I was four years old.
My dad was on a gurney, on his way out the door to the hospital after a heart attack. He looked up at me and said, “Take care of your mom.”
That was the first quote that never left me.
These are the words that hit me to my core. The ones that made me who I am.
I did the best I could.
In Second Grade: Welcome to Wurtsboro
I was seven years old, starting second grade in Wurtsboro, NY. A little hick town 75 miles north of “The City,” where my Aunt May and Uncle Ted had a tiny chicken farm.
We were there because a housing shortage in NYC had basically made us homeless. My mom, my sociopathic older brother, and me were there long enough that I had to go to school somewhere.
One of my “homey” classmates greeted me on the first day, welcoming me to the “Waltonesque” town of Wurtsboro.
“We don’t like city slickers around here.”
So much for the stereotype of friendly people in a friendly small town.
What I took from it: the world doesn’t roll out a welcome mat. You find your own way in.
And I did. Those same summers, age 12 to 16, I couldn’t wait to get back up there to spend time with Aunt May and Uncle Ted, my cousins Richard, Marjorie and Nancy, and the freakin’ chickens. Thank heaven for my good pal named Peter, who lived across the street and whose folks had a nice cabin in the woods near Yankee Lake. Lotsa swimming and canoeing.
I found my way in just fine.
In High School: Mr. Vessa Speaks
“Mr. Scooler, you’re too damned sensitive.”
That was my high school Latin teacher, Mr. Vessa. He was soooo old. Probably about 60. (Ooh! Sorry, kids.)
I had just given him “what for” because of something he said that I felt mocked my intelligence. Instead of sending me to the dean, he just laid that one on me.
He was right on.
I was too sensitive. Thin-skinned. Ready to fight over a slight, real or imagined.
What I took from it: I hadn’t yet met my wonderful wife Marjorie, who later showed me the art of ignoring an idiot (me) who says something mean in a bad-temper moment. You don’t need to engage in a stupid, unnecessary argument. Mr. Vessa planted that seed. Marjorie harvested it on the regular.
In College: The English 101 Gut-Punch
“Mr. Scooler, your essay is perfect. Correct spelling, punctuation, and grammar. It’s clear and concise. But it’s the most boring piece of crap I ever read. Put some life in it, man!!”
And he didn’t say “crap.”
That was my English 101 professor at Queens College. I was a college freshman who had gotten a lot of A’s in high school compositions and thought he could write pretty good.
It stung.
What I took from it: put some life in it. Humor. Color. Something that makes a person want to keep reading. I’ve really tried to do that ever since. (You be the judge.)
The other lesson: I listened. I didn’t argue. I didn’t sulk off and decide he was wrong. Maybe Mr. Vessa had gotten through to me after all. Somebody told me a hard thing, and I believed them. That doesn’t come naturally to this prideful kid from Flushing, Queens.
But it’s a helluva gift when you finally figure it out.
In the Air Force: Rebel
“Get the hell off that GD bus, you freakin’ idiots, and get down on your haunches and walk like a duck.”
He didn’t say “GD” or “freakin“ either.
That was “Rebel.” A 6’7”, 250-pound survival school sergeant with tattoos and a big snake wrapped around his arm (not a tattoo, a real freakin’ snake!). He succeeded in scaring the hell out of us 20-year-old AFROTC cadets attending a Survival School in Nelsonville, Ohio.
But then there’s me and my big mouth.
As we got off the bus, he yelled: “I said, walk like a duck. Now say, ‘Quack quack.’“ I was doing the duck walk but not quacking. He yelled at me. “Say quack quack, you idiot!”
I retorted stupidly, “Quack quack, you idiot.”
I can’t remember how many push-ups I had to do. But it was a bunch.
Of course, if it had been a real POW camp, I would have gotten a rifle butt in the mouth. Or been shot. Luckily, I was not in Korea or Vietnam at the time.
What I took from it: know when to keep your mouth shut. It took a snake-armed giant and a few hundred push-ups to drive that one home. But I got the point. Thirty years in the Air Force, and I never forgot it.
Training succeeded.
And so here I am.
A seven-year-old city slicker who didn’t belong. A high school kid who was too sensitive for his own good. A college freshman who could spell but couldn’t write. A young airman who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
Every one of those people had something to say to me.
Every one of them was right.
And underneath all of it was a four-year-old boy standing in a doorway, watching his father leave on a gurney.
Take care of your mom.
Did I do ok, Dad?
Enuf.
