Nice Jewish Boys Don’t Fly Airplanes.

A Trip to the Airport

I still vividly recall a particular memory from my early childhood. I was with my mother and her eldest brother, Sam, at the White Castle on Northern Boulevard in Jackson Heights, the neighborhood where I grew up in Queens, New York. This iconic slider joint, located just three blocks away from our home, still stands to this day, despite the competition from more established fast-food giants. I can recall looking up and seeing a four-engine tri rudder TWA constellation or “Connie” fly overhead. 

Living just over a mile south of New York’s LaGuardia Airport, I was accustomed to seeing planes flying over, but this sight left me in awe. Uncle Sam suggested that we drive to LaGuardia to get a closer look at the planes. In those days before jet bridges and stringent airport security, it was much easier to approach the planes on the ramp as they taxied. Passengers would embark and disembark using air-stairs, and I distinctly remember how impeccably dressed they all were. Men donned suits and ties, while women wore dresses and skirts, reminiscent of a scene from a 1960s movie starring Cary Grant. It was a time when people carried themselves with politeness, manners, and courtesy, in stark contrast to the present-day scene. 

It felt like a trip to Disneyland or an extravagant theme park. The experience was nothing short of magical. Seeing the planes up close was a completely different sensation from watching them fly overhead. I was enthralled, almost feeling as though I could reach out and touch them. The sheer size of the planes and the thunderous roar of their engines left me awe-struck. I couldn’t believe how fast the propellers spun, seemingly disappearing before my eyes. And the noise! It was a deafening roar that resonated deep within me. As a young child, I was utterly mesmerized. 

Even at such a tender age, I quickly absorbed names and terminology. I learned that the three-tail plane was called a Constellation or Connie, and the act of planes moving on the ground was known as “taxiing.” The surfaces they drove on weren’t roads but ramps and taxiways. My Uncle Sam was my guide, feeding me these fascinating morsels of knowledge, and like a sponge, I soaked up everything I heard and saw. 

However, amidst all the marvel and fascination, there was something even more captivating that grabbed my attention. These planes were unlike anything I had seen before. They had no propellers; instead, they boasted four engines neatly positioned beneath their wings. The thunderous roar they emitted was far more powerful than that of a Connie. These were jets, relatively new to the airline industry, having made their debut in passenger travel in the United States just four or five years earlier. They were on the verge of replacing the piston-powered airplanes that had been the norm until then. 

I can still picture it —the vibrant blue and white livery of Eastern Airlines adorning those sleek jets, exuding a sense of freshness and modernity. TWA, too, had their planes painted in striking red and white colors, standing out with an air of elegance. The entire experience was nothing short of enlightening for a young child like me, leaving an indelible impression that would shape my fascination with aviation for years to come.