A Brother Lost, PSA Flight 182

Nick Molinaro
First published at nmolinaropost.com
2009

2009 Nick Molinaro

 A Brother Lost, PSA Flight 182

Another Business Flight

Pacific Southwest Airlines Flight 182 collided with a private plane while
approaching the San Diego, California airport on September 25, 1978. No one
survived that collision. There were 135 people onboard the PSA jet. The two men
aboard the private plane died, as did seven people on the ground in a San Diego
neighborhood.
Among the PSA passengers killed was my big brother, Sam Molinaro, Jr. He had
just turned 39 years of age and had a happy marriage to Barbara with one child,
Stephanie. He liked his job, and by all accounts was at the happiest, most serene
part of his short life.
Coincidentally, our mother, who lived in northern California, was visiting and
staying at his home in El Segundo, California on the day of the crash. He had a
previous business commitment in San Diego, which he could not easily change,
so he planned to fly down in the morning and return that evening. My sister,
Sarah, brother-in-law, Bob, and niece, Michelle, were also visiting from the San
Francisco Bay area. They had flown down with my mother and were staying at
the home of Bob’s sister in a nearby town. I lived some distance away in Laguna
Niguel, California and had just seen everyone over the weekend.

The Phone Call

It was Monday morning. I was having my weekly telephone conferences at home
with each of the eight sales reps that reported to me. The San Diego rep, Lou
Pullo, was on the line with me.
“Nick, did you hear about the plane crash in San Diego?” he said. “It was just a
couple of hours ago. A commercial jet went down short of the runway in a
neighborhood. I’m going over to the Blood Bank (one of our biggest customers at
the time) later to see if they need any help.”
“Oh, man,” I said. “That’s terrible. I had not heard that.”
We talked some more about Lou’s activity in his territory and I had taken note of
the essential issues that Lou had recounted for me. We made some plans for a
joint sales call on a customer.
I heard a signal through the phone, like an alert.
“This is your Pacific Bell telephone operator. I have an emergency call for Nick
Molinaro. Will you release the line to take the call?” a voice said.
“Lou, I guess I have to go. Yes, Operator, I’ll take the call.”
It was from a subordinate of my brother’s, someone I had met once. I can’t
remember his name now. I only remember that he was pleasant, had a good
sense of humor, my brother liked him, and he was a paraplegic. He managed
some aspect of the hydraulic pump business of which Sam was General
Manager.

2
 A Brother Lost, PSA Flight 182

“Nick, it’s (name). There was a plane crash in San Diego this morning. I’m sorry
to tell you that we are certain that Sam was on it, and the news just stated that
there were no survivors,” he said.
“Nick? Nick?” he repeated.
I was not in shock. I had not blanked out. My mind was in a sharp focus and I lost
track of the caller for a few seconds while my mind readied my body for action. I
considered my first steps in dealing with this. I had to take action on behalf of my
family.
’What do I need to do first? They may not know as much as I do, or they may
know more. What do I have to do to protect them, to make this horrible thing as
endurable for them as I can make it?’
“Nick, are you OK?” the voice said.
The voice had replaced the person. I had a connection via telephone to a person
from my brother’s office, but he had now become just a voice to me. I was
focusing on planning my action steps now and not able to fully connect to
another human.
“Yes, sorry. Have you been in contact with Barbara?” I asked.
“We’ve been trying all morning, but their line has been busy, and I didn’t think I
should ask the operator to break through on her. I thought it would be better to
contact you first,” the voice said.
This was before call waiting and cell phones.
I don’t remember how we ended that call. I’m sure we said something like
“thanks” and “sorry”. Since it would be futile to try to reach Barbara by phone just
then, I prepared to drive to El Segundo immediately, about one hour away. In
addition, since I just heard that Barbara’s line had been busy all morning, I was
sure she knew about it. I wondered if my mother knew.

Plan and Execute

I wanted to ensure that I would remain calm for the mission I had ahead of me. I
thought aspirin would have a calming effect, so I took three. I gathered some
essential toiletries, thinking I might have to spend the night in El Segundo.
Cognizant that I would not be home as usual on a Monday afternoon to care for
my two girls after school, I went to a stay-at-home mom neighbor whose
daughter was a good friend to my girls and went to the same school. I told her
what had just happened and asked her to keep the girls until my wife got home
from work. She readily agreed and teared up a bit. She was not a voice; she was
our friend, we were face to face, and she hurt for us. I soothed her as best I could
and made myself act business like, all business. I got into got-to-hurry-now
business mode.
At this moment, I did not allow room for grief or tears for my brother.

