Letter From Elba Annual Announcement: Yep, Dear Readers, it’s that time of year again. I’m heading up to the North Woods for some R&R. I’ll be back in your email boxes on Sunday, August 23.
But for now, relax and start your engines. (Don’t forget to fasten your seat belts.)
Do you remember John Schneiter, the legendary New Trier basketball and tennis coach? He died last year at the age of eighty after having one of the most storied careers in boys- and girls- high school sports.
A native of Olney, Illinois, Mr. Schneiter began his career at Decatur High and made history in 1961 by becoming- at age twenty-eight- the youngest coach of a state championship basketball team.
By 1963 Mr. Schneiter had moved to New Trier to coach the boys basketball team there. He was reassigned to the girls team in 1981 when East and New Trier West merged.
And it was at New Trier that he became the only Illinois basketball coach to lead a boys and a girls team to the title game.
He was inducted into the Illinois Basketball Coaches Hall of Fame in 1978 and the Illinois High School Tennis Coaches Association Hall of Fame in 1995.
I, too, joined New Trier in 1963.
And I, too, had the privilege of having Mr. Schneiter as my coach.
No, not in basketball or tennis.
He was my Driver’s Ed teacher.
And he was unforgettable.
I just looked up Olney on a map. It’s a small town in southeastern Illinois. That comes as no surprise to me. Mr. Schneiter had a real southern drawl.
In class he used to refer to the important piece of paper for which we lusted as the “driving per-MIT.” (Honeysuckle accent emphasis on the last syllable.)
And he always talked about “IN-surance” and the “PO-lice.”
(We were supposed to maintain the former and avoid riling the latter.)
To that end, he was as strict in the driver’s ed car as he was on the basketball court. It was no-nonsense at all times when Coach Schneiter was in the (wheel) house.
Teaching driving to hundreds of hormonal, idiotic, reckless teenagers must have taken nerves of steel but Coach was up to the task.
He was all business in the driver’s ed car. And as I recall, he didn’t hesitate to use his override brake when the goofy teenage learner made some newbie tactical error.
I’m a little fuzzy on where we practiced. But I do remember driving on curvy Forest Way and negotiating the twists and turns of the Ravines.
And parallel parking in downtown Winnetka.
Mr. S. must have done a pretty good job because as my sixteenth birthday approached, I was ready and eager to go to Libertyville *** to take the driver’s test.
***Libertyville is where all the savvy North Shore kids went. They didn’t make you parallel park there. (And remember, kids. Always turn your steering wheel into the curb when you park downhill.)
The fateful day in November finally arrived and my good friend Steve volunteered to take me. When we got to the facility, Steve urged me to go in a grab a place.
“I’ll be right in,” he assured me. “You get in line.”
I did as I was bid. And, as soon an examiner called my name, we headed out to my dad’s car.
I was feeling good. With that November birthday, I had been coached by virtually everyone on the perils of stopping in the crosswalk or failing to signal on a lane change. I knew I had this test cold.
I confidently put the key in the ignition and started the car.
And…
The whole damn thing exploded.
The radio blared, the emergency signals went nuts, the lights came on.
The examiner flunked me right there in the parking lot. I hadn’t even driven one foot.
And that wasn’t all.
“Who brought you?” he demanded angrily.
Shakily I pointed to Steve- now laughing in the parking lot.
The guy strode over to my merry prankster and said,”Okay, wise guy. Let me see your license.”
Steve immediately forked over the Xerox copy he kept in his wallet. (His original had been appropriated by the Winnetka cops for some other traffic misdemeanor.)
The examiner took one look at the ersatz document and tore it up on the spot.
Now neither of us had a license.
It took me a long time to get up my nerve and go for the gold again. Eventually I did succeed in getting that vital piece of paper and I can honestly say that in all my years of driving, I have only gotten one traffic ticket for going through a yellow light in 1976.
I went to traffic school and had it expunged.
Which means that the infraction didn’t raise the rates on my IN-surance.
Thanks, Coach.
Nice tribute, Ellen, and enjoy your R&R. Only one question: who’s driving?
My chauffeur, Rudolpho. Thanks, Doc.
Drive safely and see you in E.R.! Can’t wait!
Thanks, Vivien. Ditto! I’m packed already. Chomping at the bit to see you all.
Coach Schneiter brought New Trier basketball to new heights and founded the base for future successes.
Bring back some salad dressing from the White Stag.
You’re right, Mitch. And I’m taking orders for Russian Cream salad dressing as we speak. How many quarts should I put you down for? 🏀
Re new heights, you mean the players were taller than those who played for the preceding coach?
Yes, that’s exactly what Mitch meant.
They pretty much flunked everybody, especially the boys, the first time around. Frank and I decided to get it over with early, since our father told us we’d have to wait a month (or maybe two) before he’d take time off from work and bring us back. Everybody knew the last driving day was the expressway, but my instructor, the sophomore basketball coach Mr. Fly and an excellent teacher, made it really dramatic when my partner, who already had a license and his own car (his father owned a cab company), changed lanes on Willow Road without signaling. “You better wake up,” I remembering him saying, “we’re going to be on the expressway soon.” We get on the on ramp and my partner decides to break just as he’s entering the straightaway, and the car behind us just about rear-ended us. Mr. Fly screamed out something and went across the front seat of the Oldsmobile 88 and tromped on the gas pedal. I made sure after I took the wheel that I accelerated throughout the merger and calmed Mr. Fly’s nerves.
Thanks, Fred, for this great personal driver’s ed anecdote. My favorite part? Mr. Fly! I haven’t thought about him in donkey’s years! Thanks for the laugh.
Pretty good prank, even if it temporarily delayed your license!
I can laugh about it now. But back then, it was a tragedy. But you know what they say. Tragedy plus time equals comedy. Thanks for taking the time from your cruising, Commodore. Give my regards to Miss Calam- and smooth sailing to you. ⚓️
My drivers ed teacher was Mr. Weimer. (Not sure on the spelling) In my car group was Larry Rosensweig who was the huge center on the basketball team. When he sat in the front seat it seemed like his knees were taller than the dashboard…thank goodness we were in an Olds 88 which was a huge boat for the times. As for Libertyville, yes I was flunked the first time when we were only 2 blocks from the station. I had stopped at the corner and the front bumper was just a hair over the crosswalk line. At that time I was told to turn around and go back to the station….it was like a big blur….but I expected to be flunked anyway because all the guys were warned that you almost had to walk on water to pass the first time out. I got my license on the second go around without any problems only to lose it 2 months later speeding down Green Bay road. Ah great times….then it was on to traffic school and of course being grounded at home.
Thanks for the reminiscence, Steve. You tied it all up nicely- Larry Rosenzweig and drivers Ed. Ah, grounding… That’s a whole other post. 😊
I walked on water as I passed on my first try. Of course I had been taking my parents car out since I was 14 1/2 whenever they went out. Forest Way was a great test track.
I’m most impressed, Mitch. Congrats. And as I recall Forest Way was pretty good for testing some other things. (After dark and without a Driver’s Ed teacher in the car.)
For some reason, I’m having some difficulty getting thru to you today. Mitchell sure taught his younger brothers some bad habits with regards to taking their mother’s car out for learning how to drive. I am in total envy of your trip to ER since I was probably the youngest camper ever to start camp at the tender age of 5 1/2 I have nothing but the fondest memories of OJ. Have a ball. Allan
What’s an older brother for? And thanks, Alan. I’ll think of you when I’m in ER. Love, ER