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Scotch and Soda
Mar. 1st, 2024 11:40 amScotch and soda, mud in your eye,
Baby, do I feel high,
Oh me, oh my,
Do I feel high.
Dry martini,
Jigger of gin,
Oh, what a spell you’ve got me in,
Oh my, do I feel high.
People won’t believe me,
They’ll think that I’m just braggin’
But I could feel the way I do,
And still be on the wagon.
All I need is one of your smiles,
Sunshine of your eye, oh me, oh my,
Do I feel higher than a kite can fly.
Give me lovin’ baby, I feel high.
(Scotch and Soda: Dave Guard/The Kingston Trio – 1958)
In case you don’t already know, my cocktail of choice is scotch and soda. Sure, I can dabble with vodka martinis, Bloody Marys, and Margaritas, but scotch whiskey and club soda is my go-to drink. How I came to this preference is a curious story that begins with a song and continues with other unique occasions and memorable moments.
I was first introduced to scotch and soda by the song of the same name on the 1958 debut album of The Kingston Trio. Although their song Tom Dooley was the big hit of the album, I was more captivated by the B-side song, Scotch and Soda. The smooth guitar rhythms accompanying Dave Guard’s mellow voiced rendition seduced me. The lyrics sounded cool and sophisticated, and even though I was only 11 or 12 at the time, I easily imagined myself in a nightclub, or walking into a smokey old time bar and ordering a scotch and soda from a bartender. What was most odd about my fascination to this drink was the fact that neither of my parents drank alcohol, and my aunts and uncles tended towards beer and highballs consisting of bourbon and Coca Cola. Yet my father, as manager of a commercial photography studio in Culver City, would receive bottles of whiskey (bourbon and scotch) every Christmas from his high-end customers and clients. These gifts were quietly closeted in a cupboard or drawer and forgotten.
It was in college that I began imbibing alcohol – and usually in the company of my long-time friends Jim Riley, Wayne Wilson, and Greg Ryan. This consisted of beer – beginning with Colt 45 as sophomores and working our way up to the Banquet of Beers, Coors, as seniors. Mixed alcoholic drinks didn’t come to my mind until I received a Christmas gift from my Uncle Charlie when I turned 21. This was a set of 10 scotch whiskey tumblers – each with the unique brand label of various brands of scotch: from Ballantine to Vat 69, from Haig Club to White Horse. This gift, combined with my knowledge of Dad’s many unopened whiskey bottles, gave me the idea to begin experimenting with mixed alcoholic beverages. Each weekend, after working at ADT Burglar Alarm Company from 8 am to 4 o’clock on Saturday and Sundays, I would come home and fix myself a cocktail – first experimenting with bourbon and coke, and then scotch and soda. Dad’s bottles provided the whiskey, and I provided the tumblers and mixers. It was the perfect way to get a buzz on before Mom called me to dinner. From these early trials I discovered that I indeed preferred the dry taste of scotch and soda. These experiments halted when I entered the Air Force in 1971 and stopped completely when my dad died in November of that year. I didn’t resume drinking scotch and soda until the 1972-73 school year when I was teaching at St. Bernard High School and was regularly invited to TGIF parties hosted by the sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet. At these faculty parties, scotch was the liquor of choice. The nuns provided Scoresby, the principal, Fr. Dunphy would bring a bottle of J&B, and I would bring a bottle of Cutty Sark. It was at one of the dinners hosted by these nuns that I met Kathleen for the first time.
By far the most momentous occasion involving scotch and soda was when I met Kathleen’s parents (the Doctor and Mary Greaney) for the first time in 1973. A blog I wrote in 2008 recounts that tale:
“Nice to meet you, Tony, can I fix you a drink?”
With those words I met Kathleen’s father, the surgeon, as he swept into the family room, dressed in a golf shirt and sweater, and wearing trim khaki slacks. He situated himself on the edge of the sofa chair, which Kathy and her mother said was reserved for him and awaited my answer. The question surprised. I had never been offered a drink when meeting the parents of a date for the first time.
“Why sure”, I replied. “I’ll take a scotch and soda”.
The words were out of my mouth without thinking. Should I simply have asked for a beer? Was it the right drink to mention in the home of the parents I wanted to impress?