3
 A Brother Lost, PSA Flight 182

’Get busy, plan, execute. Mother, Barbara, Stephanie, Sarah: So many here now
to protect, to do for.’
’Enough gas in the car?’ I thought.

’Yes, fortunately,’ I saw.

I got on the San Diego freeway heading north.

’Go fast, but not too fast. Act with a sense of purpose, with urgency but not panic.
Think, plan, execute. Turn yourself into a machine. Do it.’
As I turned the corner near Sam’s house, I saw the cars gathered in front.
’It’s true, then, and Barbara knows it. Since Mother is there, she knows as well.
‘Focus now.’
I parked some distance away and began the walk to their door. I saw Barbara’s
mother, Sarah Crooks, walking up from the opposite direction in her starched,
white nurse’s uniform. Barbara’s mother and sister, Enid, both lived separately
nearby. Mrs. Crooks was still some distance away, so I did not acknowledge her
then, but I thought of how helpful it could be to have her here to help with my
mother, who either had fainted or would faint presently, I was certain.
As I neared Sam and Barb’s lawn, I saw a mutual friend, Ray Sanchez, leaning
against a car in the driveway. Ordinarily, Ray would be at work, but he was here.
“Is it true?” I asked him.
He had folded his arms in front of him, his head drooped, and he looked pale. He
only nodded sadly looking down.
I walked up the steps, opened the door, and went in.
’Stay calm. There are things you must do here. Find Barbara first.’
She sat on the couch. Surrounding her were two or three friends, young women
we knew, mutual friends from high school and work. They had each left whatever
they were doing to be here. There was some muffled reaction when our friends
saw me. I don’t remember anything specific. I don’t remember exactly who was
there, but they were our friends, and they were helping.
“Oh, Nicky,” Barbara said as she moved quickly from the couch to embrace me.
She cried. My throat constricted and my chest heaved, but I fought it. I allowed
myself a moment, but I held it all in.
“I am so sorry,” I said.

I eased Barbara back to her seat on the couch.

“Where’s my mom?” I asked.

Barbara and a friend said “bedroom” and nodded toward the hallway.

4
 A Brother Lost, PSA Flight 182

I worked at retaining my forced level of calm. Dealing with my mother would be

the most difficult, and that filled me with dread. I needed to get through this one
to be able to function further. I took about two or three calming breaths and
headed toward the guest bedroom.
Mother was face down on the bed, hands covering her head as though she had
just sustained a beating. I took a second, strengthened my resolve, and moved to
the side of the bed.
Hand on her shoulder, I said, “Mom.”
She would not raise up her head. She seemed to bury it deeper into the bed and
tightened her arms around it as though to protect herself.
“Mom,” I said.
She emitted a sort of muffled cry. I lightly rubbed her shoulder just briefly.
“It’s Nicky, Mom. I’m here.”
She made some barely audible, non-literate sound of hurt, but she would not look
up at me. It was as though her entire body was transmitting the deepest hurt
imaginable. I had never witnessed hurt such as that, not as deep and complete
as that. The sound carried the extreme hurt and served as her acknowledgement
that she knew I was there. That was all she could manage, and I understood.
There would be nothing more for now.
I left her there and walked out of the guest bedroom and down the hall back to
the living room. Barbara’s sister, Enid, who was also my dear friend from my
school days, was handling the phone, which rang in succession with friends
wanting to know if it was true.
’How did they all know he was or might have been on that plane? How did they
know to call the house on a day when they would normally both be at work?’
Sam and Barbara had remained in our hometown after high school and after their
marriage and had a tight, large circle of good friends. I was so glad that Enid was
in charge of the phone operation. She handled it beautifully, giving just the
necessary information considerately, dispatching the caller quickly to keep the
line clear for the PSA representative, and shielding Barbara.
“Any confirmation, yet?” I asked Enid between calls.
“No, nothing yet,” she said. “When I called, they said they could not release any
names from the manifest until cleared by the FAA.”
“Barbara, do Sarah and Bob know, yet?” I asked.

