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

Why am I sitting on the grass near the driveway of our rented beach house?

Why is my leg partially, and dangerously, under my grandson’s pickup truck?

Why is he looking for me, like he can’t see me? Why is he not hearing me when I’m shouting, “Don’t move the truck!!!”

Luckily, he didn’t back up over me.

The last time I fell on my butt was about 40 years ago. Marjorie and I were celebrating Christmas in NYC. Nasty, icy weather. I slipped on ice on 49th Street and Sixth Avenue, right in the middle of a busy street. I was back up in almost one motion. My main concern was, “Did anybody see me fall?”

That was then.

Now, falling is extremely dangerous for me. And I don’t move nearly that fast.

So. Back to the driveway.

I was heading to Josh’s truck to go get some Dukes BBQ from my house downtown. Got tangled up with a cement post, 2-3 feet tall, near the truck. Fell on my ass.

(Actually, I just involuntarily sat down.)

That was the first lucky part. I was on grass, not pavement. On my butt, not my face, elbow, hip, or shoulder.

No injury, except a scrape behind my knee, where I tangled with the post.

God only knows what would have happened had Josh quickly backed up that truck. Ouch.

He didn’t move the truck. That was my second stroke of luck.

‘Tis a compelling dilemma we seniors face. We want to stay mobile as long as possible, but that’s not without serious risk.

Safer to stay in the recliner all day?

Really?

Not without a bigger risk of muscle, bone, and brain atrophy.

This old man from the low country attic is gonna stay mobile as long as he can. A cane, or even a rollator/walker, are probably in the near future. Not great. But better than wasting away in a giant comfy recliner.

In the meantime, I’ve etched Rule #1 indelibly into my somewhat weakened brain.

Do Not Fall.

Easier said than done.

Sometimes a post jumps out and bites you.

Enuf.

Well, how ’bout a freakin’ garbage disposal that clogs up and backs water up in the adjacent sink. Ergo. Can’t use the dishwasher. Sheeit.

Beach week is over. Time to recover from a relaxing week with the family. Funny how that works.

Last story, it was the elevator breaking on the way out the door. Fixed while we were away. Home now, and it’s the disposal’s turn.

Josh, Cierra, and the great-grans back in Illinois with lotsa my stuff, given with my blessing. Christine back to work as usual. Works too hard. Mary Louise with me til Monday mornin, then back to Virginia via Amtrak. Hopefully a comfortable, on time trip.

With me til Monday. What other mischief could possibly happen?

Turns out, plenty. That clogged disposal was still backing up into the sink, and I’ve learned my lesson. No sink, no dishwasher, til this thing’s sorted. Don’t need a call from downstairs about the rain I caused.

Today, Sunday, we’ll try unclogging with baking soda, vinegar, and boiling water. Think that’ll work? Tomorrow I’ll probably call the plumber. Yay.

Well. Maybe not. It appears after about four tries with baking soda/vinegar and/or Dawn detergent and boiling water, I have opened up the garbage disposal. Maybe I fixed something. I’ll check Monday after Mary Louise is on the train.

Oops. Still acting clogged. Still no dishwasher.

Plumber came. Diagnosed it. Vowed to be back in two days with the right parts. Still no dishwasher.

Plumber’s back.  Yay. Garbage disposal unclogged. Dishwasher works. I’m $600 poorer.

AND. Now I can’t get email to work. No ins or outs.

What else is gonna break? What other mischief could possibly happen?

Enuf.

For close to an hour we drove through horizontal, heavy rain, thunder, lightning, and roads we could barely see. White knuckling it on the way back from Orangeburg.

Is there such a thing as a restful visit with Don? Well, let’s see.

Mary Louise, Marjorie’s sister, and saving grace for me these past few months, came to visit me this week. She came for a restful visit and to help me prepare for a wonderfully anticipated week at Folly Beach with family.

Duke’s

First we had a short car trip to Orangeburg (about 1 ½ hours) to pick up some BBQ, the only BBQ worth the drive, Duke’s. We had a bit of a taste while waiting for our big take-out order, of course.  

With bags of Duke’s pork BBQ and some warm hushpuppies in hand, time to head back to Charleston.

Little did we know, a gigantic squall line had developed between Summerville and Charleston that we were gonna encounter on our restful drive home.

Mary Louise and I, what a pair!! Two octogenarians (wait, based on the b-day card we keep recycling, she’s in her 40’s) with maybe one good eye between us.  Blind leading blind comes to mind.

With God’s good graces, we made it through the storm and home.

The Elevator

A good night’s rest at my house. Now let’s head to the beach after loading up my car. We were about to start the car loading process. The elevator is a key part of the process.

We get on elevator. Close the door and the gate. Press the button labeled 1.

Elevator says, “Uh” and moved down about 6 inches.

Uh oh.

I recycled gate and tried again. “1.” “Uh” and maybe another 4 inches.

Big decision. Do I try again and maybe get elevator to move, only to entrap us in between floors? Or do we get hell out of the elevator while we still could?

No brainer. Out we got. Quickly. Escaped catastrophe again!!