“Great”, announced the doctor, as he bounded off the sofa and moved quickly to the bar that was cornered at the other end of the family room, “that’s my drink. I’d be happy to fix you one too”.
“Edwaaarrddd”, scolded Mary, his wife, from her position across from Kathy and me. “Kathy and Tony have a dinner reservation. They were just leaving when you arrived, don’t fix a drink now”.
“Nonsense Mary”, he growled back, “I’m sure they have time for ONE drink. I’d like to talk to the boy. What do you say, Tony, can you have a drink with me?”
“A drink would be great. We have plenty of time”, I confessed, knowing that I had given myself more than adequate time to meet Kathy’s parents and make our reservation at the restaurant. But Kathy shot me a wide-eyed look of panic that worried me. It seemed to query, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
“So Tony, what do you do?” the doctor asked, bending under the counter with two large tumblers in his hands.
“I’m a history teacher at St. Bernard High School,” I replied, curious of the noises emanating from behind the bar, “but I’m starting graduate school next year.” I heard clinking, clanking, banging, and sliding, followed by the sounds of gushing water echoing off metal.
“Really?”, he announced, straightening up and placing the two large tumblers, heaping with ice cubes, on the counter. “What are you studying?”
“I graduated from UCLA in ’70 with a BA in History, and I’ve been accepted in their Latin American Studies program”. My eyebrows raised in surprise as he filled a fist-sized, copper shot glass from a bottle labeled Johnnie Walker Red. He splashed it, first, into one glass, then refilled it, and splashed it into the second.
“And you’ve been teaching at St. Bernard since then?” he asked, unscrewing a small bottle of soda and sprinkling it in the direction of the two tumblers.
“No, actually, I was in the Air Force for a while”, I said. “I’ll use the GI Bill for grad school.”
“Oh, you were in the service?” he said, coming out from behind the bar, holding an ice-topped drink in each of his glistening hands.
“Yes, for a year” I replied, looking at his moist hands and water speckled slacks, and wondering how he had gotten so wet. “I was discharged when my father died. My brother and I were both serving when it happened, and they allowed one of us to leave”.
The doctor handed me a glass, raised his slightly and toasted “Up the rebels!”
“Salud”, I replied, lifting my glass in salute.
He took a long drink and resumed his seat across from me, while I took a measured taste. The scotch exploded in my mouth.
“Holy Shit” I thought, “what is in this drink!” It was the strongest mixed drink I’d ever had. Was there ANY soda in this drink?
Glass in hand, the doctor reclined in his chair and said, “I was a lieutenant j.g. in the war. I served with the 3rd Marine Division as a naval surgeon.”
“Oh, really”, I added, taking another drink, “my father was a Marine in the war”.
“I was at Iwo Jima, where did he serve?”
“He didn’t see that action” I replied. “He fought in the Philippines and was in the Battle of Leyte.” With another swallow, the fumes and liquor began seeping into my body, relaxing my worries about meeting Kathy’s parents for the first time. This scotch was pretty good! I’d never considered the beneficial effects that an extra shot of scotch had on a drink before.
“Ahhh, the Battle of Leyte”, reminisced the doctor, “it was the first battle in the reconquest of the Philippines. The attack was the largest amphibious operation at the time, and Douglas MacArthur was the supreme commander. The Marines didn’t have much use for him, though, they called him Dugout Doug. It was a derisive name”.
“Hmmm”, I responded. I was about to add my own opinion of MacArthur, when a sharp glance from Kathy stopped me from fueling the conversation. I’d heard these facts before, when my father and his brothers spoke of the war and discussed the merits of MacArthur as a general and leader. Contrary to most Marines, my father respected MacArthur, and his ability to keep American casualties low by “attacking where they ain’t”. Most Marines, however, could never forgive Dugout Doug for abandoning his command at Corregidor.
“Iwo Jima was the largest action I saw”, he continued. “After 35 days of fighting, we suffered 28, 000 causalities, with about 7,000 killed in action. That’s where I learned to be a surgeon. ‘Meatball surgery’ they call it on the TV show MASH. That’s where I learned my trade, on the beaches of Iwo Jima”.
