Hank walked into the Club looking disheveled, like he’d been through something. Dirt on his uniform.

“Oh hi, Boss, what’s up? Where ya been?”

He looked right at me and sorta shouted, “You didn’t tell me about that car.”

I avoided the obvious wise-ass response (You didn’t ask me) and just waited for him to continue.

How did we get here.  Let me back up a few hours…

It’s Friday afternoon at the Air Force Accounting and Finance Center in Denver, Colorado. Circa 1972.

I’m a newly promoted major. I administered the pay accounts of around 300 wives of Air Force POW/MIA during the Vietnam conflict. The most rewarding, entangling job of my 30-year Air Force career.

Col Hank Roth, my boss, came into my office while I was on the phone with one of my clients. He had somewhere to be and didn’t want to interrupt, so he kept it quick. “Don, I need to borrow your car. Mine’s in the shop, and I need to go get something.”

I reached in my pocket and tossed him the keys. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll see you at the Club.” That meant Happy Hour at the Lowry AFB Officers’ Club, around 5PM. The usual camaraderie gathering for about 4-6 of us younger officers with our elder leader. Hell, he was almost 40. We were all 30-ish.

It was about 5:30, and neither Hank nor my car was at the Club yet. We weren’t really watching for him. We were enjoying each other’s company and the cheap Happy Hour booze.

That’s when Hank showed up. Late, dirty, and pissed.

“Why are you dirty, Hank?”

“Well, it was kinda warm, so I turned the AC on.”

Uh oh, I thought. The AC hadn’t worked in months. The compressor was dead.

“It blew dirt on me.”

Of course it did. Flip the switch, and all that fan does is stir up whatever’s been sitting on the floor.

“When I went to park, there’s no ‘Park’ gear and that damn parking brake wouldn’t hold on the hill I was on.  So I had to find a pole and back up to it just to keep the thing from rolling.”

It was a ’61 Plymouth Fury.  Not my typical car.  I was an “Oldsmobile man” for most of my Air Force and family life.  Needed a second car for my longer commute to the new job, and a friend of a friend had one to sell.  I’m about as trusting a shopper as they come, and this car was a “good deal.”  Yeah, the oddities I learned after I already owned it.  The kids loved the car, though.  It was peach and had power windows, which back then was something.  Up and down, up and down.  The kids couldn’t get enough of them.  Now, the manual crank is the novelty, as my granddaughter used to refer to them, “Ooh, your car has those rolly-downy thingies.”

Hank’s epic return continues…

“Then on the way back, I’m at a light, and the car just cuts off.”

Of course it did. That transmission again, I thought.

The Fury had a push-button transmission, a Chrysler novelty already fading out by ’72. If you weren’t around back then, you’ve probably never seen one, and that’s alright.

“I restart it, hit ‘Drive.’ Button just goes in. Doesn’t do a damn thing.”

That’s when he saw the screwdriver and put 2 and 2 together. I kept a Phillips in the compartment between the seats for exactly this.

“So there I am, horns blowing, and I calmly” (yeah, I bet) “unscrew the plate, pop the Drive button back out, and get the thing in gear.”

Then he drove to the Club. Not in a great mood.

By the time he got to the part about the screwdriver, he wasn’t mad anymore. He was laughing. So was I.

Enuf.

This is an “Uh Dad” sequel of sorts. Not the same story, just another one that came to mind.

Phones still rang in those days. No caller ID either. Mid-afternoon, some fall weekend, mid-to-late ’80s. This one’s earlier than the last “Uh, Dad.” Jim was in college, his brother Jeffrey a few years behind him, still in high school.

Phone rang. I answered. “Hello.”

“Uh, Dad—”

Oh s—. Here we go again.

“Uh, Dad. I had a little accident in the car. I’m ok, but I did some damage to the bottom. Jeffrey’s with me. We’re ok, but I need you to come get me. Oh yeah, police are here, and I got a ticket.” (Not sure about that part.)

It was raining. Streets were wet. He’d had to make a turn, going a little too fast for the conditions, and ran the car right over the median.  The car was no longer drivable.

Here’s what I thought. Self-censored a bit. What!! You little #%¥£~%^£. That’s my car. How could you be so careless?

But what I said was, “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Ain’t I cool?