Ahead. A week at the beach with Don and several of his family members. Nothing else could possibly go wrong. Could it?

Stay tuned.

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.

Ever strike up a conversation with a perfect stranger and find out you have a connection that seems impossible to be just a coincidence? Happened to me this morning.

You know that annoyingly repetitive Disney tune, “it’s a small world after all”? First heard it at the World’s Fair in 1964. I never really appreciated how small it was until this morning, 60 some-odd years later.

I was at my usual spot, City Lights Eastside Coffee Shop here in Charleston, minding my own business… not! Of course I started a conversation with a young couple from Charlotte, North Carolina, here to see our beach for a few days. I talk to everyone there who’s willing to talk, and Kent and Jordyn were willing.

It came out early that I’d been an Air Force guy for a while.

Kent mentioned his grandfather was a POW.

Wait, what?

“What was his name?” I asked.

(You see, I’ve got some history with POW/MIAs. So my head started doing math fast, grandfather, POW, Air Force. Maybe, just maybe, I’d seen his name before.)

“Perry Jefferson,” he said.

Jefferson. Hmm.

“Was his wife’s name Sylvia?” I asked, hesitating.

“Yes.”

“Was Perry related to the Coors family in Colorado?”

“Yes.”

Oh my gosh. Can this be true? I almost spilled my coffee. At eighty-seven, with a head full of mush most mornings, I’m lucky if I remember where I parked. But this name came back fast.

I told Kent and Jordyn I knew Sylvia. Knew her well, in fact. From 1970 to 1973, I managed the pay accounts for every Air Force MIA and POW in Vietnam. 325 of them. Sylvia was one of the most memorable, partly because of the Coors connection, and partly because she lived in Denver, where I was based. She was a gracious, kind lady, and I was happy to help her through a trying time. As I’ve said before, that assignment was the most rewarding (and entangling) job I had in my entire 30-year Air Force career.

I told them the Air Force made a presumptive finding of Major Jefferson’s death back in the seventies, but no remains were found at that time.

Kent, Major Perry and Sylvia Jefferson’s grandson, told me something I didn’t know. The DOD finally found forensic proof of his grandfather’s death in late 2007, almost 40 years after he was lost. The family finally had closure.

Sylvia had passed away in 1992.

Of all the coffee shops, in all the towns, a couple from Charlotte walks into mine. And ends up next to an old man who once managed the military pay account of the grandfather, and got to know his grandmother during one of the hardest stretches of her life. Over fifty years ago.

Guess that song was right after all.

It’s a small world, after all. 

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.

I always say life is a sitcom. Well, I think I found my set.

Lucky for me, there’s a coffee shop not far from my apartment here in Charleston. My kids tell me it sounds like the bar on Cheers, “where everybody knows your name.” Close enough.

I am definitely their oldest customer. Every time I walk in, I raise the average age by about 50 years. These folks are in their 20s and 30s. I’m freakin’ old. LOL

In addition to great coffee, lattes, and cappuccinos, they have fine breakfast and lunch sandwiches, so I’m a frequent flyer. But the main reason I go is the people.

From the young barista with tattoos aplenty and jewelry pierced in several creative locations (I would never have had the guts), to the couple at the corner table, she with orange hair and him with no hair, it is always a delightful surprise. People watching is my favorite pastime.  I don’t eavesdrop, mind you, but they speak to each other loud enough to carry over the normal din.  And with my hearing, that’s saying something.  They obviously want me to listen. Their jargon is full of unnecessary “likes,” and not unlike my New York experience many years ago, chock full of words I can’t repeat here. A real challenge to translate, especially when I’m missing half the context (remember, I’m hard of hearing). But it’s fun.

Sometimes they even talk with me. I get a chance to “hold court,” as my daughter says I do. And I love it, especially if they listen and chuckle at my vain attempts at humor. There’s something genuinely compelling about the connection you make with a perfect stranger over a cup of coffee. In ten minutes, some of these folks have heard my stories and know a little of where I’ve been.

My grandchildren know the full story. A ten-minute coffee shop conversation is just the highlight reel, I know that. But these strangers laugh at my jokes and seem genuinely interested, and that feels good. My family loves me, I know that too, but let’s just say they’ve heard it all before.  I’m sure the eye rolls are a sign of affection.

Today I met a high school basketball coach. He and his companion were transplanted Yankees, like me. The gentleman, much younger than me like almost everybody, was a die-hard Yankees fan, just like I was in the fifties. Wow. That was over 70 years ago. Me recalling events from my life in the fifties is like someone in the fifties reminiscing about the Gunfight at the OK Corral, the assassination of President Garfield, Thomas Edison switching on the first incandescent light bulb, or the opening of the American West. Holy Moley. (That expression, by the way, was first published in the 1880s. Ain’t history wonderful?)

My two new friends and I bonded in just a few minutes. An enjoyable, memorable visit with two perfect strangers. I’m already looking forward to my next one. Who will I see? Who will I hear? Who will I bond with?

Life is a sitcom. Just picked up for season 87.
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.