This post is part of a series on some of the most memorable companies that have disappeared.

The story of Trans World Airlines is the story of American capitalism in the 20th century. Founded by aviation pioneers and scrappy entrepreneurs, TWA became one of the largest and most successful airlines in the world. It racked up numerous awards and distinctions and created a devoted base of customers and employees. Along the way, it also displayed the twisted corporate history typical of capitalism American-style, with plenty of buyouts and mergers and awkward transitions. Finally, it ended up the victim of vulture capitalists, who picked it clean and sold its carcass to a competitor. All in all, a heckuva ride.

The company got its official beginning in 1930, when Transcontinental Air Transport and Western Air Express merged to form Transcontinental & Western Air (T&WA). The merger was driven by one of the great motivators in American free market capitalism: the pursuit of lucrative government contracts. In this case, the contracts were for airmail transport and the new airline was soon rolling in federal dough, though not for long. The great Air Mail Scandal of 1934 brought an end to that arrangement and the airlines split up, although the name lived on.

From 1930 forward, TWA experienced some dramatic ups and downs. After a TWA crash killed Notre Dame coach Knute Rockne in 1931, the airline nearly went out of business. It survived though and went on to pioneer the use of many of the great aircraft of the 20th century, including the first (and only) DC-1, the Boeing Stratoliner, and the Lockheed Constellation. TWA also built some beautiful buildings, including the famous terminal at JFK in New York designed by Eero Saarinen. And TWA gained some noteworthy owners and managers along the way, most famously the reclusive though aircraft obsessed Howard Hughes, who lost control of the airline when his effort to upgrade to jets in the 1950s hit some financial turbulence.

I have reposted here my experience on Sept. 11, 2001, archived at http://911digitalarchive.org/parser.php?object_id=19929.

That morning my boyfriend, a NYPD officer, dropped me off at work at P.S.11 (on West 21st Street), where I was an assistant teacher at the time. Shortly after my students got to their classroom, while I left to retrieve something from another floor, another staff member told me a plane had crashed. On my way back to my classroom, someone said, "You need to turn on the T.V." I heard someone else say "The World Trade Center is gone." I went upstairs and shared the news with the other teachers in my room.

I left the room again to call my boyfriend since no one's cell phone was working. He was awaiting my call desperately, as he was being called in to duty. He told me we were in a state of emergency, and that I should try to make it to my mother's place in Spanish Harlem and not come home. He promised to call me. I told him I was to remain at school until all the parents came and that my kids were still unaware of the news. Parents began streaming in, tears falling from their eyes as they tightly hugged their small children and took them home. The children in my special education class sensed our anxiety and sadness and began to ply us with questions. What was happening? Why were the parents coming so early? Was it a half-day? I simply said the train was out of service, which was true, because I didn't want to frighten the kids.

On September 10, 2001 I remember distinctly meeting a friend for coffee and discussing my feeling that something big was about to happen. Little did I realize what that big thing would be.

When the first plane struck the World Trade Center I was in my office and my wife called to suggest I check out on the Internet what was happening . My usual news source then, MSNBC.com, was overloaded with traffic and it was hard to find out what was happening.

I e-mailed a colleague who I had not spoken with in a while. I knew his office had been in the World Trade Center. And I remember when I hit the send button that I was afraid I would never hear from him. Fortunately, his organization had moved across the Hudson into New Jersey in May. He was fine.