend dry cleaning put the companies at risk.
I like to
think otherwise.
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