Luckily, the twenty-five-minute drive gave me time to calm down.

When I arrived on scene, I saw the mess. And I saw them. The fear in their eyes, and the great news that they were sort of ok, brought the parent instinct right to the front. Their recollection may differ, but I believe I became comforter-in-chief. Rather than chief punisher.

Now, this is what they told me. Can’t remember who said exactly what.  They were both talking, nervously, of course. Jim had been picking Jeffrey up from football practice, bringing him home. Jeffrey still had his uniform on, helmet in his lap.

I asked how the windshield got cracked.

They told me Jeffrey had his seat belt on, helmet in his lap, and when the car hit the island and the bottom scraped, the impact threw the helmet up into the windshield. No visible injury on Jeffrey, so I believed it.

Wrong.

About forty-five years later, Jeffrey told me that was BS. He wasn’t wearing his seat belt. It wasn’t the helmet that cracked that windshield. It was his head.

Can you imagine the “what ifs” of that situation? Scares the hell outta me to think about it. So I won’t.

I dunno the statute of limitations on lying to your old man, but I wasn’t ready to prosecute… then or now.

Rightly or wrongly, it’s all part of parenthood.

How lucky and blessed we were, as parents. Our kids grew up safely and strongly. All three of ’em wonderful adults and parents themselves now, raising great kids of their own, with all the challenges that go along with that particular journey.

We must’ve done something right.

Enuf.

P.S. I’ve got several other “Uh, Dad” stories I could share, involving Christine or Jeffrey. But this one Jim asked for himself. Now that’s enuf.

A note before we start. This one’s a little different.

Jim, my editor/son, gave me some sage advice about my blog posts. He says he, among others, would like to hear what I thought about events, rather than just reporting on events.

Not sure I can do that, but I’ll give it a shot. I won’t be digging into anybody else’s business here.  It’s theirs to tell, not mine. But my own reaction, in the middle of somebody else’s crisis, that’s fair game. And Jim tells me that might be worth knowing, someday, for the grandkids and great-grandkids. What was going on in the old man’s head.

One quiet evening, for Marjorie and me at Scott AFB, our solace was disturbed by a ringing phone.

I answered it. “Hello.”

It was Jim. His response was a bit hesitant.  “Uh Dad.”

That’s a dreaded preface. Some bad news is coming, and I gotta react to it right, because a bad verbal reaction to a crisis could damage our relationship. I’ve gotten that call more than once over the years. This is one of ’em.

So I thought, “Oh s—. Here goes.” 

“Dad, can you come to the Mascoutah jail and bring $200 in cash to bail me out. I got arrested.”

What I thought but did not say was, “You gotta be f—–g kidding me. Arrested? Never.”

What I said was, “Can I use a credit or debit card?” Again thinking but not saying, “Who the hell has $200 in cash in his wallet?”

He answered, tremble in his voice, “No, it’s gotta be cash or I’ll have to spend the weekend in an East St Louis jail.”

If you know anything about the East St Louis crime situation, you don’t want your 19-year-old son to spend a weekend in that jail.

I answered as any decent dad would. “I’ll be there within the hour.” It was about 30 minutes away, but I had a problem. This was the mid 80’s. No ATMs! Where to get $200?

I became a thief.

At the office we had just had a bake sale to raise money for a Christmas party next month, for our department’s kids. There was about $300 in cash in our possession. I was the boss, you see.

I became a freakin’ embezzler for about 18 hours until I could get to the bank the next day.

Yes. I fleetingly thought, and may have voiced it to my wife, that maybe we oughta let him go to jail for a weekend to learn a lesson. Mayberry RFD, maybe. East St Louis. Never. I woulda borrowed from every Air Force friend I had to keep that from happening.

So, I drove to the Mascoutah jail with $200. Walked in and saw how scared my son was. And also noticed his busted lip and bruises.

Fact was, he was charged with underage drinking. Now, if you don’t think 19-year-old college kids drink beer, I got a bridge to sell ya. The police officer told me that rarely do they go after underage drinking on its own. It’s usually connected with some activity that attracts their attention. In this case, a fight.

My lucky Scooler son was trying to verbally break up the fight. He opened his car window to ask them to stop and was punched in the face.  Apparently, he also got out of the car to do more bruising of the perps knuckles with his face

Yay.

