The Tale of Mr. Snock

When I was but a wisp of a girl in my twenties—single, silly, and skinny—I was a stewardess. That was back when being a stewardess was actually a glamorous job. We were “sky goddesses” and everyone loved us. Well. . . men loved us, and young women wanted to be us. In the late 1960’s and early 70’s, in order to attract customers, the majority of whom were men, the airlines exploited us to the max with ads like: “We move our tails for you!” and “Fly Me.” My all-time favorite was American’s “Think of her as your mother,” with a smoldering-eyed brunette curled up in an office chair. In the 80’s, Joan Rivers honed her career relentlessly bashing and trashing us. Our Florence Nightingale image was gone forever and replaced by one that more closely resembled Xaviera Hollander, “The Happy Hooker.”

The majority of us were just regular girls; many growing up in big families from small town America, and generally fitting the psychological profile of “nurturer.” It really was an exciting time for us girls and we had a lot of fun. While catching a play in Manhattan or sitting by the pool in Los Angeles, we could often be heard to say, “Can you believe we get paid for this?” Of course, we often found ourselves sitting by the pool at a second rate hotel in Tulsa, Oklahoma, or swiping at a cockroach at a deli in Newark, New Jersey.

Like that long ago television series, Naked City, I’ve got a bunch of stories. The majority are filed away at the back of my brain somewhere, and I no longer think about most of them. Now and then one creeps into the front of my brain, and I think you might enjoy it. This is one of those tales.

Sometime back in the 70's.

Long before computer-generated passenger lists, we were required to ask every passenger their name and call them by it. I was first stewardess on a 727 trip, working alone in the first-class cabin. A white-haired gentleman in the second row aisle seat whispered his name to me. I asked him to repeat it, which he did, but I still couldn’t understand him. He was visibly frustrated when I asked him to spell it for me. I wrote on my seating chart what I thought he had spelled—S N O C K—and politely called him Mr. Snock throughout the meal service.

When the meal service was over, another passenger entered the galley where I was hiding, probably sneaking a cigarette and a cup of coffee.

“Young woman, do you know who that man in the second row is?”

Proudly pointing to the little square on my seating chart where I had printed his name, I announced, “Sure! That’s Mr. Snock.”

“Young woman, that’s Dr. Spock,” he groaned. “He just got out of jail and he’s trying to avoid attention.”

“Well, I thought Snock was an unusual name,” I admitted, embarrassed.

“I'm not a pacifist. I was very much for the war against Hitler. . .” Benjamin Spock

Benjamin Spock died March 15, 1998, twelve years ago this past Monday. He was 94 years old. He was both celebrated and castigated during his long and remarkable life. In 1924, as a member of the Yale rowing team, he was an Olympic gold medalist. He achieved the rank of Lieutenant Commander in the US Navy Reserve Medical Corps during World War II, and he ran for President of the United States in 1972. Dr. Benjamin Spock was considered the ultimate authority on childcare and upbringing, and later blamed “for all the lack of patriotism, lack of responsibility, and lack of discipline of the young people who opposed the war.”

His left-wing politics constantly brought him into conflict with more conservative politicians. He campaigned for Medicare and against nuclear bomb tests in the Earth’s atmosphere. As a determined crusader against the war in Vietnam, he was tried and convicted as a conspirator against the United States for encouraging young men to avoid the draft. That conviction was set aside on appeal; however he was arrested more than once for his participation in anti-war protests. He was the author of numerous books, and at the height of Dr. Spock’s popularity, his Baby and Child Care manual outsold every book but The Bible.

Love him or hate him, agree or disagree with his politics, he was a powerful influence in our lives and the lives of our children and their children. And I, Twit, called him Mr. Snock for the two hours of my life that I was in his company. It makes me shudder.

Donna