Carl Sagan famously stated, “A galaxy is formed of gas and dust and stars — billions upon billions of stars.”

As an Air Force airlift navigator in the mid 60’s, I especially enjoyed flying over one of our oceans at night.  No lights below—just a black void.  But above?  A windshield full of stars.

Don’t know how a navigator could be an atheist, considering the absolute order and everlasting nature of the universe. So much order, that those “billions upon billions of stars” had been used for reliable navigation for thousands of years.

I became close friends with my “Book.” The HO249, Celestial Navigation Tables.

Here’s how it worked.

Using my best guess for where I was, I’d enter the Book with an assumed position (Lat/Long). Magically, there would be a list of stars I could “shoot” with my trusty periscopic sextant. I’d select three. Do some calculations. Crank the results into the sextant. Look through the scope — and magically (there’s that word again), the brightest star in my field of vision would be my selected star.

Shoot them over a few minutes. Get some actual results. Compare those with the results for my assumed position. Plot the actual results on my navigation chart.

If I shot accurately and computed accurately, I’d get three lines that either intersected or formed a small triangle. That’s my “fix” or location at a specific time.

Too complicated? Well, after 100 practice flights, it was second nature to an experienced “naviguesser.”

Thousands of years of order and precision. And then there’s astrology.

Tonight I received a gracious email from a dear friend wishing me a Happy March Birthday. A bit early (March 24 is my big day).

I happen to be an Aries. Apparently, I’m “energetic, pioneering, likes to be number one.”  Also. Get this… “impatient.”

Moi? Non!

As for number one — I’ve been number two for most of my professional career. I identify as Tonto or Robin rather than The Lone Ranger and Batman.

And then there’s this: Aries pairs well with Gemini.

Marjorie was a Gemini.

Maybe there’s something to this “hogwash.”  Ya think?

Enuf.

]]> https://scoolerisms.com/stars-billions-of-em/feed 0 1366 https://scoolerisms.com/a-monthly-reality-check https://scoolerisms.com/a-monthly-reality-check#respond Fri, 06 Mar 2026 14:28:42 +0000 https://scoolerisms.com/a-monthly-reality-check A message to you young folks. (Anyone under 70.) If you are as lucky and blessed as I am, and you become an octogenarian, this is for you. Getting old is not for sissies. If you now have some modesty and enjoy the privacy of your body, get over it. The medical community is gonna […]]]>

A message to you young folks. (Anyone under 70.)

If you are as lucky and blessed as I am, and you become an octogenarian, this is for you.

Getting old is not for sissies.

If you now have some modesty and enjoy the privacy of your body, get over it. The medical community is gonna have at you in short order.

Biology 101. As you age, organs become tired. Sometimes they give up.

Here’s me as an example.

I’ll turn 87 this month, Lord willin’. I’ve had a pacemaker/defibrillator for over 10 years. It is now totally controlling my heart rate. I am living better electrically.

In a couple years, again, Lord willin’, I will need a new battery. That’s a routine (if there is such a thing) surgical procedure. Small incision in left chest. Remove device, the size of a pack o’ Luckies. Remove and replace battery. Reinsert. Close. That’s every five years or so.

As a colon cancer survivor (key word: Survivor) who had a potload of radiation and chemo to earn that word, I’m a frequent flyer with my GI doc. I’ll leave that organ failure there. More detail is TMI.

I will thrill, however, amuse, and perhaps disgust or scare you a little, with some info about what happens when your bladder goes on strike.

Yes, I’m also a frequent flyer with my urologist.

That’s the issue that requires a totally humiliating, though quick and simple, monthly urology pit stop.

In addition to my pacemaker, I have a suprapubic catheter installed. Do not confuse supra with super. There ain’t nothin’ super about my device. Supra means “above.” The catheter is installed just above the pubic area, near your belly button.

I do not plan to say any more about how it works. Except to say it is a miraculous device, far better than a common alternative. It’ll be a good Google exercise for some of you.