I nodded my head at the doctor and noticed that Kathy and her mom were trading apprehensive looks at this extended monologue.
“Lieutenant General Holland Smith was the commanding general”, the doctor continued as he rattled the ice in his glass before finishing the drink. “Howlin Mad Smith’, he was called, and he deserved the name. He was 6 foot, 2 inches, 280 pounds, and the meanest sonofabitch on the island”.
Kathy again caught my eye. This time she began staring, alternately, at my glass and then moving her glance toward the doorway. I finally got the silent message and concentrated my efforts on finishing my drink, and not encouraging the doctor to elaborate further on the story.
“On the second day of the battle” he added, “I was ordered to tell ‘Howlin Mad’ that he was running a fever and should be in bed. I was the most junior medical officer on Iwo Jima, and everyone was afraid to face him. I walked up to him, saluted, and said, ‘My compliments, sir; it is my duty as medical officer to inform you that you are running a temperature of over 103 degrees and need to be placed under a doctor’s care in sickbay, immediately’. Well, he walked right up to my face and screamed, ‘I am not taking orders from a goddamn j.g... No shave tail medical officer is going to tell me that I have a goddamn fever and take away my command. This battle is my moment in history, and you will not take it away from me’. Needless to say, he didn’t go to sickbay.”
He rose from the couch and pointed his empty glass at me, “Would you like another drink?”
“Edward! Dad!” chimed in Mary and Kathy, simultaneously.
“No thank you, doctor”, I said quickly, putting my glass on the coffee table, “we really should leave. That’s quite a story”.
“Well, it’s too bad that you have to leave so soon” he grumbled. “We were just starting to get to know each other”.
“I’m sure you’ll have many more opportunities, Edward”, Mary said, as she took my elbow and led me away from the doctor. Kathy joined us, and we walked together to the front door.
“Well, let me walk you out, then” the doctor said as he hurried to catch up as we passed through the door and onto the asphalt driveway. “You’ll have to tell me more about your father’s Marine experiences the next time we talk.”
“Sure”, I replied, cognizant that Kathy was walking faster, trying to get us to the car as quickly as possible. I was puzzled by all the haste; what was the hurry? Despite her cautionary warnings to me about her father’s legendary impatience and intolerance as a surgeon, he seemed a very pleasant man, and I thought I had done a good job of being respectful, solicitous, and interesting. I was convinced that I had succeeded in making a very favorable impression.
“So Tony, I didn’t have a chance to ask you before, but what do you think of doctors?”
I don’t know what came over me. Perhaps it was carelessness, the double scotch, or my overconfidence at believing I had already won his approval as a suitor. Whatever the reason, I responded quickly and unthinkingly.
“Well doctor, I believe they killed my father”.
Kathy stopped short, turned and stared at me with a horrified expression.
“What”, choked the doctor in surprise, “do you mean?”
“He died from a myocardial infarction, one year ago, on November 1”, I recited automatically, with a note of irritation for having to explain. “My mother and sister took him to the doctor that morning, complaining of chest pains. His doctor examined him, told him to take his medication, and released him. He had another heart attack later that afternoon and died. As far as I’m concerned, the doctor did such a poor job that he might as well have killed him”. There was a lonnnggg silence, as we all stood together in the driveway. It slowly dawned on me that I had over-stepped with this unanticipated, emotional outburst.
“I’m sorry about the loss of your father, Tony” the doctor said quietly. “I’m not familiar with his case, but I can tell you that doctors aren’t perfect, and they sometimes misjudge the seriousness of symptoms.” His voice had changed from the lofty, professorial tones in the family room, to a softer, bedside manner.
“Doctor, I’m not blaming you”, I explained, trying not to look at Kathy or her mom. “I really should not have brought it up”. How was I going to get out of this? I had a sudden vision of all the goodwill I had secured in the family room slowly sinking into a sea of unconscious issues and hard feelings. My slip of the tongue gave him more than enough reason to dislike me, if he chose to take offense.
“No, no, it’s alright. I know you’re not blaming me”, he said, as we resumed our walk toward the car. “The death of a father is tough, and doctors are supposed to keep them alive”. He paused again, and added “You know Tony, doctors can’t beat death; they can just try to prolong life. They diagnose the illness, treat the symptoms, and operate when they can; but death is outside their control. My parents died in a flash flood, a random and accidental death, with no apparent rhyme or reason. All dying seems that way”.
