Coffee, Tea, or Me

Guest Column by Carol Buchanan

Hi Y’all,

In April, on the occasion of her 81st birthday, I ran a guest column by my great friend Carol Buchanan. Y’all ate that right up. So I invited Carol to share another piece—I really think she should start her own substack. Carol became a flight attendant back in 1963. This installment is all about what that job involved sixty years ago. Before we get to it—my Kickstarter is up and running. I hope you’ll pop over there and pre-order my new novel, Grok This, Bitch, which I will be releasing in September. It’s a love letter to Old Austin and Really Old Austin. I poured my heart into it. Just Click This Link to pre-order. There’s a bunch of information over there describing the book. Thank you!

[Class of ‘63. Carol is third from left on bottom row]

Coffee,Tea, or Me                                                   

It was a different time. So many changes had not yet happened. There was no word that existed for sexist. Racial profiling was the norm and women were a commodity for the comfort and pleasure of men. Airline travel was a newly evolving industry as a crop of mad men travelers now commuted to different arenas of commerce and demanded service and comfort. We were called Airline Hostesses. We wore tightly fitted straight skirts and high heels to create the perfect tilt to our derriere. A fresh manicure, carefully coiffed hair and appropriate makeup were requirements. Girdles were a mandatory part of our uniform, and the pre-flight supervisor would thump our backside with her finger to ensure we were girded properly.

We were like ripe peaches. Young women in their prime and fertile season, tottering along in high heels and tight skirts, while satisfying the visual cravings of a predominately male traveling public. The restrictions for hiring were stringent. There was a weight and height limit, and I stood right at the top at 5’9”. An intensive application form along with a head shot was required and only one out of about 200 applicants were called for an interview. The $400 per month base salary was ample then and it was an honor to make it to the final round and the panel interview. I remember girls vomiting in anxiety as they waited outside.

The old Melrose Hotel in the Oak Lawn area of Dallas was our home for the training period of six weeks. Each day we were transported to a classroom in the Braniff Hangar at Love field and tutored in the wily ways of womanhood and taught how to maximize that asset. We learned to extinguish fires, slide down escape chutes and climb across airplane wings. We were trained in resuscitation and first aid. We were taught to mix cocktails and walk through a bumpy aircraft in high heels carrying a tray of hot coffee. And most importantly we learned to smile through it all.

The top age limit for a flight attendant was 34, so you needed to round up a husband or a plan B if you were approaching your expiration date. And single ladies only need apply. Marriage, unless kept very secret, meant retirement. The weight limit was strictly enforced, and a large medical scale stood in the center of the Hostess Lounge where a pre-flight check in was required.

“How would you like your coffee?”  We would chirp through shiny white teeth. And the litany of responses became the bad repertoire of the herds of amateur traveling comedians.  “Just like I like my women” they would answer. And we would pause, silently clenched, to await their reply, as there were several choices: blond and sweet, hot and black, blond and hot or simply blond. Each male passenger thought he was clever and original, and our job was to ensure he left with that feeling. We were instructed to be cigar store wooden Indians except with a smile. We were trained and tested to endure the rants and raves of angry passengers. We were instructed to not take it personally because we had been hired to become this whipping post sort of ambassador for the airline. We were there to gracefully smooth out the wrinkles. That was the job description.

Airline travel was in its golden era, and we wore white gloves and pushed a silver cart with tiny clinking bottles of liquor served in crystal hi ball glasses. Fragrant Oshobori towels were doused with hot steaming water and passed on silver platters. A selection of magazines and newspapers was offered to each passenger. And from the overhead rack we handed down a soft woolen blanket and a tiny pillow. Meal service was a culinary treat, sometimes offering a main course of Filet Mignon or Lobster Tail, followed by Baked Alaska served in a frozen orange shell. Full bar service ran before, during and after meals. Cigars were passed in first class and all meal trays included a mini pack of Winstons. Billows of smoke engulfed the cabin until you could barely see our perpetually smiling faces.