Bottom line. It turned out ok. I bailed him out. Paid some court fees and the charges were dropped.

It was a valuable lesson for a young man and for his dad. I had never actually been in a small-town jailhouse before.

I think my son also knows his dad will pull out all the stops to defend him, as required. Actions speak louder than words, but the wrong words at the wrong time can do irreparable damage.

Enuf.

Every August, I turn into two things I never trained for. A meteorologist and an actuary.

I watch the spaghetti models. I do the math in my head. Is the money and the hassle of evacuating worth the risk of riding it out? Ninety percent of the time, it’s a big nothing burger.

But.

I call it “White Knuckle Season” down here. August and September. Three storms stand out as why.

Cleo. August 29, 1964.

My wedding day.

Hugo. September 21, 1989.

The worst storm Charleston took in my lifetime here.

Floyd. September 16, 1999.

It cost our governor his job, and had me, Marjorie, and our cat Nicole driving to Atlanta for safety. Charleston never even got hit. Didn’t matter. We went anyway.

So why do I stay for this every year?

Because Charleston and I have a history.

September, 1962. The Air Force sent me down to Charleston Air Force Base to navigate C-130s, and later C-141s. Five very full, happy years later, I left the “Holy City” with the love of my life, Marjorie, our daughter Christine, and our son Jim, born March 6, 1967.  Five months later we packed up and moved our young, growing family away from what I’ll forever call my “home town.” 

Thirty years in the Air Force took us all over. But we came home to Charleston for visits and vacations whenever we could, and I got lucky enough to be assigned back to Charleston AFB for my last two years of service. We retired in 1991. Thirty-five years here now.

I don’t plan to ever leave.

Storms and all.

I do stay at the edge of my seat through August and September, though. Real hurricane season, in my book, even though Michael showed up on October 11, 2018, and either proved me wrong or proved the exception to my rule. Rightly or wrongly, I relax a little once October hits, even though the official season doesn’t end until November 30.

The other thing that makes it White Knuckle Season is the news.

The weather people start covering these things while they’re still off the coast of Africa. A week, sometimes more, before they could possibly touch land here. Good news, you get plenty of warning. Bad news, you get to stress out for a week about a storm that, nine times out of ten, never shows up at your door.

Hence. White Knuckles.

So here we are again. August 6. Two months to go.

Four, according to the meteorologists.

Sixty-five years in, and I’d still rather white-knuckle it here than be anywhere else.

Wish us well.

Enuf

I met a couple from Connecticut. He was dressed as something resembling a Scottish Viking (if there is such a person) wearing a helmet, kilt, among other things.

His companion was dressed all in silver and reminded me immediately of the Chrysler Building, my favorite skyscraper.

I smiled. “Are you folks in a show, by any chance?”

“No,” they said. “We just came from a wedding.”

OMG. Can you imagine that wedding party?

Only in New York.

Here, at Rockefeller Center, is considered my happy place.

Marjorie and I always found our way here, on every trip up to the Big Apple. The Today Show at 6:15 AM, if we were ambitious. St. Patrick’s Cathedral, just across Fifth Avenue. Saks. FAO Schwarz. And always, eventually, a bench in the Plaza, looking out at the golden statue of Prometheus and the skating rink, with 30 Rock straight above.

Getting here this trip, with Christine, was its own adventure.

“Walking distance,” they’ll tell you. Six blocks from the Edison Hotel — 47th to 50th (that’s the easy part), then Seventh Avenue to Fifth. What they neglect to mention is that avenues are three times longer than streets in Manhattan. So-called “walking distance” is a relative term. Different for this octogenarian than for me in my 50’s.

Six blocks/26.2 miles. 

Same thing.

We arrived around eleven. Lovely morning. Christine went off to Saks and FAO Schwarz to shop for her grans. I found my bench.

I sat. I watched people.

Within a few minutes, I’d met a couple from Little Rock and a woman from Honduras. Then came the couple from Connecticut.

You already know how that went.

Christine returned a while later carrying an FAO Schwarz bag. Grandma had been busy. We sat a spell, then noticed the taco stand nearby. A fine choice for a light lunch.

Then came the trudge back to the Edison.

Six blocks.

