Amelia (5 page)

For Amelia Earhart, the attention accompanying her success took over, and now she saw it as an asset. Every decision was made with an eye to keeping her focus exclusively on aviation. Her Avro Avian arrived by sea from Britain. Meanwhile, she broke off her long-ignored engagement to Sam Chapman. So seldom were the couple in the same place at the same time that Earhart had to write him a letter ending their engagement.

The man she now saw most often was George Putnam, the publisher who was showing a lively interest in her career. Putnam, like most people Earhart had met before the
Friendship
flight, was both surprised and charmed on meeting her. Knowing her only as a woman who liked to wear trousers and repair engines, people expected her to be the stereotypical strong woman with a take-charge personality. As Putnam stepped in to guide her career, he may have been a surprise to her, too. Earhart may not have fully grasped what his interference would mean.

A talented publicist, Putnam may well have thought he could describe Amelia Earhart objectively and still make readers curious about her. In an interview shortly after
Friendship
left Boston, he had suggested to newspaper readers that a book about her transatlantic flight might be forthcoming. Clearly, he had studied her and knew her how she thought: “She might consider writing or a short and carefully selected lecture tour, but I know that she would not give a moment’s consideration to anything of a theatrical nature. . . . Indeed she thinks right now that when the flight is over, she is going back to Denison House settlement far from crowds, forgotten. She won’t be able to, of course, we all know that. But she honestly thinks that no one will pay any attention to her after it is over. She is an extraordinary girl. She has captivated all who met her.”

Inevitably, George Putnam and Amelia Earhart would see one another with regularity. And had anyone been looking - and some of their friends were - they would have detected an attraction in the making.

It was Putnam who encouraged Earhart to write, to fly, and to pursue whatever made her happy. When the two first met, Putnam was married and Earhart was engaged. Now she was free, and he was on his way to a divorce. She kept manufacturing more reasons to see him. In September 1928, she finished writing her book,
20 Hrs. 40 Min.
, for Putnam’s publishing company.

Managing Amelia Earhart’s reputation proved to be full-time work for Putnam, who had already begun his own career as a publicist. She was now, not just in America but the world over, and her achievements were extraordinary. But, to a great extent, Earhart deserves credit for her own renown, in part, because of her ability as a writer.

Earhart’s personal character added to her literary assets: Entirely unpretentious, she knew how to speak clearly and from the heart without trying to sound impressive. Then there was her sensitivity. As an adolescent, all those family secrets she had to guard now made her a sensitive witness, noticing far more than she talked about. Years later, her friends said, her success as a writer drew from those quiet years.

She could and did write for anyone, and she was willing to address any group. Questions from journalists often evoked quick and intelligent replies, with a sprinkling of her distinctive wit. Her letters to close friends and family were marked by flashes of insight.

Trying out her new plane, Earhart flew to Los Angeles with no passengers on board and in no particular hurry. She stopped here and there along the way, staying just long enough in L.A. for a visit with her father. Then she got back in her plane and flew to New York, collecting another record as the first woman to fly a solo round-trip across the continent.

Back in New York, Putnam had her next move all planned out. Seeing how energetic Earhart was, he set up a speaking tour that demanded that she visit as many as twenty-seven cities in a single month.

Late in 1928, Earhart flew to Boston for a meeting of Zonta, a woman’s club, to help raise money for the Denison House. Now that she was famous, it was news when she told reporters that she was “no longer engaged to marry. You never can tell what I will do. If I was sure of the man, I might get married tomorrow. I am very sudden, you know, and make up my mind in a second.”

Earhart might have claimed that her work precluded a social life, and in a narrow sense that was true. Though she never lacked for company, her life had become public, partly thanks to her achievements but also, as it became more and more evident, the efforts of Putnam. By now acting as her manager, he wanted Earhart’s reputation continue to grow. So he made sure to keep her in the public eye from the minute she returned from the
Friendship
flight.

Sometimes Earhart needed no prodding to claim attention for herself, but when she saw any hint of condescension toward women pilots, she was unstoppable. In 1929, the National Aeronautical Association in Washington heard from her – again and again.

In a proposed race from Los Angeles to Cleveland, well-meaning planners decided that women deserved special accommodations. It was suggested that women take men as navigators or the starting point could be moved to the eastern side of the Rockies, since it would be too difficult for a woman to fly over the mountains. Earhart had heard from women pilots in California that film star
Bebe Daniels
had entered the race. That alarmed women who flew; if men were to navigate, then every actress in Hollywood might claim to be a pilot and show up for the race.

Speaking for other women pilots, Earhart declared in a telegram to Washington: “None of us will enter [the race] unless it is going to be a real sporting contest.” The planners backed down.

Aviation was increasingly capturing the public’s attention. Reports on flying demonstrations started appearing in the news. In April of 1930, newspaper articles described a mock naval battle. Sixty-nine planes staged a three-hour attack on an aircraft carrier off the Virginia coast. One plane took off from the carrier every ten seconds, flew in formation, then pretended to attack the mother-ship, which responded by pretending to defend itself with anti-aircraft guns. Naval aviation “bared its fighting teeth” that day, proclaimed one article.