The humiliation is the monthly catheter change, to prevent infection and ensure everything is working.

Here’s how that goes.

The good news is that it is quick.

2 PM appointment. Got there at 1:45. Called in at 1:50. Done by 2:10.

Ninety percent of the work is done by the urology tech. They are great and very professional.

The tech calls you from the busy waiting area. You walk back to the inner sanctum. Step on the scale. (I’ve lost some unneeded weight, so that’s good news.) Then you go to the “procedure” room.

Sit down, but not for long.

“Has anything changed since last procedure? Any problems?”

No.

My favorite tech, an Army vet, then says: “OK, you know the drill. Drop your drawers and get on the gurney. I’ll be right back.”

At least she gave me direction. Some just assume I know what to do and walk out.

For some reason, I’m reluctant to “drop my drawers” without direction.

On the gurney there’s a paper cover you can use for some temporary modesty. The tech reviews my file and goes to get my new catheter.

So there you sit.

Breeches, including Depends, down at your ankles. I told you it was humiliating.

Then all of a sudden: she’s baaack.

You lay back on the gurney, at least somewhat exposed. She prepares to remove the old catheter.

“OK, hold your breath.”

“Ooh.”

It doesn’t hurt. But it’s no fun either.

And the final step. Insert the new one.

Hold your breath again.

Second slight punch in the stomach.

It’s in. Balloon inflated. Good for another month.

“You’re done. I’ll get your next appointment. Nurse Wanda will come in and do her song and dance. Then you can go.”

She’s right. Nurse Wanda comes in. Asks how I’m doing. Everything working OK. Yes. See you in four weeks. Tech hands me the appointment card.

This will probably be my routine for a lifetime.

Small price to pay to stick around.

Enuf.

If you had scanned the Dock Street Theatre at Saturday’s matinee, you might have noticed something.

Row C. On the aisle. Two men.

That was us.

We were there because Jim (my editor/son) had come to Charleston for an early birthday celebration. His actual birthday is March 6, but he won’t be here then. So we celebrated early.

It was fun and memorable. For me at least. Hopefully, he had some fun too.

It was not immune from several sitcom moments.

Friday Night: The Martini Incident

On Friday night, Christine joined our festivities. A great mini-family reunion.

The three of us enjoyed a lovely birthday celebration dinner at 39 Rue de Jean, a prime Charleston example of French cuisine.

Our waiter, though very personable and responsive, had a little trouble with my libation ordering communication.

I ordered a dry gin martini on the rocks with olives. Simple, no? No.

First he said back to me, “Right, a gin martini, straight up, with olives.”

“No, not straight up. On the rocks,” I replied.

He said, “Right, I meant straight up on the rocks with no olive juice.”

“No,” I answered. “Straight up on the rocks is an oxymoron.”

I was waiting for him to ask, “Who you callin’ a moron?”

It got worse.

He asked, “Was that vodka or gin?”

Sigh. Let’s start again.

“A dry gin martini on the rocks with two olives, but not dirty. No olive juice.”

“Got it,” he said.

Out came a gin martini on the rocks with a lemon peel.

I was nice. I waited for our waiter to come back.

I pointed gently to the lemon peel befouling my gin martini.

“That doesn’t look like an olive.”

He said, “Right, I’m so sorry,” and brought me three green olives.

All was well. I was bought off with three olives.

From then on, all went swimmingly. Swordfish special for me. Birthday boy had rack of lamb, which he seemed to savor. My memory is not my forte. I can’t remember what Christine had, but I’m sure it was great.

All in all, a beautiful, fun time.

Saturday: The Main Event

Saturday morning, Jim joined me for a usual winter tradition — breakfast out with our dear friend Nonie. That tradition stretches back many years to Farmers’ Market mornings with Marjorie and our friends Nonie and Dick. It continues still, even as life changes.

After a few hours of quiet conversation at home, we headed to the highlight of his birthday celebration:

A matinee performance of The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee at the historic Dock Street Theatre.

