Sunday Gazette-Mail from Charleston, West Virginia on July 20, 1975 · Page 58
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Sunday Gazette-Mail from Charleston, West Virginia · Page 58

Charleston, West Virginia
Issue Date:
Sunday, July 20, 1975
Page 58
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Famous Fables ByE. E.Edgar MEMORY: Arturo Toscanini attended an orchestral concert conducted by a young maestro who kept consulting the score. To Tos- canini, who committed every musical piece to memory, this was unforgivable. When the concert was over and he was asked his opinion of the conductor, he responded: "What can I say good, when he has his head in the score instead of the score in his head?" * * * INNOVATION: Henry Ford built his first successful motor car in a brick storage building at the rear of his rented house. When it was ready for its trial run, he discovered that it was too big to get through the door. He broke away a part of the wall, intending to have the damage repaired upon his return. What he confronted when he came back was his irate landlord, who demanded to know what he meant by breaking down the wall without permission? Ford apologized and promised to have the bricklayers come over at once. He explained that he had been out for a spin in his car. "You mean, the car actually ran?" said the landlord, his anger suddenly subsiding. Ford nodded. "In that case, suggested the other, "don't brick up the wall. Put in a swinging door so the car can go in and out." And thus the first garage door made its debut. * * * LIMIT: A buxom soprano was rehearsing an operatic passage and Sir Thomas Beecham was urging her to reach for notes beyond her range. "Higher, madam," he kept exhorting her, "higher." Higher and higher she went, creeping up note by note, but still he demanded more. She decided to make one last effort to hit that elusive note. To prepare herself, she sucked in a massive quantity of air. Beecham, mouth agape, watched in fascination as she slowly inflated. Then, just when it appeared that she was about to burst, he broke the spell. "Stop, madam!" he cried out. ."The last note will suffice." unmistakably Lucky Star Drops Fashion's newest touch. . tening little stars on a 15" baby chain. To wear alone or clustered with chains. Gold or Silver plated. Stars aresketched actual size. For you. For gifts. Just Beautiful! Gold or Silver cut-out Gold or Silver Solid : Street Floor Embces, 214 Capitol St. Charleston, W. Va. 25301 Please send the following Star Drops to NAME ADDRESS CITY TrET Silver art-out jjold cut-out Gold Solid Stiver Solid NO. ORDERED STATE Zip -. PRICE TOTAL D Charge d Cosh (Sorry no COD) Please add 3% State Tax Hi! Tm Marty. . . Fly Me. . .Please! By Martha Smith A silly smile came over my face, the result of one tranquilizer and six antacid tablets. It's true, Martha, I said to myself. (Not aloud, you understand. They carry you away for that sort of thing.) Here I am about to wing my way to New York. The National Critics Institute. The Big Time. My fan club dutifully arrived at 7:30 a.m. to transport me to the airport. It's a small but faithful ensemble. After all, you're either dedicated or totally bananas to be up and about and manically cheerful at 7:30 a.m. So there they were, the official escort to Kanawha Airport: Pat Hendricks, Eleanor Kawsek, and Joan Baker-Young. I mean when I go first class, I go first class. Pat carried my typewriter. Eleanor and Joan did a little two- step over who was going to carry the luggage and who was going to open the doors. It worked out. We were jovial and determined as we started up Airport Hill. It was a happy moment to be shared. '. Then the fog crept in -- not on little cat feet, as Sandburg would have us believe -- but in great, thick slurpy soup. We remained undaunted. Joan and Eleanor played porter while Pat parked the car. Clutching my satchel of supplies for a month-long seminar, I stepped up to the Piedmont desk and handed over my ticket for stamping. Ernest Hillenbrand, a handsome, smiling .and helpful young man, scribbled things on the ticket, stamped the customary triplicate copies and tagged the luggage. The 9:10 a.m. flight probably , would be about 15 minutes late, he said. But he added a reassuring smile. The foursome proceeded to breakfast in the airport coffee shop. Everyone spoke simultaneously on different topics. Much laughter and merriment. I cracked