Naturally, advance publicity for the 1930 New York Air Show at Madison Square Garden made it sound like a must-see event. Not only would it offer “the largest gathering of transport airplanes ever placed under one roof” – a total of only six planes – there would also be famous people. Readers learned that the show, “. . . will bring out such fliers as Clarence D. Chamberlin, Miss Amelia Earhart, and Frank Hawks.”

Just weeks later, an advertisement in
The
New York Times
reminded the public that May 20, 1930 marked the third anniversary of Charles Lindbergh’s record-breaking flight. The paper praised itself as being “foremost in aviation news.” To justify the distinction it was claiming, the ad noted that it had printed: “. . . the personal narratives of more famous aviators on momentous flights than any other newspaper – Byrd, Wilkins (Point Barrow to Spitzbergen), Fitzmaurice, Chamberlin, Amelia Earhart and others.”

Busy as Putnam kept her, Earhart soon began to notice that he came close to
her idea of a husband. They were constantly in each other’s company, but their dealings mainly centered on her work and his promotion of her books, her lectures, her opportunities, and her connections. He helped her bring out her first book, and then knew he wanted another. As a publisher, he recognized good writing, but, as a promoter, he could also recognize a natural, a crowd pleaser, a show woman who instinctively connected with other people. George Putnam knew better than anyone that Amelia Earhart had all those qualities.

Early in their business dealings, Putnam knew little about Earhart’s private life, especially her relationship with her parents. Few people did. Well aware of her mother’s inability to support herself, Earhart provided for her. Their letters show Earhart’s concern about her mother in case a plane crash might end their arrangement. A letter written early in 1930 records Earhart’s announcement to Amy that the $100 check she was sending was only the first of what would be regular monthly payments from the Fifth Avenue Bank. The letter then specifies that all Earhart’s earnings had been put into stocks and bonds, with the annual interest and dividends distributed in Amy’s name. In passing, she noted that she had taken out accident insurance on herself with Amy as the beneficiary, “in case I pop off.”

As for Earhart’s father, living in California at the time, she soon learned of his worsening health. When he mentioned needing an operation to remove an obstruction in his esophagus, she volunteered to pay his medical expenses. She decided that her father needed her closer, writing to her mother, “Am heading West and will see him there.”

Not long after that, Amy Earhart got the sad news that Edwin’s health was worsening in another letter from Amelia, who reported that near the end of her visit he had been asking about Amy and Amelia’s sister “Pidge.” She also confessed to her mother, “I faked telegrams for him from you all.” Earhart, like others around Edwin, thought he was getting better when she left California; but, hours after her departure, she received word of his death. To her mother, she wrote, “He was an aristocrat as he went – all the weaknesses gone with a little boy’s brown puzzled eyes.”

Disoriented by grief but trying not to let it show, Earhart counted on hard work to absorb her, to distract her from her sadness, as it always had. Now luck brought her the all-consuming project that she needed: an invitation to help build an airline.

Few pilots had more experience than Earhart when it came to preparing for long flights. Now she was joining a few other experts, all men, to create an airline that would make a profit, a feat no existing airline company had accomplished.

The backers were two wealthy Philadelphians, the Ludington brothers, Charles and Nicholas, eager to use their capital and Earhart’s know-how. Also on the team: Paul Collins and Gene Gore, a pilot and enthusiastic believer in aviation.

At this early stage in American aviation, any start-up company had to figure out what to do for infrastructure since there was none. New airlines would have to invent and develop the look and function of airports as places to welcome and assist passengers. For the new company, called NYPWA (New York, Philadelphia and Washington Airways), for instance, travelers bought their tickets at train stations belonging to the Pennsylvania Railroad. Once they had tickets, travelers waited at the train station to be picked up and driven to the airfield.

Year after year, startup airlines continued to lose money. Gradually they noticed that they needed to offer flights at times that travelers found convenient. Then they figured out a powerful guiding principle: Making money required filling every seat on every plane, but flying still made many people nervous.

Businesspeople sometimes took flights, but airlines needed to look beyond business customers, and airline executives hit upon a practical solution: They would convince women to try flying, and, naturally, that effort would have to include Amelia Earhart.

Her executive title was vice president. Other team members had that rank, too, each with a defined focus. Earhart’s role put her in charge of customer service: She was supposed to attract happy customers and deal with unhappy ones. Airline passengers tended to fall into two groups: people who did not know enough about flying and people who knew too much. Many “while knuckled” flyers sat next to former military pilots.

Though willing to admit that he was smitten by Earhart, Putnam never stopped being a publicist. He advised her on which invitations to accept, where she should make an appearance, and how to dress and present herself. When it was time for her to smile for the cameras, Putnam warned her to keep her lips together because her spontaneous grin showed the wide space between her two front teeth. It was a feature that compromised the look he was promoting. Almost without exception, Earhart sealed her smile after having been reminded numerous times.

Though the growing attraction was mutual, Earhart was reluctant to marry. When Putnam proposed marriage in late fall 1930, he knew about Earhart’s hesitation to marry. He had already asked her five times. This time, though, she accepted, but still had some misgivings. Earhart feared that Putnam might have ideas about marriage that differed from her own. In 1931, almost on the eve of their wedding, she wrote Putnam a letter spelling out certain topics they had never talked about: