An F-15E Strike Eagle, shot down over Iran. Both crew members ejected. The pilot rescued within hours. The second airman, a Colonel, spent more than a day evading capture in the treacherous mountains of southwestern Iran, Iranian forces closing in, a bounty on his head. The CIA ran a deception campaign to throw the enemy off. U.S. special forces went in with heavy air cover and pulled him out of a mountain crevice.

“God is good,” he’d transmitted from his hiding spot.

He followed the principles of the Survival Course to a “T” even while seriously wounded from the ejection. And he survived.

This news of the daring, successful rescue struck eerily close to home for me. Not because I was downed and rescued, but rather because that never happened to me. Thank Heaven.

HOWEVER; As a C-130 airlift navigator, I flew 2,500 hours all over the globe, including in and out of that jungle paradise called Vietnam. But not before taking a short, but extremely rigorous Air Force Survival Course. Actually I completed two Survival Courses; the big one at Stead AFB, Nevada and a shorter, targeted course in Jungle Survival at Clark AB in the Philippines. The latter one was just before reporting to Vietnam for one year as an EC-47 Navigator. (And 1,000 hours at 1,500–2,000 ft over the Vietnam jungle in the oldest aircraft in the Air Force inventory; the venerable “Gooney Bird”, the C-47.)

Although it was over 50 years ago (yes, I’m old) the experience is indelibly etched in my feeble brain.

Both courses included a bunch about evading the enemy if you are forced to leave your aircraft. Getting hit by gunfire and being forced to violently eject from an F-15 fighter jet at high airspeed and altitude is a helluva way to leave it.

Our downed airman’s ordeal will be engraved in all future Air Force Survival School agendas.

Get away from your parachute landing place ASAP. Hide, but get to a high elevation to be seen and caught by friendly forces, not the enemy. Avoid people. Did I mention, “Hide”? Try to communicate so you can be identified. (In 1969 there were no iPhones or any pocket-sized phones one could carry into combat. How about a small glass mirror one could turn toward the sun and aim at an aircraft to get a pilot’s attention.) Stay calm and alert. Easy to say. Hard as hell to do. Hide and wait. Rescue will come.

It did.

Amen.

Here are some of my forever learnings from the “School” experience.

First. Don’t get captured.

The mock POW training taught me one major thing. They have total control over you. Food, drink, sleep, mobility, etc. Forget the John Wayne movie stuff. Try “name, rank and serial number” after no sleep, food or water for two days. And a few gun butts across your jaw. (They didn’t do that but they coulda.)

What else did I learn? Forget fairness.

After evading successfully, I was rewarded by 3 days in a mock POW camp. It was very real, but what made it “mock” was that it was for three days. You can stand on your head for three days. LOL.

Seriously, knowing it’ll end in three days or even three months means you can put up with a lot of punishment if you know it’s gonna end. If you’re a real POW, you don’t know if or when it’s gonna end. Big difference.

So do your damndest to evade capture. I demonstrated that in the Philippines, when during an evasion exercise, I hid in a clump of jungle and watched quietly as searchers almost stepped on me. I did not get caught, but was almost eaten alive by skeeters.

Lastly.

Make sure you have a good grip on the rope ladder when being pulled onto your rescue helicopter. I know of one MIA who was rescued and then lost his grip on the rope ladder about 10 ft from the helicopter entry, but 1,000 ft from the ground.

He wasn’t found.

Definitely enuf.

“Sir, it is with great humility that an insignificant example of the species homo sapien, a fluke of nature, such as I doth approach an omnipotent majesty, an exalted guardian of democracy, a sagacious seer such as thou, with this matter of minor magnitude. I am but flotsam on the seedy sea of disrepute, but I must speak ere courage desert me, for I must fill my miserly quota for one week and seven days make one week, sire.”

That was my required approach to get weekly signatures from 5 cadet officers and 10 cadets of enlisted rank who were members of Arnold Air Society (an Air Force ROTC military honor fraternity that I wished to join). That meant I memorized and recited, on one breath, that stupid approach speech about 75 times in a 5-day school week.

For 58 years now, it has made a home in my memory. I think I did forget a few words.

Yay.

Question: How’s the cow?

Answer: “Sir, she walks. She talks. She’s full of chalk. The lacteal fluid extracted from the female of the bovine species is highly prolific to the nth degree, sir.”

Question: What’s leather?

Answer: “Sir, if the fresh skin of an animal is cleaned and divested of all hair, fat and other extraneous matter and then immersed in a dilute solution of tannic acid, a chemical combination ensues. The gelatinous tissue of the skin forms a non putrescible substance, impervious to and insoluble in water. That, sir, is leather.”

Again, I may have missed a few words, but those responses (required whenever I was asked by a cadet member) have stayed in my head for 58 years.

How’d I do, Adolf?