Kathy and her mother said nothing throughout this exchange. They simply stood there, looking at each other, waiting for something to happen. I took advantage of the next pause to extricate myself from this situation as best I could.
“Well, thank you for understanding, doctor”, I said as I approached my parked car. “I guess I’m still not over my father’s death. I hope I didn’t offend you”.
“Not at all Tony, I admire your honesty. I know how it feels to lose a father”. He extended his hand and said, “If you ever feel the need to talk about it, I’d be honored if you called me”.
I shook his hand, and then opened the passenger side door, waiting for Kathy to enter. She quickly kissed her mother and father on the cheek and stepped in.
“Goodbye, now”, I said waving, as Kathy’s parents stood side by side, waving back. I turned on the ignition, put the clutch in gear, and drove off.
“What was that about?” exploded Kathy, with a mixture of concern and wonderment. “Why did you say that?”
“Kathy, I honestly don’t know where that came from”, I confessed, shaking my head. “I am really sorry. Do you think he was mad? Did I really insult him?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t seem angry”, she admitted, sitting back into her seat and staring straight ahead. “I’ll have to check with my mom when I get home”. After a long silence, she added, “I can’t believe he told you about his parents. He even offered to discuss your father’s death with you! What got into him?”
Doctor Greaney and I shared many scotches and sodas after that first meeting, especially when Kathy and I visited him and Mary at their beach house in San Juan Capistrano. There he would wait until sunset to begin the “cocktail hour” as the sun disappeared into the Pacific Ocean. It was also there that he explained that the term “Happy Hour” was Navy slang for the off-duty time when sailors and officers could relax and enjoy themselves in their respective “clubs”.
Kathy and I have continued this tradition at home, reserving 5 o’clock for cocktails, when we can recap our day and discuss news events. When we were both working in education, this was the time when we could “debrief” and recount the day’s activities at our schools or offices. Nowadays, however, we use this time to telephone friends and family members, talk about our granddaughters, and remember times past.
Baby, do I feel high,
Oh me, oh my,
Do I feel high.
Dry martini,
Jigger of gin,
Oh, what a spell you’ve got me in,
Oh my, do I feel high.
People won’t believe me,
They’ll think that I’m just braggin’
But I could feel the way I do,
And still be on the wagon.
All I need is one of your smiles,
Sunshine of your eye, oh me, oh my,
Do I feel higher than a kite can fly.
Give me lovin’ baby, I feel high.
(Scotch and Soda: Dave Guard/The Kingston Trio – 1958)
In case you don’t already know, my cocktail of choice is scotch and soda. Sure, I can dabble with vodka martinis, Bloody Marys, and Margaritas, but scotch whiskey and club soda is my go-to drink. How I came to this preference is a curious story that begins with a song and continues with other unique occasions and memorable moments.
I was first introduced to scotch and soda by the song of the same name on the 1958 debut album of The Kingston Trio. Although their song Tom Dooley was the big hit of the album, I was more captivated by the B-side song, Scotch and Soda. The smooth guitar rhythms accompanying Dave Guard’s mellow voiced rendition seduced me. The lyrics sounded cool and sophisticated, and even though I was only 11 or 12 at the time, I easily imagined myself in a nightclub, or walking into a smokey old time bar and ordering a scotch and soda from a bartender. What was most odd about my fascination to this drink was the fact that neither of my parents drank alcohol, and my aunts and uncles tended towards beer and highballs consisting of bourbon and Coca Cola. Yet my father, as manager of a commercial photography studio in Culver City, would receive bottles of whiskey (bourbon and scotch) every Christmas from his high-end customers and clients. These gifts were quietly closeted in a cupboard or drawer and forgotten.