“No, they are at Beebe’s house,” she said.

“Do you have that number?” I asked.

It appeared from somewhere. I think a friend had it ready for me. I was grateful
that someone else had thought ahead, and I would not have to search for it.

5
 A Brother Lost, PSA Flight 182

I called Beebe’s house and asked for Bob.

“Yes, Nicky,” Bob said through the phone. This was my brother-in-law, not a
voice. His tone was one of concern because it would be unusual for me to track
him down at his sister’s house.
“Bob, there was a plane crash in San Diego,” I said. “We are certain that Sammy
was on it.”
We both paused.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“The flight numbers match,” I said.

“OK,” he said. He knew that Sam had a day trip to San Diego that day.
“OK, we’ll leave right away. Are you with your mother?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m here with Mother and Barbara. Stephanie is still in school,” I said.
“OK,” he said.

We both paused again but could say nothing.

“OK,” he said again.

The Confirmation

I believe only a short time passed before the airline called with confirmation that
Sam’s name was on the manifest and, therefore, there was a high probability that
he had boarded that flight. Sarah and Bob had not arrived yet. My mother
remained in the guest bedroom in roughly the same position. I had checked on
her a few times, but had not attempted to talk to her. I think she knew when I
opened the door each time, but she would not look up. She did not make another
sound when I looked in. Each time, I made sure that she was breathing and
backed out to the hallway. She had taken the first blow; she knew the second
blow was on the way. I am sure of that.
It was early afternoon, I think. Enid answered the phone again. The room went
silent, as it had with each call.
“I’m her sister,” she said as she stiffened noticeably on the chair. One of the girls
made a sound, an intake of breath, I think. After some silence, Enid said, “Thank
you.” She put the receiver down.
She looked at me, nodded, and sobbed. Then three or four of us, me included,
sobbed. I stood, shoulders heaving, choking and sobbing as hard as I ever had. I
could feel movement from the others around me. They all converged on Barbara.
I stood there sobbing, unable to comfort my sister-in-law, failing at my primary

6
 A Brother Lost, PSA Flight 182

mission. After a few moments, a path cleared, as if by unspoken agreement

among the friends, and Barbara and I embraced again. Perhaps I had not
completely failed.
I tried to return to my think-plan-execute mode, knowing that I had to go down
that hallway to my mother for what I knew would be the worst moment of my life.
It has remained the worst moment of my life for the three decades that have
elapsed since the event.
Mother exploded off the bed shrieking and flailing her arms as if she were on fire.
She slipped out of my arms as I tried to hold her. We both were on the floor and
she banged her head against the wooden bed frame twice before I could stop
her. I didn’t think I could restrain her without hurting her, so I just put my arms
between the bed frame and her head as she thrashed around. Nothing in my life
ever matched the ache I felt for her then, not even when she died many years
later.
Mrs. Crooks came into the room. She went to us and put her hands on Mother’s
shoulders.
“Babe,” she said. “You’ve got to stop, Dear. You’ve got to stop now.”
Nurse Crooks took charge at that point and calmed my mother, as I could not. I
backed away and left the room as Mrs. Crooks held my mother and she calmed
down. I had another failure of my primary mission. I felt the start of nausea, but I
pushed it to the background. I forced my legs to move.
’There are still things you have to do. Get it together. Take charge of something.’
I wondered about this part of it from time to time over the years:
’How is it that Mrs. Crooks could calm my mother, yet I, her son, could not?’
I have concluded that, in this case, mother and son were too close to calm each
other. Mother would have to fight against my attempts to comfort her until she
had vented her rage and grief extensively. It took a dear friend, but still someone
outside the circle of family blood to calm her, a woman near her own age.
Perhaps, the greater distance afforded the best result here. I have remained
deeply grateful to Mrs. Crooks for her presence and intervention at that point.

Family Converges
Sarah and Bob arrived. Michelle was not with them. Sister was leaning against
Bob. Pale and trembling, she embraced Barbara. I don’t remember what anyone
said right then.
“Where is Mother?” Sarah finally asked.
“Guest bedroom,” someone said, maybe me. I don’t remember. Sarah made her
way down the hall. By then Mother would have vented some of her rage. Mrs.
Crooks and Bob could handle this one without me.

