The fog hung over the airport, in fact all of San Diego Bay was socked in. Visibility for takeoff or landing was zero.

It was 1967, and I was commuting to my stewardess job in Los Angeles from San Diego. I needed to arrive at American Airlines LAX operations before 0700 to work the first morning flight to New York City. That foggy evening, I was a ticketed passenger despite wearing my stewardess uniform.

As I stood at the end of the check-in line, I heard laughter at the counter ahead. Then I saw him. Jonathon Winters, the world-class comedian, had just checked in, received his seat assignment, and left them laughing. As I watched him walk away, I wondered what flight he was on and what it would be like to talk to him. Little did I imagine the evening ahead.

The agent handed me my ticket envelope, seat 3C, first class. If a flight wasn’t full, the agents often bumped me up from coach.

When I boarded, Jonathon Winters was seated by the window in seat 3D! He looked up as I stopped at row 3. “I don’t think I need anything right now,” he said, assuming I was working the flight.

“Oh, Mr. Winters, I am a passenger on this flight and this is my seat assignment. If you would rather be alone, I can move.”

He grinned, reached over, and patted the seat, “You sit right down here, girly girl. We need to talk.”

I was stunned, but I laughed at his “girly girI” and sat down. We talked for the next five hours.

Due to the fog, we sat on the plane in San Diego for a few hours before takeoff. The working crew served beverages and snacks.

For some reason, we hit it off. He was open, easy, comfortable. We laughed at the same things, but in between all the chuckles, we waded into some serious subjects. When he learned I was a newlywed, we talked at length about marriage. He adored his wife Eileen, and said he wouldn’t be anyone without her. She pushed him to take different job offers and try new opportunities. “She really believed in me – and even more surprisingly, she still does.” I asked him why he would say that, because she obviously loved him. He settled back in his seat and let his hair down.

“I have problems. I am bi-polar.” He went on to explain the wild personality swings, the ups and downs, the manic energy and utter exhaustion. I was in my mid-20’s and didn’t know anything about the difficult condition he was talking about. “I’ve been in the looney bin twice,” he explained. “I was there because I needed to be, and Eileen was right there, waiting for me, loving me, bringing me back home. We married the month after we met and she is the best thing that ever happened to me. She has put up with the booze too. But that’s better now.”

I was stunned that this famous man was talking to me so intimately about his life. And yet, he tossed funny little one-liners into the conversation to keep the laughter going.

He was a young marine during WWII, and my newlywed husband was a navy pilot. We talked about the military at length – its purpose, its history in our country. He loved history and was exceedingly well-read. I asked a lot of questions. We agreed on most things, then realized it was because we both came from traditional values – which launched us into a conversation about the importance of the American family unit.

Amazingly, he didn’t make our chat all about himself. He was both an inquisitive and generous conversationalist. He was a painter and a writer. He had been to college, then art school, and spent a lot of his “sanity” time at his easel. I learned later that he was highly regarded in the contemporary art world.

When we finally landed in Los Angeles, we were talking about education. It was well after midnight, and we laughed that we hadn’t stopped talking for over five hours. As we walked into the terminal together, he was very courtly. I said that I couldn’t believe all the subjects we had covered. “Miss Marcy, this was my pleasure,” he said, as he held his arms out to me for a goodbye hug.

Jonathon Winters died in 2013, four years after his beloved Eileen, a marriage of 61 years. The fog that night created a gift for me, the warm memory of a man, a legendary life, and an evening that I still treasure.