Column: A Kid’s Great Day (To The Max)

Nothing against my other six uncles, but Uncle Max was my favorite. He grew up in New York State, played Dixieland/jazz piano by ear, sang Sinatra — his wife Kitty’s favorite — and other styles. (If you want to hear how Max Jolls played piano, listen to Harry Connick, Jr.) He also was an engaging teller of jokes and stories. What further bespoke his cool was that he was a pilot for United Airlines. I thought it especially cool that he flew the Green Bay Packers of the 1960s and got to meet them.

One day, after a visit to West Chicago to see Uncle Max, Aunt Kitty, and my cousins Mike and Jenny, he and I took off in a small plane to take me back to Cape. After a while, he put the plane in my inexperienced 15-year-old hands and went behind the cockpit, out of my sight. “Just keep it steady on this line on the instrument panel,” he said, “and I’ll be back in a minute.” When he returned, I had, in my stiff nervousness, flown us off course. “You’re letting the plane fly you,” he said. I was glad he was back.

Before long, we were soaring over the muddy waters of the winding Mississippi, and soon, we could see Cape’s flood wall. The dome of Academic Hall on campus and the Southeast Missourian newspaper building with its classic Mission/Spanish Revival architecture and the moving cars all looked like toy miniatures as we circled around to the airport, where Uncle Max brought us down with a feathery touch.

My dad picked me up, and after a short visit, Uncle Max took off into the blue, dipping his wings as we waved goodbye. We headed to Houck Stadium, where Dad would be the public address announcer for the night’s Cape Central football game.

At the end of the first quarter, I started walking to my job since I was too young to drive, stopping at the new pizza place that had replaced Wimpy’s Wigwam. I ordered a sandwich to eat on the way so I wouldn’t be late.

Walking down Broadway, I passed the Varsity Barbershop, the Pladium pool hall, the big columns of First Baptist Church, Vandeven’s Mercantile, Howard’s Athletic Goods, Wayne’s Grill, the Esquire Theater, Southwestern Bell Telephone, Tenkhoff’s Rexall Drugs, the Palmer House Restaurant, Shivelbine’s Music, the Rialto Theater, the KFVS-TV building, the old Marquette Hotel, the Petit N’Orleans Restaurant and on until Broadway ran downhill to the river.

As I neared my destination, I thought of when a friend from Denver saw the Mississippi for the first time. Perhaps we locals sometimes take the mighty river for granted, just as she might have the Rocky Mountains, but when she first saw the Mississippi, tears welled in her eyes.

My journey ended at the Southeast Missourian building, with its distinctive architecture and tiled mural. I let myself in with my key to begin my night’s work as a sports reporter. The newsroom was on the second floor, and I made my way up the marble staircase, inhaling the smell of ink and newsprint.

My job was to take phone calls from high school football — and later basketball — coaches or assistants and then write up the stats, an account of the game, and if possible, get some good quotes from the coach. My coworkers were Sam Blackwell, Jim Grebing and later on, Brad Kirtley. We worked at the desks of various Missourian editors and reporters. At his own desk was our boss, sports editor Ray Owen — who was about the best boss I ever had.

I aspired to be a professional journalist. But despite working many hours on the school newspaper and yearbook and getting as many as three bylines in the Missourian sports section in one Saturday edition, I gradually realized the relentless deadlines would create more time pressure than I would be happy working against. My dream of a career in journalism faded away.

That night, Sam gave me a ride home in his VW Beetle. Cape had just gotten its first McDonalds, and we used the drive-through to order our hamburgers, fries and milkshakes.

I got home around midnight. To my great surprise and elation, my long-distance girlfriend from northern Missouri greeted me at the door. Tina was, as they say, as cute as a bug’s ear. (I kind of wondered what she was doing with me.)

My parents had gone to bed. We went outside and talked and gazed at the stars for a while, then went to separate bedrooms (of course). Sleep did not come easily, but I finally drifted off, thinking of what we might do tomorrow and what a great day today had been. Quite a day for a 15-year-old who couldn’t drive yet (or fly a plane).

P.S. — Goodbye, everybody.