7
 A Brother Lost, PSA Flight 182

Some time later, after the memorial service and the wake, after Sarah and Bob
took Mother back home to northern California. I stopped by to see Barbara at her
house while working in the Los Angeles area.
“Nothing, yet?” I asked. I had been trying to help Barbara with some of the
technical issues that face a surviving widow. Barbara was very competent. I am
sure she did not really need my help, but I believe she felt it would be good
therapy for me to feel as though I were doing something productive.
There had been no confirmation from the Medical Examiner in San Diego.
Remains were scattered. Identifying them was a large, complicated, pain-staking
operation. We could be waiting weeks. It was stressful. We needed closure: Get
a death certificate. Bury something. Get Social Security survivor benefits for
Stephanie. Change deeds and other documents. Life insurance. Everything
waited for the Medical Examiner.
“No, nothing yet.” she responded.

A Desperate Act
I left heading south to Laguna Niguel. I wanted to close this out. I approached my
turnoff near home and consciously passed it by heading for San Diego. When I
got to the Medical Examiner’s building, I saw the refrigerated trailers and
temporary structures surrounding the isolated main building. Generators were
humming. People were moving about purposefully, carrying clipboards, folders,
and various papers between the structures and trailers.
I entered the plain, white, cinder block main building and explained to the
receptionist that my brother had been on that plane and I wanted to see if I could
do anything to expedite the identification so that we could get the death
certificate. She was very considerate and understanding.
“If you’ll take a seat over there, I’ll get someone out here to speak to you,” she
said kindly.
I waited a few minutes and saw a man about fifty years of age approach me. He
introduced himself. I have forgotten his name. His demeanor was sympathetic
and patient. He projected a willingness to help. I told him that my sister-in-law
was struggling with the details of this and the family needed closure.
“Is there anything I can do to expedite this process?” I asked.
“I know this is hard for you and your family,” he said. “We are moving through this
process as fast as possible. I’m afraid it could take as much as two or three
weeks or longer before we can give you a confirmation and direct the issuance of
a death certificate. I wish I could help you more today.”
I have no doubt about this good man’s sincerity. I believed he wanted to help.
“I would be willing to view what you have of his remains, if it would help,” I said.
He looked at a folder or a clipboard.

8
 A Brother Lost, PSA Flight 182

“We’re talking about Samuel Anthony Molinaro, Jr.?” he asked, still looking at his
paperwork.
“Yes,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “There is not enough for you to view for a conclusive
identification. I think we are close on this one, though. We have others that will
really take a long time. We might be able to close out your brother’s case in a
week or so, based on what we have so far and what we might turn up.”
“I appreciate your sharing this much information with me,” I said. “I really do, but I
want to assure you I can deal with whatever the situation is. I won’t come apart,
really.”
We looked at each other briefly and directly. He looked back at his paperwork
and flipped to one of the pages.
“Look, I should not do this, but there is one item I could show you,” he said. “It
would not be conclusive, but it might edge the M.E. to a bit more confidence in
calling this one. Come with me.”
We walked through a couple of rooms. One of them had a huge aerial
photograph of the crash scene with multi-colored identity markers. There were
gruesome photos all over the walls with brief narratives or short descriptions or
just a word. This office was categorizing body parts, articles of clothing, purses,
wallets, and various passenger possessions. There were gurneys with bodies
pending processing. These, he told me, were not from the crash.
We walked up to a door with a frosted glass insert, the old-fashioned kind.
“Give me just a minute,” he said as he went through the door and left me
standing there. In just a few minutes, he returned carrying a small manila
envelope with a flap on it. He removed a small remnant of the bottom part of a tie
and showed it to me.
“I need you to be perfectly, completely honest with me,” he said. “Falsely
identifying any portion of these things is seriously wrong. It could lead to the miss
identifying of some other victim. Can you tell me for sure if this is the tie your
brother wore that day?”
Although I was tempted, I would not do it.
“I have no idea what tie he wore that day,” I said. “This looks like it could be one
of his.”
We looked directly at each other for a second or two. He frowned slightly.
“This could be really bad for me,” he said. “Take this to your sister-in-law and
show it to her. Bring it back here and tell me what she said, exactly what she
said. Deal only with me. Don’t let anyone from this office know you have this.”
Gratitude oozed from my pores.

