One winter day, probably in the 1970s, I found myself sitting in an aircraft in Windsor, Ontario (I think), impatiently awaiting departure for my final destination: Ottawa or Toronto.
My seat companion for this leg paused in work extracted from his briefcase (pre-computer era), and just to pass the time of day, asked if I was a frequent flyer.
This was at a time when I was active in the Canadian Weekly Newspaper Association. Board meetings, conventions and personal interests occasioned about a dozen-plus flights annually. By Weyburn standards that added up to a lot of flying.
Something in the manner in which the question was posed cautioned me to answer carefully. So I admitted I was a frequent flyer by Weyburn expectations, but not by other standards.
Naturally (as probably expected) I inquired about my companion's flying frequency. He claimed a larger number of annual flights than I considered possible for anyone except airline crew. I was grateful for the comparative modesty of my own reply.
It turned out my co-passenger traveled almost constantly, literally to all corners of the earth, selling Canadian beef. Delhi, Tokyo and Shanghai were mere whistle stops. Much as I then considered flying a treat, I shuddered - then and now - at the thought of his traveling frequency.
Thank goodness I have finally arrived at the key word of this column: "treat".
Yes, in those vaguely recalled times, air travel was a treat, at least for occasional flyers.
There was the initial pleasure of boarding and sitting back in my seat, and looking around at my fellow travelers, with the possibility of a familiar face. Then there was the thrill of take-off, and the slightly impatient expectation of a certain light being turned off. Oh shame, shame, shame on me! That's when I might light that delicious cigarette after probably half an hour of self-denial.
And then! Then! Out rolled the food trolley, and I swallowed saliva in glorious anticipation until the food tray was placed on the tray before me by a smiling, beautiful young stewardess (an appellation and quality long relegated to the trash bin of history).
There might even have been a subsequent offer of coffee or even a beverage permitted only in certain air spaces.
After all that, and perhaps a half-hour of reading or napping, another light came on to warn us of the end of smoking, returning seat backs and trays to upright positions, and a landing welcome by then.
What brought about this naughty reminiscence about the glories of "olden days" air travel was an essay in a recent weekly news magazine entitled "Bad Air Days", bemoaning loss of the 1970 days when jet travel "still had about it a faint whiff of glamour."
Nowadays, dining may be only a fat six-buck sandwich, with a free cup of coffee thrown in as a bonus.
This tempts me to write the essayist about my early days, when we traveled by stagecoach along prairie and forest trails, frequently disembarking to push the conveyance through long stretches of muddy roads.
But P.S.: don't tell my grandchildren. I'm really not that old. Don't spoil the illusion that I was an original Saskatchewan pioneer.
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