Yes. Rockefeller Center is still my happy place.

Enuf.

The Circle in the Square didn’t feel like most Broadway theaters. The stage sat in the middle, the audience wrapped around it, and that night it felt like the old Copacabana.

Christine and I were there for “Just in Time,” the Bobby Darin musical biography, with Jeremy Jordan exceptional at playing Bobby. Great music and dancing. The whole room was in it.

I remembered Bobby Darin’s music well. He was a great entertainer. His recordings were part of my young adult life, from 1959 all the way to 1973. I knew he died young.

But I would have guessed he was in his fifties.

He was 37.

I didn’t know that until that night.

I also didn’t know how he died. He almost died as a child from rheumatic fever.  He survived, but the fever left him with a faulty heart valve. That valve is what finally took him.

Alone in my room at the Edison Hotel after the show, it hit me.  

My dad, Jerome C. Scooler, had rheumatic fever as a child. It left him with a faulty heart valve. He survived one heart attack.

But a few months later, he succumbed to a second.

He was 39 when he died in 1943.

I was four.

Yes, that was way too close to home.

Enuf.

My daughter and I tried it again, just a few weeks ago. Still an adventure, but some of the fun has dissipated with age.
The deluxe bedroom is the largest sleeper accommodation in Amtrak’s menu. It is , in fact, tiny. In 2003 we fit two adults and a 9-year old in one.
He and I will never forget him in the “deluxe” bathroom banging from wall to wall as the train sped on rather roughly while he was in it. A true adventure.

Let’s talk a minute about the deluxe bathroom and shower. No, it’s a deluxe bathroom shower. The whole enclosed bathroom IS the shower. Better cover the toilet paper. Shower when you get home.

Here are the highs and lows of my latest similar adventure with my daughter.
It started out fine. The beds were ready. That was ok cause it was 11 PM when we boarded the 8:35 train at Charleston. Christine lithely climbed into the top bunk. ( not trusting her ancient, arthritic dad to do it without calling 911). We slept ok, eventually and got up to have a nice breakfast in the dining car and watch DC go by.
Saw a little, but not much. We had fallen a couple hours late due to freight train traffic, which has priority over Amtrak since freights own the track. Hence Amtrak will most probably be late.

The steward said our room would be made up so we could sit in it comfortably when we returned from breakfast in the dining car. NOT.
Our one and only steward could not keep up. Too many beds to make. We didn’t get to sit in our made up compartment until about an hour out of NYC, about 3 hours late. Arrived in NYC at 2:30PM.
That was ok, cause we couldn’t check in to the Edison til 3PM. Worked out fine.

After a great visit to my City, we boarded Amtrak again for our “sayonara” NYC trip home This segment was more comfortable than trip up, but we still encountered a three + hour delay. The ” meantime” on this trip was fun
Since we boarded on time at about 2PM, we enjoyed a wonderful steak dinner in the dining car; with a nice glass or two of red wine. We also met and enjoyed dinner with a great couple, Lynda and Obie.
Because I blab a bunch, I told them about my Scoolerisms Blog. A cool result — Lynda found it, commented on our meeting in the blog and is now a subscriber. How cool is that?

The reasons for our delays were threefold. First a barge ran into a bridge we were to cross between Phillie and Baltimore. We got to sit and wait for inspectors to survey damage and clear us to cross ( or not).
Second, the usual fright train delays, and third, a vehicle was stuck on the track.
The good news about the delay is that the sun was up when we arrived. I got to drive home in daylight. Yay.
I was exhausted. And yes, glad to be home, after quite an adventure. I vowed I’d never do it again. When are we going? LOL Enuf.
.

The show was outstanding. Every performer on that stage earned the standing ovation they got.

I just couldn’t give them a proper one.

At eighty-seven, with a potful of arthritis, standing up after two-plus hours in a cramped theater seat is its own performance. I gotta hold on, with at least one hand, to the seat in front of me, or I’ll fall back into my own. Or worse, between the two rows. Yay.

Which means I can’t clap with the hand that’s left. I had to settle for hollering “Bravo.” Or slapping the seat in front of me.

Not a pleasant discovery. But quite natural, I’m afraid.

That was Hadestown, the Tony winner that’s been packing Broadway for years, and my daughter Christine was the one who got me there.