Businessmen in suits and ties filled most of the flights. There was the occasional family traveling with children but rarely women traveling alone. There was a comfortable expanse of leg room and space for walking around. The restrooms were large enough for all sorts of illicit activity. And the mile high club was just being invented.

There was often a leather cushioned lounge at the back of the aircraft and passengers could move there to converse during the flight. It was on one of these late-night runs between New York and Dallas that I sat down with a group of Middle Eastern men. They were charming and interesting and sitting in full head dress. One was particularly attractive, and his dark eyes sparkled with interest. We sat and talked for over an hour while other passengers dozed. At the end of the flight he pulled me aside and said he would like to fly me to Saudi Arabia to see his palace and meet his wives. He said he knew I would love it there and my life would be luxurious. And this will always remain one the most curious of the “paths not taken” in my life

One stormy morning, on a particularly bumpy leg of a flight, we encountered some extremely rough weather. As my partner and I were jolted around on our little jump seat we could hear the distinctive sound of the small white paper bags being filled throughout the cabin. It was difficult to keep a settled stomach in the turbulence and regurgitation is contagious. Upon landing we went through the cabin, gathered the bags and placed them in the galley for the cleaning crew. The passengers had all deplaned and we were preparing the cabin for the return flight when a small toothless old man came clambering down the aisle in great agitation. It seems he had tossed his teeth along with his cookies and they were waiting somewhere back in that galley in one of those bags. And yes…We found them.

And as long as we are on vomit stories… Once, while helping a young mother with her herd of small children, I offered to hold the baby while she got the others settled. I barely noticed the small child’s subtle movement as he began heaving in preparation to hurl. As I became aware I quickly lifted him away from my body and held him straight out in front of me just in time to be hit full frontal with projectile baby vomit. It rolled down my face and across my blouse and jacket, down my tight skirt and into my black pumps. It was a very long day before I got back to a clean uniform.

On one of my early flights, I was coupled with one of the most senior of all flight attendants. She was well seasoned, and I observed as she delicately finessed our smiling ambassador mode of operation with great humor. The flight had been delayed and many of the passenger bags had not made the connection. The collective mood of the seated herd was bordering on hostile. As we stood in place by the exit door forcibly smiling through our “buh byes,” a very irate older man leaned into my partner’s face and shouted: “You can take this plane and this airline and shove it up your ass.” Without missing a beat she smiled into his scowling face and gently replied: “Why yes sir, and would you like to get off first?” The line of waiting passengers which filled the aisle broke into laughter and then applause, while the angry passenger was forced to stand stewing in silent humiliation.

History happened in those skies also. The afternoon of November 22nd, 1963 found me aboard a twin engine Convair which only required two pilots and one flight attendant. It was on one of those long milk train runs, landing in every sizeable airport between Denver and Memphis, and it was the dreaded route that the junior hostesses were assigned. A short time after lunch had been served, the captain buzzed me to come to the cockpit. As I opened the door the distress on their faces instantly made my heart pound. We are going to die, I thought. The engines are on fire, and I’m supposed to prepare for a crash landing. The captain gently handed me a headset and nodded to listen. It was official. John F. Kennedy had been assassinated in Dallas. The captain instructed me to return to the cabin as he would make an announcement to the passengers. A blanket of total silence enshrouded our cabin for the remainder of the flight. Upon landing at the Little Rock airport, you could immediately detect which groups of people had not been informed. They would be laughing and chatting as normal and then someone would join the group and the news would make them go somber. This was how things went viral in 1963.

By 1965 I was engaged and planning to retire about a month before my June wedding. My last flight was from Washington D.C. to Dallas and the First-Class passenger list included Lady Bird Johnson, Liz Carpenter, Sergeant Shriver and the entire LBJ entourage off for a weekend at the ranch. I was in the cabin serving the First Lady when my partner picked up the microphone and began speaking. “Ladies and gentlemen, we would like to congratulate Miss Brown, who is now in the cabin with you. This will be her very last flight as she will trading in her wings for wedding rings.”  The cabin erupted in jubilant applause. Job well done; she got her man. Lady Bird took my hand, pursed her lips and wished me well.

NOTES:

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