Barbara, my friend of 60 years, came to visit over the weekend. We keep in touch occasionally, but it was time to catch up on our lives and our families. We always fall easily into fond memories, laughter, and enjoyment.

We met through her brother, John, a TWA captain who lived next door to me in the Big Apple back in the 60s. After college, Barbara also joined TWA as a tall, willowy flight hostess. She even met her husband at my wedding 58 years ago. Although I knew we would chitchat non-stop, I couldn’t allow her visit to pass without meeting Alice, a lovely local friend.

Barbara and Alice both flew for TWA. Their age difference isn’t great, but it is enough that, way back then, Barbara’s job title was “hostess.” Alice, seven years younger, worked as a “flight attendant.” My job title at American Airlines was “stewardess.” No matter what the airlines dubbed us, we old fly gals had a lot to gab about at Monday’s fun luncheon.

The idea occurred to me soon after I first met Alice. She mentioned her earlier career with TWA, and my wheels began spinning … she has to meet Barbara. Both women had been based in New York City and, silly me, I thought they might have known each other. Even if they didn’t, they would still have shared many experiences. When Barbara confirmed the date for her overnight visit here, I called Alice to see if she might be free. She said yes and I was thrilled. Ah serendipity!

When Barbara arrived Sunday, she carried a dozen gorgeous roses – giant red ones, as big as your fist. Alice arrived for Monday’s lunch with a colorful summer bouquet which I thought would be perfect for our table. Sadly, my 27-second attention span failed me again. Alice’s pretty bouquet was still on the kitchen island at the end of the day.

I wanted us to eat on the flowery deck with the garden view. Although the large round table offers tented shade, we all agreed it was too hot. So, we moved to the porch and turned on the overhead fan. Warm, but still comfortable for conversation.

Surprisingly, not much of our hours-long chat was about the airlines. We did talk about our uniforms and the style changes that happened every few years. Mostly our job chatter revolved around the cities we visited. We talked about Paris and London and Sydney. We mourned how much travel has changed, and not for the better.

European cities are now overrun with tourists and everything that used to be free to explore now costs 35 or 50 Euros. We reminisced about seeing our favorite world cities both leisurely and inexpensively. Those were the days.

But most of our conversation was about our other lives, our non-flying days. Both Barbara and Alice grew up in stable families of five children. Only child that I am, I just listened, fascinated, as they recalled bits of big family life. We talked about how marriage affected our jobs at the time, and how having children had an even greater impact on our work schedules.

Because of husbands’ careers, we each moved a lot in our lifetimes, adapting as necessary.

I realized that we adjusted easily, even embraced those changes, because we possessed that one character trait the airlines truly require: flexibility. They never bothered to mention that in their brochures, but if one was not flexible when they pinned those wings on your chest, one became so – quickly.

I personally witnessed girls resigning in frustration because they couldn’t adapt to the unpredictability, the crazy changes. You can only survive if you can handle lost sleep, bone-dragging fatigue, canceled dinner dates, and missed family occasions. We three flexible women instinctively knew that about each other before we sat down to lunch. It was an easy meet, greet, and chat. For hours.

I wasn’t surprised at the ease with which my two friends connected. We talked about what the job had given us as young women heading out into the world: independence, the ability to meet strangers, the ability to make quick decisions, life-changing travel, and above all, self-confidence. We took all those qualities forward into our lives and then magically, into one happy, very warm August afternoon.

Every time I walk past them, the girls’ flowery gifts remind me of our time together on Monday. I am adding another page into my treasured memory album.

Marcy O’Brien writes from her home in Warren, PA. She can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.