My dear friend, who rattled off those stupid responses with me when we pledged for Arnold Air Society together in 1958. Our lasting friendship epitomizes the “cliche” that going through stressful processes together creates strong bonds. Like all cliches, it ain’t always true. I had many close colleagues in Air Force Survival Training and in my Tan Son Nhut year, with whom I withstood lotsa stress. But somehow, I didn’t stay in a close friendship with many of them.

Life is full of contradictions. Generalities usually don’t stand up to challenges.

Enuf

It started with a French class.

Brooklyn College, 1959. A discussion of the philosophical writings of Blaise Pascal — 17th century philosopher and then some. I had truly enjoyed the writing, though I can’t recall which writing it was.

Our prof surprised us a bit, while bemoaning the fact that we, in the US, used the word “genius” way too often. He stated that Blaise Pascal was, in fact, a true genius — mathematician and physicist, in addition to being a great philosopher. My scant research of 17th century geniuses listed Pascal right along with Isaac Newton, Galileo and Descartes. Quite great company.

Our prof left us with the thought that the overwhelming majority of us, including himself, were just “ordinary” people. Maybe exceptional, but certainly not geniuses.

That word has stuck with me for sixty-some years.

Ok, enough about Pascal. How does yours truly fit in?

ORDINARY, it is.

Maybe not too bad. But certainly no big deal.

In my High School senior class, I ranked number 19 of about 500. Not number 1, but not bad.

At Brooklyn College AFROTC I ranked in the upper third of my Academic Class, my AFROTC class, and my AFROTC Summer Training Class. That was enough to earn the designation of Distinguished Military Graduate and a regular officer commission, rather than a Reserve Commission. (Better job security.)

I graduated Cum Laude. Not Summa Cum or Magna Cum.

Just Cum.

Again, just an ordinary man.

As for my professional life, I gratefully was able to serve for 30 years as an Air Force officer. An exciting, rewarding, challenging career.

After the Air Force, I gratefully served for ten years as an instructor/program director at Trident Technical College in Charleston. I was pleased to be able to help students and companies improve productivity and quality through continuing education at Trident.

Charleston was my wife’s “Happy Place.”

Ergo, it was my “Happy Place.”

Marjorie and I had an “Extraordinary” marriage for 61 years. We raised three “extraordinary” children and love 5 wonderful grandchildren — all grown up now.

And miracles do happen.

We now have 2 great-grands.

Who’d a thunk?

Ordinary. And grateful for every bit of it.

Enuf.

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/new-york-new-york https://scoolerisms.com/new-york-new-york#respond Thu, 12 Mar 2026 11:19:06 +0000 https://scoolerisms.com/new-york-new-york A fabulous town. A filthy town. A dangerous town. A crime-filled town. A fun town. A rich town. A poor town. A helluva town. The town I grew up in. What a terrible place for me to come of age. Let’s see how “terrible” it actually was. I lived in Flushing. A neighborhood in the […]]]>

A fabulous town.

A filthy town.

A dangerous town.

A crime-filled town.

A fun town.

A rich town.

A poor town.

A helluva town.

The town I grew up in.

What a terrible place for me to come of age.

Let’s see how “terrible” it actually was.

I lived in Flushing. A neighborhood in the Borough of Queens (a major residential section of the biggest city in the world). And within walking distance from my small apartment on 194th Street and 37th Avenue. Five of my best friends. My elementary school. My high school. Two Catholic churches with schools. A playground with swings, slides, and monkey bars. A sandlot where I learned to play baseball and football.

Two large grocery stores. A Jewish deli. A pharmacy. A luncheonette with an ice cream counter, candy, cigarettes, newspapers, and a soda fountain. (I worked part-time at both the pharmacy and the luncheonette from 1955 until 1958. My first real jobs. What a great learning experience.) There was also a liquor store, a dry cleaner, a butcher shop, a barber, and a handful of other retail shops.

One block away: a bus stop.

Fifteen cents. A bus every fifteen minutes. A fifteen-to-twenty-minute ride to Main Street, Flushing (where my whole daily world opened up). Two large movie theaters. Eateries including, of course, a Chinese restaurant and an Italian restaurant. Two major department stores. A bakery. Clothing stores. Shoe stores.

Flushing alone had over 100,000 inhabitants. (Over 200,000 now.) It was kinda my universe.

Another “terrible” opportunity: at Bayside High School, the school nurse noticed my large overbite (aka, buck teeth) and guided me to obtain a $5,000 three-year orthodontia job. At no cost to me.

From Bayside, I applied and was accepted at Queens College, one of five city colleges in our “terrible” city. Tuition: about twelve dollars a semester. Literally free.

I graduated from Brooklyn College (another of our terrible city’s tuition-free colleges) in 1961, with a commission in the U.S. Air Force as a Second Lieutenant.