It was in college that I began imbibing alcohol – and usually in the company of my long-time friends Jim Riley, Wayne Wilson, and Greg Ryan. This consisted of beer – beginning with Colt 45 as sophomores and working our way up to the Banquet of Beers, Coors, as seniors. Mixed alcoholic drinks didn’t come to my mind until I received a Christmas gift from my Uncle Charlie when I turned 21. This was a set of 10 scotch whiskey tumblers – each with the unique brand label of various brands of scotch: from Ballantine to Vat 69, from Haig Club to White Horse. This gift, combined with my knowledge of Dad’s many unopened whiskey bottles, gave me the idea to begin experimenting with mixed alcoholic beverages. Each weekend, after working at ADT Burglar Alarm Company from 8 am to 4 o’clock on Saturday and Sundays, I would come home and fix myself a cocktail – first experimenting with bourbon and coke, and then scotch and soda. Dad’s bottles provided the whiskey, and I provided the tumblers and mixers. It was the perfect way to get a buzz on before Mom called me to dinner. From these early trials I discovered that I indeed preferred the dry taste of scotch and soda. These experiments halted when I entered the Air Force in 1971 and stopped completely when my dad died in November of that year. I didn’t resume drinking scotch and soda until the 1972-73 school year when I was teaching at St. Bernard High School and was regularly invited to TGIF parties hosted by the sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet. At these faculty parties, scotch was the liquor of choice. The nuns provided Scoresby, the principal, Fr. Dunphy would bring a bottle of J&B, and I would bring a bottle of Cutty Sark. It was at one of the dinners hosted by these nuns that I met Kathleen for the first time.
By far the most momentous occasion involving scotch and soda was when I met Kathleen’s parents (the Doctor and Mary Greaney) for the first time in 1973. A blog I wrote in 2008 recounts that tale:
“Nice to meet you, Tony, can I fix you a drink?”
With those words I met Kathleen’s father, the surgeon, as he swept into the family room, dressed in a golf shirt and sweater, and wearing trim khaki slacks. He situated himself on the edge of the sofa chair, which Kathy and her mother said was reserved for him and awaited my answer. The question surprised. I had never been offered a drink when meeting the parents of a date for the first time.
“Why sure”, I replied. “I’ll take a scotch and soda”.
The words were out of my mouth without thinking. Should I simply have asked for a beer? Was it the right drink to mention in the home of the parents I wanted to impress?
“Great”, announced the doctor, as he bounded off the sofa and moved quickly to the bar that was cornered at the other end of the family room, “that’s my drink. I’d be happy to fix you one too”.
“Edwaaarrddd”, scolded Mary, his wife, from her position across from Kathy and me. “Kathy and Tony have a dinner reservation. They were just leaving when you arrived, don’t fix a drink now”.
“Nonsense Mary”, he growled back, “I’m sure they have time for ONE drink. I’d like to talk to the boy. What do you say, Tony, can you have a drink with me?”
“A drink would be great. We have plenty of time”, I confessed, knowing that I had given myself more than adequate time to meet Kathy’s parents and make our reservation at the restaurant. But Kathy shot me a wide-eyed look of panic that worried me. It seemed to query, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
“So Tony, what do you do?” the doctor asked, bending under the counter with two large tumblers in his hands.
“I’m a history teacher at St. Bernard High School,” I replied, curious of the noises emanating from behind the bar, “but I’m starting graduate school next year.” I heard clinking, clanking, banging, and sliding, followed by the sounds of gushing water echoing off metal.
“Really?”, he announced, straightening up and placing the two large tumblers, heaping with ice cubes, on the counter. “What are you studying?”
“I graduated from UCLA in ’70 with a BA in History, and I’ve been accepted in their Latin American Studies program”. My eyebrows raised in surprise as he filled a fist-sized, copper shot glass from a bottle labeled Johnnie Walker Red. He splashed it, first, into one glass, then refilled it, and splashed it into the second.
“And you’ve been teaching at St. Bernard since then?” he asked, unscrewing a small bottle of soda and sprinkling it in the direction of the two tumblers.
“No, actually, I was in the Air Force for a while”, I said. “I’ll use the GI Bill for grad school.”
“Oh, you were in the service?” he said, coming out from behind the bar, holding an ice-topped drink in each of his glistening hands.
“Yes, for a year” I replied, looking at his moist hands and water speckled slacks, and wondering how he had gotten so wet. “I was discharged when my father died. My brother and I were both serving when it happened, and they allowed one of us to leave”.
