In recent news, a six-year-old boy was put on the wrong flight to visit his grandmother and ended up in Orlando instead of Fort Myers, Florida begging the question, where were the adults? Should children be allowed to fly unaccompanied?

Times have changed. I flew unaccompanied four times from the ages of four to eight. Each summer, I flew from Wichita, Kansas to Denver to stay for a month or so with my mother’s parents. I treasure those memories because it was a time when I got to know them and they me beyond just a short visit. My father’s family lived in and around Wichita, so I grew up with nearly weekly visits with grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins on that side of the family. The only opportunity I had to see my maternal grandparents, aunts, and uncles was summertime trips to Colorado.

That was in the late 40s and early 50s of the last century, oh my. It never crossed my mind to be fearful or apprehensive about those experiences. I was handed over to a stewardess, as they were called then. She looked after me from the time I boarded the plane until she gave me to my grandparents. Also in those days, my parents walked me across the tarmac directly to the door of the airplane. Things were so much simpler. At the end of my summer stay, my parents usually drove to Denver to collect me. One time my godfather volunteered for the duty, and I drove home with him and his girlfriend. I sat on the front seat between them (another thing that couldn’t happen today). It was a long day’s drive looking for Burma Save signs, counting out-of-state license plates, singing silly songs, and stopping for cokes and a lunch of toasted chicken salad sandwiches.

I remember on my first or second flight I was taken for a short visit to the cockpit to meet the pilot and copilot. It is not clear in memory if the plane was in the air but I’m pretty sure we had not taken off yet. I sat on the pilot’s lap as he showed me how he operated the plane with all the dials and gizmos he used to get us to our destination. He allowed me to “take the wheel”.  It was fascinating. Back at my seat, I was treated like a princess with lots of attention and the flight went by very quickly. I never felt I was cargo or a piece of luggage being shipped from place to place. My grandparents were there waiting when the door was opened. I was always the first to deplane.

Each time I flew, I was given a junior stewardess pin with wings to wear that looked just like those worn by the pilots and flight attendants.

On the last flight I took solo when I was eight, I was seated next to Tex Ritter. He was one of the singing cowboys. My very favorite was Roy Rogers with his horse Trigger, but Tex was next best. Then came Rex Allen and Gene Autrey. I loved cowboys. Since I was the only girl in my neighborhood, I played outside with all the boys. I had a complete cowgirl outfit with a fringed skirt and vest, a neckscarf, boots and spurs, and a toy gun with a red holster. We rode up and down the street on our pretend horses chasing Indians and outlaws or hiding out from the same.

I had seen Tex and his big white horse, Flash, in Saturday matinees. I remember his low resonant voice. My favorite songs were, I Got Spurs That Jingle Jangle Jingle, You Are My Sunshine, and Froggy Went a Courtin. He sang the theme song of High Noon, but I believe that was later in his career. I don’t recall having a conversation with Tex other than “Hi” and “How are you”. He minded his business, probably read a book; and the stewardess gave me a coloring book, so I kept busy too. I did get his autograph in the autograph book that I carried with me and still have.

I’m not sure how I survived all that reckless treatment as a child with unsecured plane and car seats, and being handed from stranger to stranger far from home; but here I am – the lucky survivor of a happy childhood.