Thus started my thirty-year career as an Air Force officer.

Yeah. A Terribly Terrific place to grow up. It marked me forever.

What’s it like now? The media still paints New York as dangerous. I don’t know for sure. But I suspect it still holds its opportunities for a young kid who wants to make something of himself, who’s willing to walk a few blocks and catch a bus and do the hard work.

It sure did that for me.

Enuf.

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.

Family is important to all of us, but it’s not always our priority as the vagaries of life are upon us continuously. As we conduct our lives, we are concerned about careers, our home, immediate family, and the many challenges of our daily sitcom.

Lucky for me, Marjorie took on many of the responsibilities of maintaining contact with both sides of our family. Mine was no challenge. It mostly consisted of my cousin, Nancy, during our 61 years together.

Marjorie, conversely, has dozens of cousins. (Hey, that rhymes. Cool.)

Our family has suffered two tremendous gut punches with the death of Harry and Marjorie’s passing late last year. And a couple years earlier, Harry’s boys lost their mother, Candy. That’s a lot of loss for one family.

Harry and Candy raised four fine boys. They have endured more than their share.

Harry’s passing, while heartbreaking, also became the vehicle that brought us back together. Not the way you’d choose to do it.

Recently, I’ve had the opportunity to reconnect (golly what an important word that is) with some of them I hadn’t seen very often for several years. I feel blessed to have the chance, though maybe a little late.

I was blessed with an invitation and the opportunity to spend time with Chris and Terri at Water’s Edge. Chris is Harry and Candy’s eldest. Thank you for reaching out and making that happen.

I have been additionally blessed that Craig, the youngest of the four, honored me by driving all the way from Florida to spend a couple days with this old man. He heads back today. I’m sincerely hoping we can stay close with additional visits and other communication in our time ahead. Hope I didn’t bore him with my life stories. I know him much better now, and because I run my mouth a lot (I hear ya, Marjorie), he knows more about me too.

Seems to me we may all be trying to fill a little void. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

Got a lot more outreach to do.

Get on with it, Don.

Enuf for now.

In my senior years, it has struck me that we make many of our life-affecting decisions when our heads are full of mush and we know so very little about life. In other words, between 18 and 25 years of age.

Those are the years when we confidently decide things our older selves will spend the next 60+ years living with.

I recently had the privilege of speaking with my grand nephew in med school, struggling to decide which branch of medicine to pursue. I also spoke with an honor student in law school wondering what field of law to follow.

But those aren’t the only weighty decisions made with mush for brains.

• Who will I spend the rest of my life with?
• Where should I spend it?
• What do I want to do with my life?

It’s a true Crap Shoot, with similar probabilities of success.

For any healthy young man of my generation, one life-affecting decision had already been partially made. At age 18 you were required to register for the draft. You were going to serve somehow.

You had three primary options.

1. You could wait to be “drafted.” That meant at least two years as a U.S. Army enlisted man.

2. You could join the Reserves. I called that the six-month, rest-of-your-life plan. Six months active duty. Then you were in the Army Reserve Corps and could be called to duty for several years. Perhaps in the midst of a promising civilian career. Or at a very difficult time to be yanked away from your budding family.

3. Or, if you were in New York City and fortunate enough to be accepted into Queens College, one of five essentially free colleges in that city, you had another choice.

I was standing with my best friend, Oleh, talking. I looked across the campus about 50 yards and saw some young men in blue uniforms marching and drilling.

“What’s that all about?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s ROTC,” he said. “If you join and stay in that program for your four years here, you will be commissioned in the Air Force as an officer when you graduate.”

Hmmm. I liked the sound of that.

Within a week, I had one of those blue uniforms and was enrolled in AFROTC. That’s Air Force Reserve Officer Training Corps. I took an elective class called Air Science in which they taught you about our Air Force, military customs and way of life, aviation and the art of war — all subjects I knew absolutely nothing about.

During my short time at Queens College I learned a lot. I especially relished my time with my ROTC colleagues, many of whom are still dear friends some 65 years later.

As it turned out, that moment — that glance across a college campus by a young man with mush for brains — was the spark that ignited a rewarding, somewhat successful 30-year career as an Air Force officer.

But sparks don’t burn long without tending.

In my junior year, after being accepted into the Advanced Corps of AFROTC, which essentially guaranteed a commission, the program at Queens College was discontinued. But…Brooklyn College still had AFROTC.

Welcome to a two-hour commute each school day.

That was my first real test.

Was this just a whim… or was I committed?

It was more than worth it.  At Brooklyn College I came into my own. I commanded a military honor fraternity, earned high enough grades to become a Distinguished Military Graduate, and received a “regular” commission instead of a “reserve” commission. Just a bit more job security.

The decision mattered…but sticking with it mattered more.  God bless the Air Force and the USA.

Enuf.