There it was, sitting on the kitchen counter with the Eastern Airlines logo emblazoned above the return address. I was so excited I could barely contain myself as I ripped open the envelope.

We’re sorry to inform you …

That’s all I needed to see. I slung the envelope aside and slumped into a chair. Eastern was meant to be my dress rehearsal for TWA and a worst-case scenario backup plan.

I cared about TWA. That was the one; that was MY airline!

If Eastern had rejected me after the first interview, I knew I wouldn’t have a prayer of getting a second interview with TWA.

It wasn’t the mythical fly girl glamour that enticed me; it was the fact that I was only months away from aging out and losing my father’s American Airlines passes.

Now what?

I called Diane in a panic and said, “Let’s go to Gatlinburg for the weekend. I have to get out of here.”

A couple of hours later, we were headed to Gatlinburg in Diane’s navy-blue Malibu with her five-man raft in tow.

Within minutes of hitting the ground in G’burg, the atmosphere began to shift.

Saturday began with a tour of what some exuberant Jack LaLanne disciples had named the Artists’ Walk, properly known as the Smoky Mountains Arts and Crafts Community. We cruised through the eight-mile loop, stopping for coffee and breakfast.

The rest of the day was devoted to rejuvenation.

Retail therapy: treasures from the Artists’ Walk.

Hydrotherapy: an excursion in the five-man raft.

Adult beverage and lobster therapy: happy hour and dinner at Lineberger’s—our “office” until its demise. Yiayia’s generosity bought the evening. She knew I was in bad shape and loved Diane like a granddaughter. We each picked out a live lobster.

Before heading home on Sunday, we took the Ober Gatlinburg tram ride to the top, not an outing for the faint of heart or the hungover. And we hit Pancake Pantry for plate-sized pancakes and a sugar high for the trip home.

When I returned, another envelope was waiting for me. I knew what it would say, so I ignored it.

The envelope was thicker than the one from Eastern. Finally, I opened it.

A round-trip pass to Kansas City along with my invitation to a second TWA interview. I would take part in a group interview in front of a panel of supervisors.

“Calm down,” I thought. “It’s just an exercise. You have no hope of getting the job.”

“What would you do if the aircraft crashed and burned and the cabin filled with smoke?”

I told the truth: “I would tell the passengers to follow me as I scrambled toward the exit.”

“Well, we don’t want anyone flying who has a suicide wish.”

The interviewees cracked up because they knew what I meant.

Then came the wait—but first, a call from Eastern Airlines.

You must be kidding me! They were calling in the second string, the former rejects.

I decided right then that I was no one’s second choice, and Eastern Airlines was the first to learn it.

“No,” I said.

“Shove it,” I thought.

A few days later, I received a thick packet from TWA along with my acceptance letter.

I was headed back to Kansas City, this time for six weeks of training.

I had no clue where they would base me. I knew where I intended to land: JFK International.

And I did.

That job became my career. The life I built. The stories I still tell. The person I became in the air. The people I met. The places I saw.

Eastern Airlines was liquidated a decade before TWA’s demise.

Eastern said no. Gatlinburg said yes. TWA said, “We see you.”