The doctor handed me a glass, raised his slightly and toasted “Up the rebels!”
“Salud”, I replied, lifting my glass in salute.
He took a long drink and resumed his seat across from me, while I took a measured taste. The scotch exploded in my mouth.
“Holy Shit” I thought, “what is in this drink!” It was the strongest mixed drink I’d ever had. Was there ANY soda in this drink?
Glass in hand, the doctor reclined in his chair and said, “I was a lieutenant j.g. in the war. I served with the 3rd Marine Division as a naval surgeon.”
“Oh, really”, I added, taking another drink, “my father was a Marine in the war”.
“I was at Iwo Jima, where did he serve?”
“He didn’t see that action” I replied. “He fought in the Philippines and was in the Battle of Leyte.” With another swallow, the fumes and liquor began seeping into my body, relaxing my worries about meeting Kathy’s parents for the first time. This scotch was pretty good! I’d never considered the beneficial effects that an extra shot of scotch had on a drink before.
“Ahhh, the Battle of Leyte”, reminisced the doctor, “it was the first battle in the reconquest of the Philippines. The attack was the largest amphibious operation at the time, and Douglas MacArthur was the supreme commander. The Marines didn’t have much use for him, though, they called him Dugout Doug. It was a derisive name”.
“Hmmm”, I responded. I was about to add my own opinion of MacArthur, when a sharp glance from Kathy stopped me from fueling the conversation. I’d heard these facts before, when my father and his brothers spoke of the war and discussed the merits of MacArthur as a general and leader. Contrary to most Marines, my father respected MacArthur, and his ability to keep American casualties low by “attacking where they ain’t”. Most Marines, however, could never forgive Dugout Doug for abandoning his command at Corregidor.
“Iwo Jima was the largest action I saw”, he continued. “After 35 days of fighting, we suffered 28, 000 causalities, with about 7,000 killed in action. That’s where I learned to be a surgeon. ‘Meatball surgery’ they call it on the TV show MASH. That’s where I learned my trade, on the beaches of Iwo Jima”.
I nodded my head at the doctor and noticed that Kathy and her mom were trading apprehensive looks at this extended monologue.
“Lieutenant General Holland Smith was the commanding general”, the doctor continued as he rattled the ice in his glass before finishing the drink. “Howlin Mad Smith’, he was called, and he deserved the name. He was 6 foot, 2 inches, 280 pounds, and the meanest sonofabitch on the island”.
Kathy again caught my eye. This time she began staring, alternately, at my glass and then moving her glance toward the doorway. I finally got the silent message and concentrated my efforts on finishing my drink, and not encouraging the doctor to elaborate further on the story.
“On the second day of the battle” he added, “I was ordered to tell ‘Howlin Mad’ that he was running a fever and should be in bed. I was the most junior medical officer on Iwo Jima, and everyone was afraid to face him. I walked up to him, saluted, and said, ‘My compliments, sir; it is my duty as medical officer to inform you that you are running a temperature of over 103 degrees and need to be placed under a doctor’s care in sickbay, immediately’. Well, he walked right up to my face and screamed, ‘I am not taking orders from a goddamn j.g... No shave tail medical officer is going to tell me that I have a goddamn fever and take away my command. This battle is my moment in history, and you will not take it away from me’. Needless to say, he didn’t go to sickbay.”
He rose from the couch and pointed his empty glass at me, “Would you like another drink?”
“Edward! Dad!” chimed in Mary and Kathy, simultaneously.
“No thank you, doctor”, I said quickly, putting my glass on the coffee table, “we really should leave. That’s quite a story”.
“Well, it’s too bad that you have to leave so soon” he grumbled. “We were just starting to get to know each other”.
“I’m sure you’ll have many more opportunities, Edward”, Mary said, as she took my elbow and led me away from the doctor. Kathy joined us, and we walked together to the front door.
“Well, let me walk you out, then” the doctor said as he hurried to catch up as we passed through the door and onto the asphalt driveway. “You’ll have to tell me more about your father’s Marine experiences the next time we talk.”