I learned two things watching that show. First: Hades wasn’t just a place you went, as in “Go to Hades.” He was a dude. God of the Underworld, played in his Broadway debut by Gary Dourdan (he stole the show!).  Christine recognized him instantly as Warrick Brown from CSI. I had no idea who he was. I’m a little ignorant on some things these days.

The second thing I learned was (as you read above) what it sounds like of one hand clapping.

This was my first trip back to New York in a long while. Marjorie and I used to come up regular, always to catch great shows, go to iconic NY restaurants, visit with my cousin Nancy. We did it right.

Then Marjorie’s mobility issues became too much, and that put a stop to it. The subway-shoving stories on the news didn’t help either, if I’m honest. Marjorie’s mobility was the real reason. The news just gave us an excuse.

So it had been a while.

This time, I had Christine.

She was my crutch, the one I hung onto when I felt a bit wobbly.  We stayed close and didn’t need taxis or subways, but with her I could’ve if we really wanted to.  I think I coulda done the e-ticket and e-reservations with the dang apps if needed, but I had her as backup.

That’s the only reason I made it back to this city at all.

I can’t do this city the way I used to. But I can still do it.

Christine made sure of that.

“Bravo!” will have to do.

Enuf.

Happy Birthday, My Love

June 12.

You know what I was doing three days ago, sixty-two years back?

I was in my apartment, right here in Charleston, wearing my loudest Aloha shirt, playing Rachmaninoff on the stereo, and trying to look like a man who didn’t have a ring in his pocket.

You came for steak dinner. I had the Rachmaninoff going. I had the Portuguese Rosé Mateus I’d brought back from the Azores. I had a plan.

What I also had, for the first time since my brother’s lousy stunt at my mother’s funeral, was my mother’s wedding rings back. We’d gone to the Post Office together that morning, you and me. When I had them in my hand, I grabbed you right there and twirled you around. You knew what they were.

I didn’t say a word about what I was planning for that evening.

I don’t think you were too surprised.

We’d been dating “rather steadily” for about a year, as steadily as I could muster, being gone somewhere around the world more than I was home. But whenever I was home, you never turned me down. Good thing. I was lousy at handling rejection.

I considered you “My Girl.”

So that night: steak, Rachmaninoff, Mateus rosé. I got down on one knee and popped the question.

You said “yes!”

Thus began a wonderful journey. Over 61 years with you as My Girl. Uncle Sam dragged us all over the map in those years, and you never complained, not once, even when it meant leaving the place you loved. But we always came back to Charleston. Your Happy Place.

Ergo, MY happy place… and I never plan to leave.

But Dear God, I miss you so much.

You left ahead of me in October. Went to your joyful resting place without me. I pray I’ll join you when it’s time. My plan is to follow the lead of your cousin Bea — 102 years old, went out to play Bridge, won, came home, went to sleep, and didn’t wake up.

That’s the goal.

In the meantime, Sweetheart —

Happy Birthday.

I love you. 

Don

Enuf.

There’s a list I carry in my head.

People I’ve seen. People I’ve touched. People I watched on a stage and never forgot. A New York kid who ended up in uniform for thirty years gets lucky that way. Lucky enough, anyway, to have run into some of the best.

If I’ve mentioned any of them before, bear with me.

* * *

Al Jolson — 1948

He was billed as “the World’s Greatest Entertainer,” and even a nine-year-old boy in Flushing had heard of Al Jolson. You couldn’t miss him. His voice was unmistakable. His movies were everywhere.

But in every one of those movies, he wore blackface.

So when the announcer at Loew’s Prospect Movie Theater hollered “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Al Jolson!”and a white man walked out…

Wait, wha? He’s white!!

I was only in the early February of my life. I had genuinely believed he was a negro. That was the proper term in Flushing, 1948.

His singing voice was one of a kind and wonderful. The show was great. I was enthralled.

And still confused.

* * *

Bobby Thomson — 1953

I was a die-hard Yankee fan, which made this more complicated.

My Uncle Dan (not really my uncle) took me and my friend Johnny to the Polo Grounds to see the Giants. Bobby Thomson was their star outfielder. Two years earlier, he’d hit the Shot Heard Round the World, the three-run homer that won the 1951 National League Pennant against the Dodgers.

