September 2007 - Nostalgia
By Don Harrison
Everybody would run outside to watch an airplane overhead. That’s how rare air travel was.
Most people had never flown. The first time I did, except for a few brief military flights, I was in my mid-20s.
Today, everybody flies. Before he was 12, my grandson was a seasoned air passenger. He had traveled alone across the Atlantic (having visited his other grandparents in England) and across the U.S. (to visit his aunt in California).
Afternoon at the airport
And no one thought much of it.
Airports were not the sprawling, jam-packed, chaotic zoos they are today. I used to take the kids to Philadelphia International when I was assigned to keep them out of their mother’s hair for a few hours.
It was never crowded, security was no problem and there were so few arrivals and departures that standing by the big window, the kids would have to wait patiently to watch a takeoff or a landing. The airport was much smaller; there was plenty of room to park; and auto traffic in the area was negligible. It was less expensive than taking the kids to, say, an amusement park.
Flying used to be a luxury. The train or bus was less expensive, and many people were reluctant or afraid to fly (some still are).
Stewardesses were perky
Stewardesses were all young, perky and pretty. Many still are, but today’s equal employment laws militate against job discrimination. “Flight attendants” are no longer all female, and not all are young, perky and pretty. Their basic role, however, remains reassurance that thousands of feet in the air, we’re in good hands.
We could have used some of that reassurance on a trip from Bucharest to Moscow about 20 years ago. The flight was delayed because the crew was late. We didn’t leave until the pilot and associates reeled out of the airport bar.
We had second thoughts about boarding the plane, but the alternative was staying a little longer in Romania.
By Sally Friedman
At long last, I was going back to school to take those courses I’d never taken back in college.
I was returning to the University of Pennsylvania, my alma mater — but this time as a “senior associate.” Even the name had gravitas.
No pony tails and perky plaid skirts this time around.
I was returning to Penn in sensible shoes and with an entirely different outlook. I would drink in knowledge. I would read every word of every text, not cut corners so I could go out and party. I was, it should be noted, a serious scholar, now that I had left my youth behind.
That was the expectation. I would be taking a course with my husband in anthropology, a subject I’d virtually ignored the first time around.
Top-of-the-line supplies
I didn’t buy myself a simple notebook; I got a top-of-the-line one with dividers and tabs.
Then, I splurged on a handsome briefcase in which to carry my notebook. I stocked up on better pens than the bank gives out free. And, I blush to admit, I even bought some new slacks so that I’d feel — well, presentable.
My husband, a 10-semester veteran of all this, smiled indulgently. “Maybe you should wait to see how you like going back to school,” he said.
Was he daring to suggest that I wouldn’t succeed as a student? Was he implying that I’d back out?
I let him know that my academic goals were lofty and serious, and I was ready to tackle “Communications and Culture” with a learned professor.
So there.
Classmates her grandkids’ age
On the first day of class, I dressed with more care. I was, after all, a senior associate.
Carrying my briefcase proudly, I gaped at the modern building which wasn’t even there four decades ago when I was an undergraduate. I squared my shoulders and stepped into the classroom where students who might have been my grandchildren sat in jeans and sneakers.
They looked at the elderly couple in their midst with mild curiosity, then returned to their own conversations.
The professor was clearly brilliant.
And here comes the hard part. While I’d love to say that I sat in rapt attention and drank in his wisdom, that would be fudging. After 20 minutes, I was fidgeting. After 30, my mind was drifting. The real panic set in at 40 minutes — I was having difficulty staying awake.
This had to be an aberration — just a bad day.
A hard-won insight
I did the reading assignment, pushing myself to concentrate. But I kept nodding off.
Back the next week, I expected it would be a better experience. It wasn’t.
Deeply ashamed, I went to the administrative office for senior associates, and signed the papers that would officially drop me from the course.
For days, I was depressed. Mortified, too. And then I came to this hard-won insight: one size does not fit all. Especially not late in life when we learn things about ourselves that sometimes astonish us.
It took me a while to realize that “quitting” my second stab at college did not represent a character flaw.
It does suggest that I’m just not cut out for being a student at this juncture.
But I’m saving my notebooks just in case.
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