Dr. Jean Dye, Retired College Professor

I was a young woman from Wisconsin living on my own in the then-glamorous city of Hollywood — the Mecca of many young women in that Golden Age of the movies. I worked for Western Union on Hollywood Boulevard, with three or four other young women, accepting telegraphic messages from customers to be sent by wire all over the world.

That was a time when most people reserved long-distance phone calls for earth-shaking events like weddings and funerals. Western Union was also the fastest way to transfer money and most of our customers were servicemen wiring home for money — and then hanging around to chat us up for a date.

It was easy to meet strangers in those heady days in California when everyone was from somewhere else, and it was a much safer time for a young woman a long way from home. The servicemen — boys, really — I dated were also a long way from home and I never suffered a mishap in the two years I lived there before marrying one of them.

One day I met a young man who owned his own Piper Cub plane. In time, he invited me to go for a spin. I had never flown in a plane of any kind, and the idea of getting into a little plane was terrifying. But I also grew up with four brothers and had spent a lot of my life accepting dares from them and trying to keep up with their adventures. So I eventually accepted the challenge to fly.

I remember that day vividly. The sun was California-bright, the air was cool. I felt myself actually getting into this little plane — probably made of paper and glue — and rising up, up over Los Angeles and then Long Beach and swinging out over the long blue ocean shoreline.

I actually caught only glimpses of all of this because my eyes were half shut most of the flight. While I was saying, "That's gorgeous," my mind was repeating "Why are you here? You're going to die."

Of course I didn't die. We landed smoothly and I stepped out on my jellied legs and went shakily to his car. I've forgotten his name and we never met again.