After the game, Johnny and I waited by the locker room door. We spotted Bobby. He spotted us and started moving fast toward his car.

We ran after him, shouting his name.

Johnny stumbled. Scraped his knee. The chase was over.

And then Bobby stopped. Turned around. Came back. Helped Johnny up.

And gave us both an autograph.

* * *

Surprise — September 1964

Marjorie and I had been married exactly three days.

We were on our way to two weeks in New York City, with a stop in Washington, DC. Walking past the National Theater, we noticed a matinee about to start. Tickets available. Great orchestra seats. Cheap.

We went in.

The show was a preview. We watched it and wondered to each other whether it might be a hit on Broadway.

It was Fiddler on the Roof. Starring the great Zero Mostel. On a spontaneous whim, three days into our marriage, we saw the original Fiddler.

Of course it became a monstrous classic.

What a surprise!!

* * *

Barbra — Same Honeymoon, Different City

We saw ten Broadway shows in fourteen days. One of them was the mega hit Funny Girl, starring the mega star Barbra Streisand.

I had been a super fan even before getting married. Had all three of her LPs. Marjorie had loved her before I even told her about her.

Her performance in Funny Girl.

Absolutely unforgettable.

* * *

Johnny Mathis — The Copa

Yep. Same honeymoon.

The Copacabana. Most famous nightclub in New York City. Maybe the world. Golly, I was naive. I thought having a reservation meant we were all set.

Then I noticed the people ahead of me slipping something into the maître d’s hand.

Of course, it was $$.

So you want a decent table, reservation or not, have cash ready for tipping/bribing. Believe it or not, we got a decent table. Johnny sang a bunch, didn’t talk much (that wasn’t his thing), and we loved it.

We went back decades later, saw him again at Myrtle Beach in the ’80s.

Still great.

* * *

Sammy — 1981

He was the only headliner in Las Vegas advertised on the Sands famous giant hotel billboard with just one name.

Sammy. That was enough.

Of course, it was the great entertainer, singer, dancer, comic, actor Sammy Davis Jr. He put on the most entertaining one-man show that Marjorie and I ever witnessed. A one-of-a-kind talent and the only member of the Rat Pack I ever had the privilege to see in person. Never got to see Sinatra, Dean Martin, Peter Lawford, or Joey Bishop.

He died way too young, at 64, in 1990. Smoked too much. Lived too hard.

But happily, Marjorie and I got to see him in his glory.

* * *

Presidents Nixon and Carter

In early 1973, I was at a podium in the Statler-Hilton in Washington, briefing families on what to expect when our Vietnam POWs came home. Medical care, finances, the whole process. We were expecting Dr. Henry Kissinger, Secretary of State.

What we got was better.

I heard Hail to the Chief over the loudspeaker and stepped aside fast.

President Nixon walked to the podium and said, modestly, “I know you were expecting Henry, but I hope I can step in for him.”

Standing ovation. He’d ended that stupid war. Our POWs were on the way home.

President Carter was different. Around 1978, at Pope Air Force Base, adjacent to Fort Bragg, NC, home of the 82nd Airborne Division and the great Green Berets, he made a pass-through visit on his way to somewhere in Florida. He wasn’t very popular among military folks, but he was our Commander-in-Chief, and my boss asked (ordered) me to bring some of my people to the flight line to greet him.

I brought my seven-year-old son Jeffrey.

President Carter walked by with Rosalyn. She looked at Jeffrey and said, very graciously, “Oh, what a cute little boy.”

Jeffrey and I never forgot that wonderful honor.

* * *

Reagan and Bob Hope — Same Stage, 1985

Believe it or not, they were on the same stage together.

At a major Army-Air Force training exercise at Fort Bragg/Pope AFB, there they were. President Ronald Reagan and the one and only Bob Hope, a fantastic supporter of those serving our country in uniform and one of the greatest comedians ever.

Their good-natured banter about their respective ages was easy, warm, and genuinely funny. Reagan was beloved by the military. And there will never be another Bob Hope, not for those of us who served.

I had the honor to be in that audience.

Not bad for a geezer from Flushing.

Jolson. Thomson. Zero Mostel. Barbra. Sammy. Two presidents and Bob Hope.

Unforgettable.

Enuf.