Evening star. [volume], April 28, 1935, Page 4, Image 82

About Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
My Lucky
Turning Point
zA telephone call—that she tried to avoid— sent ^Amelia €arhart across
the «.Atlantic to fame and changed her whole life
by Amelia Earhart
Almost any ont can look back om kis past
and discom some moment when the whole
course of kis life was changed by what seemed,
at the time, an insignificant or an unfortunate
thing. Maybe it was a party he went to when he
would rather hare stayed at home; or some
oysters he ate at dinner; or an oeerheard remark;
or eeen a particular seat he dropped into on a
street car. Anyone of these trieial happenings
may haee storied a train of circumstances which
brought fame, fortune or lore, eeen though
promising nothing of importance at the time.
Many people who ham made big successes
hate had lucky turning points in their Uses.
Sometimes these lucky breaks came when they
were fired from jobs at which they would tutor
hate succeeded anyway, and were thus forced to
look for something more suited to their talents —
in other words, kicked upstairs. At other times
their turning points hate come when they hate
made one more effort, after many failures, and
the effort has succeeded.
We hate asked some of these successful people
to describe their lucky breaks for the readers of
This Week. We begin with one day early in
nineteen-Uoenty-eight, when a certain tousle
haired social settlement worker receited an un
expected 'phone call.
My cakekk — such as it is — had
a well-defined “turning point."
It hinged (can turning-points
‘hinge’?) on a telephone call m
Boston early in 1928 — as casual as an in
vitation to a matinee. As a result of that
telephone message, 1 made an Atlantic flight,
which in turn opened the way for later ocean
air crossings and much beside — including
matrimony.
In those days I was at Denison House, one
of America’s oldest social settlements.
“Phone for you, Mias Ear hart.’’
“Tell 'em I’m busy." At the moment I was
the center of an eager swarm of Chinese and
Syrian neighborhood children, piling in for
games and classes.
“Says it’s important."
So I excused myself and went to listen to
a man’s voice asking me whether 1 was inter
ested in doing something dangerous in the air.
At first I thought the conversation was a joke
and said so. Several times before I had been
approached by bootleggers who promised rich
reward and no danger — “Absolutely no
danger to you, Leddy."
The frank admission of risk stirred my
curiosity. References were demanded and
supplied. Good references. An appointment
was arranged for that evening.
“Would you like to fly the Atlantic?”
My reply was a prompt yes — provided the
equipment was all right and the crew capable.
Seven years ago flying oceans was leas com
monplace than today, and my own experience
as a pilot was limited to a few hundred hours
in small planes when work and finances
permitted.
So I went to New York and met the man
entrusted with the quaint commission of
finding a woman willing to fly the Atlantic.
The candidate, I gathered, should be a flyer
herself, with social graces, education, charm
and, perchance, pulchritude.
His appraisal left me discomforted. Some
how this seeker for feminine perfection seemed
brusque. I. just didn’t like him. Anyway, I
showed my pilot's license (it happened to be
the first granted an American woman by the
FA.I.) and inwardly prepared to start back
for Boston.
But I felt that, having come so far, I might
is well meet the representatives of Mrs.
Frederick Guest, whose generosity was mak
ng the flight possible, and at whose insistence ■
Front o Portrait by Howard Chandler Christy
Amelia Earhart—Opportunity telephoned her
a woman was to be taken along. Those repre
sentatives were David T. Layman, Jr., and
John S. Phipps, before which masculine jury
1 made my next appearance. It should have
been slightly embarrassing, for if I were found
wanting in too many ways I would be counted
out. On the other hand, if I were just too
fascinating, the gallant gentlemen might be
loath to risk drowning me. Anyone could see
the meeting was a crisis.
A few days later the verdict came. The
flight actually would be made and I could go
if I wished. Naturally I couldn’t say “no.”
Who would refuse an invitation to such a
shining adventure?
Followed, in due course, after weeks of
mechanical preparation, efforts to get the
monoplane “Friendship'' off bom the grey
waters of Boston Harbor. There were chill
before-dawn gettings-up, with breakfasts
snatched and thermos bottles filled at an
all-night lunch-counter. Brief voyages on the
tug-boat “Sadie Ross” to the anchored plane,
followed by the sputter of the faithful motors
awakening to Mechanic Lou Gordon’s coaxing
and their later full-throated roar when Pilot
“Bill’' Stultz gave them the gun — and I
crouched on the fuselage floor hoping we were
really off.
Thrice we failed, dragging back to Boston
for more long days of waiting. Waiting is apt
to be so much harder than going, with the
excitement of movement, of getting off, of
ad venture-around-the-comer.
In charge of shore preparations was that
man I’d met in New York, possessed, some
how, of a driving knack of getting things done.
Finally one meaning the “Friendship” took
off successfully, and Stultz, Gordon and I
transferred ourselves to Trepassey, New
foundland. Thirteen days of further waiting
in that tiny fishing village, and then, on May
20, over the Atlantic to Burryport, Wales,
in 20 hours and 40 minutes.
So . . . from that telephonic “turning
point", after the pleasant accident of being
the first woman to cross the Atlantic by air, 1
was launched into a life more full than ever.
Aviation offered such fun as crossing the
continent in planes large and small, trying the
whirling rotors of an autogiro, making record
flights.With these activities came opportunity
to know women everywhere who share my
conviction there is so much women can do in
the modem world and should be permitted to
do irrespective of their sex.
Two years ago, having been rudely char
acterized as a “sack of potatoes" when I was
a mere passenger on my first Atlantic crossing,
I flew alone to Ireland — an exploit which
contributed little beyond indicating that
women, now and then, can do things them
selves if given the chance.
Also, I suppose that phone call can be con
sidered the genesis of the thoroughly inter
esting eighteen hours I recently experienced
over the Pacific, en route from Honolulu to
California.
Those latter were solo voyages, but much
of the preparations for them weren’t. For, as
often since that "turning point", the Man
who-was - to - find • a • girl - to • fly - the • Atlantic
had an encouraging hand in them — that
man I didn’t like so well at first.
His name, I neglected to say, is George
Palmer Putnam.
Nowadays, he has his solo jobs and 1 have
mine. But there is also work and play together,
conducted under a satisfactory system of dual
control, since we were married four years ago.
In an early issue we will publish another
",Lucky Turning Point" that ted to fame