When I was 5½, I had my first airplane ride. The carrier was TWA or Pan Am, and we crossed the continent.

We lived in Glen Cove, NY at the time. That’s on Long Island. My mother’s family was still in New York – Scarsdale or White Plains, mostly – but my dad’s sisters had moved, one family at a time, to the LA area

The flight was over eight hours long. We had the seats over the wings; they faced each other and were known for providing the smoothest ride.

At that time, the crew welcomed kids aboard. We were each given playing cards, coloring books and crayons, flight wing pins, and a trip to see the cockpit and meet the pilot. There were no movies on the long flight. The food was infamously bad and the stewardesses were famously young and lovely. They were not called flight attendants then.

I remember that flight as long but fascinating. And what I recall of LA was not all the aunts and cousins – it was Disneyland.

My second flight, certainly on TWA, was three years later and horrible. In October 1958 we moved to California. My father had gone ahead; Mom had to make that long haul with almost-9-year old me, 5½-year old Steve, and 3-month old Andy. Small wonder she couldn’t see to my needs.

We didn’t have wing seats. I was close to Mom but not adjacent (in my mind’s eye, she’s across the aisle and one row up; I’m in a middle seat). I was terrified of the toilet. When the urge rose I wanted her to accompany me. She told me in no uncertain terms that I was old enough to go alone. I’m sure she was correct – what was she to do? Take baby and me to the small bathroom and leave Steve? Ask a stewardess to help?

I couldn’t do it. I was just too scared of that chemical toilet to visit it alone. I held my urine as long as I could. The relief I felt when I finally let go was profound and hot. I stayed in my seat till it dried.