Back in 1960 there were three ways to get to California, the same as now: automobile, train or plane. My stepfather's son lived in a suburb of Sacramento. He hadn't seen his son since Jimmy discharged from the Navy. Jimmy had married and was the father of a five year old daughter. My stepfather was anxious to visit them.

Mother, concerned about my stepfather's health, asked me to accompany him on the trip. I was delighted. An expense paid vacation was the way it looked to me. I arranged for a friend to pick my garden full of strawberries and look in on my husband and young son from time to time. I would be gone a week. Look at me. I was ready to travel. I wore a pretty flowered hat and those black seamed nylons with a black heel. Yes, I once was thin.

Pictured was the largest commercial airplane able to land at our small airport. We would now call it a commuter plane. I was thrilled. We were to fly to Chicago and transfer to a larger four engine plane for the flight over the Rockies. I settled in to enjoy the flight. Unfortunately, we flew through a severe thunderstorm about half way to Chicago. That was scary. No smoking, buckled in, we bounced around for a while. Chicago was a welcome sight.

At O'Hare Airport our new plane had four engines. This was before the days of jets. I had a window seat overlooking the two right wing engines. It was reassuring to watch those propellers turn. That was until the one closest to me caught fire. My comfort level dropped considerably. The fuel was cut from the engine, the fire went out and our plane continued on. My comfort level was still below par as I monitored that burnt shut-off engine on the other side of my window.

Our next stop was to have been Salt Lake City, Utah, but the pilot decided to put down at Reno, Nevada, instead. He announced that he wanted all four engines operational for the flight over the Rocky Mountains. I certainly agreed with him.

That burnt engine was not on my mind as we flew over the mountains that night. I had other problems. We were buckled in for most of the remainder of the flight. Have you ever flown and experienced an air pocket? We had many of them. Another passenger said we dropped about fifty feet with the worst of them. Even if what he said was true, my stomach contents wanted to exit my mouth on the worst of them. I opined that if that was what an airplane trip was like, I will take the train, thank you very much.

We did take the train back home. That was a form of travel I was familiar with. You could get up and walk around. There was a man going through the cars from time to time selling snacks. The click-clack of the train wheels lulled me to sleep. My stomach was safely tucked in where it should be.

This would be my only plane trip until I flew to San Francisco in 1984. That was a jet liner. There were no air pocket problems. It was non-stop. We flew over Reno, Nevada instead of stopping there. I enjoyed the trip.