I felt more confident about our seating assignment than I had about my drink order the night before.

After we got settled, I did a quick scan of the surrounding rows and asked Jim if he noticed anything.

He did a quick survey, nervously grinned, and said, “We’re the only dudes in here.”

He was so right.

By my estimate, we represented about 20 percent of the total testosterone in the Dock Street that afternoon.

I guess dudes don’t do matinee musical comedy. At least not many of them.

So who does?

We were surrounded by about forty delightful ladies from a Summerville “55 and over” residential community. The men from that community must’ve been home watching golf, football, baseball (whatever season it is) on the tube with a cold beer.

We had, in essence, infiltrated their section.

Naturally, we started talking to several of them. They were charming.

The show was musically funny, cute, and extremely well performed by a talented cast. We enjoyed it a bunch.

The Exit Strategy

After an hour and a half with no intermission, it ended with a well-deserved ovation.

Uh oh.

Now I had to get out of those not-so-comfortable historic seats and walk a couple of blocks to the garage where we parked. A bit of a challenge for my soon-to-be 87-year-old body with neuropathy. I hope I didn’t embarrass the birthday boy by weaving and hanging on to hedges and buildings on that hike to the car.

The challenge continued. I needed to drive down four floors of the garage in heavy traffic — foot on brake all the way down — and negotiate payment at the robot gate.

I done it successfully.

Got home safe and sound.

Two dudes at a musical.

Not a bad way for a father to spend a birthday weekend with his son.

Enuf.

43 Steps.

That’s how many there are between the ground and my aerie (Penthouse. Attic. Apartment. Take your pick) on South Battery in the “Holy City” of Charleston, South Carolina. Yup, that’s been our spot for about 35 years now.

Oh yes, there’s an elevator. Thank Goodness.

But the freakin’ thing breaks every now and then.

And, guess what? It’s broken now.

When I was 59, that was a minor inconvenience. I could chase my four-year-old grandson Josh up those 43 steps without thinking twice.

At 86, it’s a different story. It’s a bitch.

It was especially hard on Marjorie this past year. Darn near impossible to navigate even with me helping.

“Why do you live there then?” some may logically ask.

We live here because we love it here.  Most especially, she loved it here.

As I write this, I’m contemplating my next move since Marjorie’s passing. Staying right here until I can’t anymore is a definite option. Cause, in fact, I do love it here.

I discovered the elevator was kaput late Sunday, February 1. The power was out for about an hour at 3AM that day due to a freezing, wet storm. That was most probably what wounded my elevator.

Not the shining hour for our elevator company. Couldn’t get a repair man out until Friday the 6th. Unfortunately, he couldn’t fix it.

Sooooo. The more experienced repair person is scheduled to appear on Thursday, February 12 at 1130 AM. That’s tomorrow.

I’ve been climbing those infamous 43 for 11 days. Consider it PT for this 86-year-old. I’ve been rationing my trips from my perch with a commanding view to one or, at most, two per day. I am exhausted at each ascent.

Descents are no sweat. Literally.

Hopefully, it’ll get fixed tomorrow. If not, I will still manage, but I won’t be a happy camper.

Funny how the “lift” has evolved from a “nice to have” to a real necessity in these 35 years. Who’d a thunk?

And yet, here’s the truth. I am so damn lucky and blessed to be able, with much effort, to climb those freakin 43. Or even the 7 needed to get to the elevator when it IS working.

Enuf.

Losing a spouse is always a most difficult time for the surviving spouse. I know different survivors experience different emotions, but I also believe there are a lot of similarities. I can really only speak accurately about my own feelings, so I’ll stick to those.

For me, after sixty-one years of a loving marriage, every minute without her is a trial. But I’m finding that late afternoon, after I come home from a few hours of “gophering,” is the hardest part of the day. You know. Go for this. Go for that. Groceries and such.

When I used to walk in the door, I would always say a loud “Hello.” I always got a pleasant “Hi there” from milady. Today, I got silence. Ouch.

