Over Thanksgiving my parents’ dog knocked against a bookshelf, and out fell boarding passes from the summer of 1978. None of us knew we had them, or remembered intending to keep them.
Even little details have the sepia of another era, surprisingly (to me) remote: my mother’s boarding pass refers to her by my father’s first initial; no-smoking sections are special dispensations from the norm (and separated only by curtains). But the only praise I remember, even then, for cars like that snazzy blue rental was in advertisements.
And what a terrible airline Allegheny was, down to its margins, leading, and kerning.