9
 A Brother Lost, PSA Flight 182

Next day, as soon as I pulled the tie out of the envelope, Barbara nodded her
head and confirmed that it was Sam’s tie and he had worn it that day. We were
done. I drove back to San Diego, returned the tie and thanked the man profusely.
“OK,” he said. “I think this will help. I’ll talk to the M.E. and call you when he
makes his decision.”
He called me the next day and said the Medical Examiner would turn over Sam’s
remains to Sam Douglass from Douglass Mortuary in El Segundo. I could make
all arrangements through the mortuary. The death certificate would be ready and
recorded the next day.

The Remains
Barbara had the death certificate and was able to complete the necessary steps.
We were not in a hurry now and not anxious any longer. After a couple of weeks,
I contacted Sam Douglass and retrieved my brother’s cremated remains in a
shallow ten or twelve-inch cardboard box. It was plain and white and seemed
sufficiently dignified for the purpose, really. The Douglass family had owned the
business for many years. Mr. Douglass had watched both Sam and me play high
school football and supported the team as a “Booster”. I had sat next to him at a
football banquet one year. We had talked amiably during the lunch. We waved
when we passed each other on the street. Mr. Douglass had watched my brother
grow up and now was handing me his remains, which he had recently cremated.
Such is small town life.
I stopped by Barbara’s house. She thanked me for what I was about to do, and I
started my drive to Mammoth Mountain, California where they had a condo. Sam
had taken up skiing in his mid-thirties and loved the place. It was about a six-hour
drive, I think. He and I had skied together up there a few times and always had a
great time. He would have gone every weekend, if possible.
I arrived at the condo in the evening, put the box on a table and left to eat at a
favorite little place of ours in the village. I hoped I would not encounter any of the
people Sam had come to know up there who might remember me from previous
trips. I didn’t.
I returned to the condo and sat in a chair opposite the box. I don’t know if it is
possible to sit and not think for any extended period, to lose awareness of
everything but an object or two, but I believe that is what I did. In the morning, I
scattered a portion of Sam’s ashes around the condo and then at various,
significant spots in the area, including a slope that required a rather considerable
hike. Since no one arrested me, I believed that I had accomplished this mission
undetected. I drove home to Laguna Niguel. I don’t know what I did with the box.

Sam Set His Mind To It

I would occasionally check in on Barbara who, although deeply grieving, was
handling things in her very strong, capable manner. After some time, we began
recounting some of the funny aspects of life with Sam. He would become very

10
 A Brother Lost, PSA Flight 182

committed to certain things. He would focus on them and work with a passion
and absorption toward mastery of whatever challenge they presented.
He was shorter than I was but outweighed me by about forty pounds. He had
been a football and track star and my absolute favorite athlete. He held some
records for a time as a high school sprinter and hurdler.
He did have a weight problem as he got older though, and it began to bother him.
He took up distance running and changed his entire outlook on food: No more
late night consumption of pints of ice cream, no candy ever, no soft drinks,
nothing but salads with lemon juice and no oil. It seemed awful to me.
“You are getting good results from that diet, aren’t you, Sam?” a friend observed
one night.
“It’s not a diet; it’s a change of life,” he responded.
About three months into the changed life, and having dropped down to about 160
lbs. on a 5’ 7” frame, someone asked about the running:
“Now that you are over the startup hump and you do it so much, you must have
come to like it,” someone commented.
“I hate every step of it. I hate the thought of it. I hate everything about this kind of
running. I would rather have root canal work than do this running,” he said. “But I
make myself do it every goddamn night.”
One day, I stopped by Barbara’s house. She had just given Sam’s old clothes to
some charity. We had previously observed that, although Sam had remained
quite disciplined about the running and the dietary intake/change of life regimen,
he had regained about ten of the forty pounds he had lost. We didn’t know why.
He still looked great, and we were all still pleased with his accomplishment and
proud of him for his commitment.
“Nicky, I was going through the pockets of Sammy’s ski parka,” she said
laughingly, and then actually laughed hard enough to require a pause in what
she was telling me. I started laughing with her, not knowing why.
“I found at least a dozen candy, chip, and junk food wrappers,” she said.
We laughed ’till we cried and then laughed some more.
“Well, good for him,” she said. “At least he got to enjoy a few snacks before his
’changed life’ ended.”

11