I would usually follow that with commentary. Traffic. Weather. People. Something about my shopping experience. There was always an empathetic give and take. Today, again, silence. Dammit, that’s hard.

Our conversations would usually continue through the evening. Usually, I was the one who ran his mouth the most. Marjorie was a much better listener than me.

Friends tell me, “Oh, you can call someone.” Who??

My kids? I’m supposed to be the family member comforting them. Besides, the last thing I need is a “You should” from any of them.

Friends? Hell, when I thought I was close to my end a few years back, I couldn’t even come up with six friends to be my pall bearers. Who really wants to hear me bitch about my day by myself in Charleston?

I usually come up with a goose egg when I try to think of someone who would just love to hear me complain about the quiet. My kids know I’m not good at asking for help. Marjorie knew that best of all. With her, I never had to ask.

So I turn on the TV. The news pisses me off. The crime shows are repetitive and dark. So music it is. And maybe writing a little something for the blog.

Here’s something I didn’t fully understand before. When friends or relatives lost their spouses and seemed to withdraw a bit, or said afternoons were especially hard, I didn’t really get it. I do now. There are certain times of day when the loss sneaks up on you. When the routines you’ve lived with for decades suddenly turn on you and remind you what’s missing.

I miss her all the time. But that moment in the late afternoon, walking into a quiet house, really stands out.

Did I convince anyone to text or call me some afternoon? I hope so. If this sounds familiar to you, you’re not alone. And if you know someone who might be walking into a quiet house today, maybe give them a call. Even a short one.

Just a short post today.

Now I think I’ll get me a tiny drink of something.

Enuf.

I’ve always been told I talk too much. When I’m wound up or worried, the words just come. Talking helps me sort things out, and it helps to have people who’ll humor me. That, I think, is love.

The barbershop is one of my favorite places to run my mouth. It’s a small, one-chair shop. The kind with senior gentlemen (AKA old farts) who like to talk. My daughter calls it “holding court.” I call it just another day.

The other day we were swapping stories about how unreliable young folks are (a favorite topic among us old farts). One man said he’d tried to hire a helper: forty-one applications, four interview promises, one no-show, and a grand total of zero employees who lasted. Oh, for the good old days!

I had to throw in my two cents. Back when I worked at Trident Tech, reliability was already an issue. It’s not just Gen Z, Gen X had its share too. Every manager I knew said the same thing: “If they’ll just show up and follow instructions, I can teach them the rest.”

Somewhere in all that talk, I started thinking about another time when a little well-placed BS paid off…

A long time ago, in 1976, in a galaxy far away, Scott Air Force Base, I was rapt in a discussion about something called the Airlift Service Industrial Fund — the ASIF. Nobody liked it or understood it. While others argued, I jotted down a few notes, charting how the airlift funding process worked. One of my big bosses, a high ranking civilian who knew more about airlift than anyone in the command, walked by and looked at my notes. He asked, “What’s that you’re writin, Scooler?”

“Just some notes about the ASIF process, sir,” I answered.

He stared at my notes. He then, literally, grabbed me by the collar and said, “Come with me and bring your notes.” I followed him into an inner sanctum I hadn’t seen before.

“General,” he said, “take a look at this.”

The general studied my notes. “Shee-it,” he said. “That’s the clearest explanation of this mess I’ve ever seen. Let’s clean it up and send it out.” Then he said, “Thanks, Captain… Shuler, right?”

“It’s Scooler, sir.” (Dummy. Not out loud, of course.)

That little sketch made its way across the command. Turns out, being able to put meaningful BS on paper can keep a career afloat.

And sometimes, it still pays.

After Lenny finished trimming the gray off my ears, I reached for my wallet. He waved me off. “One of your new friends wanted to pay for the vet,” he said. “Don’t tell him till I’m gone.”

So small talk and thirty years of practiced BS earned me a free haircut.

Maybe BS is my one enduring skill. It’s kept me working, laughing, and connected all these years.