jokes. Joan and I recited funny lines from "The Return of the Pink Panther." Eleanor pronounced me utterly delightful. Onward to the main concourse to await news of Piedmont Flight 60. A throng peered nervously out the windows, watching the soup get soupier. My party, on the other hand, remained in high good spirits. In fact, we related amusing stories of persons becoming trapped in airplane bathrooms. What, we debated, does one do when the "Return to Your Seat" light flashes and nature's call overrides the command? We giggled ridiculously, 'Gael' Morris Super-Samaritan Several persons stared. Then the pronouncement came: "Piedmont Airlines Flight 60 is circling above the airport waiting for the Charleston weather to improve;" The flight didn't wait very long; About two circles overhead and the plane was gone. A frantic dash to the ticket desk. What other flights could get me to Washington, then to New London, Conn.? What other connections of any kind could be made? I was due in New London in mid-afternoon. Ernest Hillenbrand began busily flipping through schedules for every airline to every city. He sent teletype memos. The replies were unanimous: No openings on any flights. No chance of getting on a standby list. My will to live began to ebb. Fifteen minutes had passed and the agitated traveler in line behind me was verging on shoving me aside. I held my ground. I also held my head. In my hands. Ernest Hillenbrand had stopped smilin'g at this point. He looked downright grim. I expected him, at any moment, to beseech the Lord to dispatch an angel to carry me off on gossamer wings. Meanwhile, back at the row of pay telephones, Pat and Eleanor were madly placing calls to Canky Brown to determine if her sister in New York could help out if I got a flight into LaGuardia. Joan was .making like a freelance travel agent and polling the various airline representatives on potential flights to New London. Back at the Piedmont desk, I was seized by desperation (and nearly seized by the impatient and indig- nant man behind me). With no idea of how I would get from LaGuardia to New London, I agreed to fly there anyhow, Ernest Hillenbrand obligingly fixed up accommodations through United Airlines -- a nice gesture from a Piedmont em- ploye. I paced, fumed, swore and fought off the urge to hurl myself to the floor and kick and scream and rend my garments. How in the hell, I demanded, was I going to get to New London in time? A trip to the United desk proved lifesaving. For there, grinning a reassuring grin, stood Forrest Morris, otherwise known as Gael or Fred Morris, depending on whom you talk to. Anyhow, he doesn't like to be called Forrest. While I tried to talk to Forrest, Joan launched into witty repartee. I couldn't see Forrest for the tease. (Please forgive me, I couldn't help myself.) Gael Morris proved to be my knight in shining armor. He conferred with Hillenbrand. He tele- typed Pilgrim Airlines, a smallish commuter line from New York to New London. We were now into our fourth set of stamped, triplicate, worthless airline tickets. By now Gael was calling me Martha in a real atmosphere of camaraderie. We were buddies fighting against tough odds: time, crummy weather and, apparently, the wrath of God. At the end of another waiting period, Gael Morris had the news: I would fly United to LaGuardia, be taken by helicopter to Kennedy, then catch Pilgrim Airlines to New London and grab a taxi to the Eugene O'Neill Memorial Theater in Waterford. I would only be about three hours late. , My luggage would not be lost, he promised. Everything would be okay. All I had to do was return to the Piedmont desk, get a new set of stamped, triplicate tickets and another bunch of luggage tags and -- voila! -- I was virtually airborne. Ernest Hillenbrand looked less than delighted to see me again. I gave him a devilish wink. "We've got to quit meeting like this," I purred. He resurrected the smile I had seen some hours earlier. Written indelibly on his face were the words: "Migod, I'm getting rid of her.. .finally." There is a lesson to be learned here and I'm always a quick study. You know those girls who murmur: "Hi. I'm Betsy. Fly me." Ha! Easy for them to say. I'm willing to wager that the Apollo-Soyuz hookup is. an easier adventure than my trip from Charleston to New London. Hi. I'm Marty. Fly me.. .please! --'^ : ·'-·

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