“Sure”, I replied, cognizant that Kathy was walking faster, trying to get us to the car as quickly as possible. I was puzzled by all the haste; what was the hurry? Despite her cautionary warnings to me about her father’s legendary impatience and intolerance as a surgeon, he seemed a very pleasant man, and I thought I had done a good job of being respectful, solicitous, and interesting. I was convinced that I had succeeded in making a very favorable impression.
“So Tony, I didn’t have a chance to ask you before, but what do you think of doctors?”
I don’t know what came over me. Perhaps it was carelessness, the double scotch, or my overconfidence at believing I had already won his approval as a suitor. Whatever the reason, I responded quickly and unthinkingly.
“Well doctor, I believe they killed my father”.
Kathy stopped short, turned and stared at me with a horrified expression.
“What”, choked the doctor in surprise, “do you mean?”
“He died from a myocardial infarction, one year ago, on November 1”, I recited automatically, with a note of irritation for having to explain. “My mother and sister took him to the doctor that morning, complaining of chest pains. His doctor examined him, told him to take his medication, and released him. He had another heart attack later that afternoon and died. As far as I’m concerned, the doctor did such a poor job that he might as well have killed him”. There was a lonnnggg silence, as we all stood together in the driveway. It slowly dawned on me that I had over-stepped with this unanticipated, emotional outburst.
“I’m sorry about the loss of your father, Tony” the doctor said quietly. “I’m not familiar with his case, but I can tell you that doctors aren’t perfect, and they sometimes misjudge the seriousness of symptoms.” His voice had changed from the lofty, professorial tones in the family room, to a softer, bedside manner.
“Doctor, I’m not blaming you”, I explained, trying not to look at Kathy or her mom. “I really should not have brought it up”. How was I going to get out of this? I had a sudden vision of all the goodwill I had secured in the family room slowly sinking into a sea of unconscious issues and hard feelings. My slip of the tongue gave him more than enough reason to dislike me, if he chose to take offense.
“No, no, it’s alright. I know you’re not blaming me”, he said, as we resumed our walk toward the car. “The death of a father is tough, and doctors are supposed to keep them alive”. He paused again, and added “You know Tony, doctors can’t beat death; they can just try to prolong life. They diagnose the illness, treat the symptoms, and operate when they can; but death is outside their control. My parents died in a flash flood, a random and accidental death, with no apparent rhyme or reason. All dying seems that way”.
Kathy and her mother said nothing throughout this exchange. They simply stood there, looking at each other, waiting for something to happen. I took advantage of the next pause to extricate myself from this situation as best I could.
“Well, thank you for understanding, doctor”, I said as I approached my parked car. “I guess I’m still not over my father’s death. I hope I didn’t offend you”.
“Not at all Tony, I admire your honesty. I know how it feels to lose a father”. He extended his hand and said, “If you ever feel the need to talk about it, I’d be honored if you called me”.
I shook his hand, and then opened the passenger side door, waiting for Kathy to enter. She quickly kissed her mother and father on the cheek and stepped in.
“Goodbye, now”, I said waving, as Kathy’s parents stood side by side, waving back. I turned on the ignition, put the clutch in gear, and drove off.
“What was that about?” exploded Kathy, with a mixture of concern and wonderment. “Why did you say that?”
“Kathy, I honestly don’t know where that came from”, I confessed, shaking my head. “I am really sorry. Do you think he was mad? Did I really insult him?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t seem angry”, she admitted, sitting back into her seat and staring straight ahead. “I’ll have to check with my mom when I get home”. After a long silence, she added, “I can’t believe he told you about his parents. He even offered to discuss your father’s death with you! What got into him?”
Doctor Greaney and I shared many scotches and sodas after that first meeting, especially when Kathy and I visited him and Mary at their beach house in San Juan Capistrano. There he would wait until sunset to begin the “cocktail hour” as the sun disappeared into the Pacific Ocean. It was also there that he explained that the term “Happy Hour” was Navy slang for the off-duty time when sailors and officers could relax and enjoy themselves in their respective “clubs”.
Kathy and I have continued this tradition at home, reserving 5 o’clock for cocktails, when we can recap our day and discuss news events. When we were both working in education, this was the time when we could “debrief” and recount the day’s activities at our schools or offices. Nowadays, however, we use this time to telephone friends and family members, talk about our granddaughters, and remember times past.