Enuf.

Sometimes the little things that go wrong can hide the wondrous things life has given you. The subtitle of my musings has long been “Life is a Sitcom.” Some days it’s lighthearted, other days it gets far too dramatic.  Thank goodness it’s never gone full Eugene O’Neill. (No alcoholics or drug addicts play major roles, at least not yet.)

The great news? I’m alive! Twenty-five years ago, the smart money would’ve bet against it. But the Good Lord and some great doctors kept me above ground. My pacemaker/defibrillator keeps the ticker steady (no AFIB), my monthly plumbing change is working well, and my many doctors are still pleasantly shocked to see me vertical and mobile at checkups.

But even with gratitude in your heart, life’s little malfunctions can test your sainthood. Case in point:

Yesterday.

We had a plan for three simple events—breakfast at Cracker Barrel, dentist, and a vascular checkup for Marjorie. Easy enough. At 8 a.m., we head down from our third-floor condo. Marjorie waits by the elevator while I fetch the car. Key fob in pocket, I press the button…nothing. Dead battery.

I’d love to say I stayed calm and dignified, but if you believe that, I’ve got a bridge for ya. I called AAA and trudged back to tell Marjorie the f——g car won’t start. (She took it better than I did.)

AAA’s first estimate: 9:08. Then 10:25. Goodbye breakfast, goodbye dentist. At least the 1:15 doctor appointment survived. By 10:45, I had a brand-new battery and $300 less in the checking account. Oh well. We made it to the vascular surgeon and walked out with a treatment plan for her legs. Another doctor, another week.

And just when I thought the sitcom credits were rolling, the AC quit. Bought the system a year and a half ago. Big bucks. Two weeks ago it hit 90 outside and 85 inside. “Experts” came Monday, said it was fixed. Tuesday it wasn’t. They came again, fiddled around, pronounced it “fine,” then told me the coolant was low.

So now we’re waiting for yet another “expert” to show up Monday to top it off just in time for winter. LOL

Meanwhile, everything from the closet (the one hiding the air handler) is piled on our dining table. A bit of a mess.

So the car doesn’t start, the AC blows hot air, and our 125+ year old house creaks…but I’m still here. Broken, maybe. But still running.

Enuf.

Thou shalt not cause excess stress on an old man with a heart and bladder that don’t work very well. Yay Pacemaker/Defibrillator and SPC (you can look that one up under Medical Acronyms).

I tell myself that commandment often. But tonight? I broke it big time.

Friday is our 61st wedding anniversary. At Marjorie’s request, I gave her an early gift: a Powerball lottery ticket. Jackpot—$850 million.

I know, I know. It’s nothing more than voluntary taxation. But I’m a good husband (I must be, if she’s put up with me for 61 years), so I bought $20 worth of Powerball tickets. I could practically hear the toilet flush as I paid for them.

The drawing was at 10:59 PM. At 10 sharp, I went to fetch my wallet, where I had carefully placed those “valuable” tickets. I opened the top drawer of my bureau.

“Sheeeit. It ain’t there.”

I swear I felt Sparky, my pacemaker, skip a beat or two.

Panic mode engaged.

I searched the usual spots. Nothing.
I retraced my steps from earlier that day. Publix trip. Groceries. Another anniversary card (because I’d already lost the first one I bought a month ago). God I’m old.

Then it hit me—I might have left the wallet in the car. I’ve done that before.

Problem was, I was already “in for the night.” So I threw on a few clothes, grabbed a flashlight, cuz it was gonna be really dark at ten-thirty at night. Not many lights.

Nope. Not in the car either. Damn.

Hobbled back upstairs on a slow elevator, dejected.

Now the real dread kicked in. Losing a wallet is a nightmare: ID, driver’s license, credit cards, debit cards, too much cash (fresh from the ATM, of course). I looked online: What to do if you lose your wallet.

More reason to panic.

First thing on the list? Call every credit card company and freeze your accounts. Guess where the phone numbers are. Yep, on the back of the cards. Which were safely tucked inside my missing wallet. Heavy sigh!!

It’s gotta be around here somewhere.  Marjorie had joined the search with no luck. I went back to my bedroom, determined to check every inch again.

Finally, back to the same bureau drawer where I always keep my wallet. The first place I looked an hour ago. I dug deeper this time, shoved a few things aside, and EUREKA.

There the SOB was. Hiding in the back.

Big sigh of relief. Quick celebration with Marjorie. And just in time to catch the Powerball numbers.

You guessed it—didn’t win squat.

But somehow, I still felt like a winner. I’d found my stupid wallet.

Wait a minute. The wallet ain’t stupid. I am.

Panic por nada. (Who says I can’t speak Italian?)

Enuf.

Seems like yesterday.
As a matter of fact, it was yesterday.

8:30-ish AM — “Good morning, Marjorie. Let’s go to one of your favorites: Cracker Barrel in North Charleston.”

Sure, there was a flood watch, but welcome to Charleston in August. That’s not gonna keep two stalwart “geezers” at home.

Cloudy skies. On-and-off rain. Frequent reminders of a flood watch.  But the roads looked passable, so off we went.

The trip north was uneventful, if a bit eerie.

We had a great breakfast. Our favorite server, Suzanne, took good care of us as always, and even chuckled at my lame attempts at humor. I do need an appreciative audience, even if it’s only one. She probably knows more about us than some of our family members (and vice versa).

Heading home — The rain was getting worse. Thunder rolled. Then my phone went nuts in my breast pocket.
BLAAAH! Vibration and noise that not only got my attention, it might’ve made my damn pacemaker skip a beat or two.

ATTENTION: Flash Flood Warning in your area. If you don’t need to travel, stay the hell home. (I added the “the hell” to that in my head.)

Too late. Pouring rain and thundering with lightning all over. Yay.

I could still see, so we pressed on.  I stuck to Rivers Ave as much as possible, avoiding the interstate, but eventually hopped on I-26 for a short stretch.

And then (just to make life interesting) it started raining inside the car. “Eek,” said Marjorie. “I just got wet.”
Note to self: never again buy a car with a sunroof. They leak!!

Bad decision — I got off the interstate. The rain let up a little, but I made the mistake of taking Rutledge Ave instead of the wider, less flood-prone Meeting Street.  Seemed like a good idea at the time.

The giveaway sign of trouble was the myriad of blinking blue lights ahead.  Sure enough, that was the police blocking flooded roads. At Calhoun Street, both left and straight ahead were blocked. My only option was right—taking me away from home.  What to do?

Several thoughts entered my head including heading to the nearest hotel and booking a room.  Marjorie, a bit more reasoned, suggested we pull into a gas station and wait out the storm. But no—I pressed on. Soon enough, I found a way back east to Meeting Street, and it was clear all the way to South Battery.

Almost home — Now, where to park? The street is prone to flooding. The back lot is safer, except for the ankle-deep puddle in the driveway, right where I’d have to walk to reach the elevator to our dry abode.

So what’s your plan, oh wise ol’ geezer, man of the house?

I told Marjorie, “I’ll let you out at the steps to our entrance, then park in back and meet you at the elevator.” Sounds good…in theory.

But here’s the sitcom twist: It’s raining like hell. My side of the car is wedged too close to the curb to get out (leaving more room for my lovely bride), so I sit while she struggles for several long minutes, to get around the car to the steps.

My turn — I finagle the car into my space out back sans raincoat cuz I “don’t believe in ’em.” I just get wet when it rains, cuz I’m a dumb shit. I head for the elevator. Ankle-deep water covers almost the entire driveway. What the hell. I walk calmly through it.  Wouldn’t think of taking off my shoes. God only knows what I woulda stepped in or on.

Finally, we made it upstairs. Safe, soaked, and ready for a hot shower.

And I had just enough new material for another story.

Enuf.