The Day George Fought With His Dad

Lake Shore Hotel 1952

When Joe and I attended a wedding reception at the Lake Shore Hotel I could never have guessed how our day would end.

That afternoon we walked down the carpeted steps into the hotel’s ballroom.

High above us thousands of tiny glittering bulbs in chandeliers lit the room and across from us, glass doors with ornate handles opened to a sweeping view of Lake Erie under a sapphire sky.

Waiters dressed in immaculate white jackets, black bow ties, black trousers and polished black shoes weaved in and out of the guests while balancing silver trays of bubbly champagne.

Lake Shore Hotel Ballroom

As we waited in line to greet the newlyweds I noticed, on a small stage behind us, a woman in a satin gown stroking a golden harp. Her music caressed the well-wishers like a soothing balm.

Then, without any warning, a sharp voice cut through the joyous atmosphere and everything stopped.

It was the Maitre D’s voice. He was standing in front of a microphone on the small stage at the end of the ballroom. “May I have your attention. There is an urgent call for Mary Jane Elster. Please go to the phone at the desk in the lobby.”

Joe accompanied me to the lobby and stayed next to me when I took the call.

I was startled when I heard George. His words were erratic and I couldn’t tell if what he said was a plea or a demand. “You’ve got to meet me at the train station in the Terminal Tower. I’ve fought with my Dad and I’m leaving home.” George didn’t say what the argument was about but I knew it was serious.

George talked to my mother earlier in the day and she told him I was with Joe and he already knew that we had recently become engaged. But it didn’t seem to matter.

I tried explaining how wrong it was to expect me to go and besides, “How would I get there?” George said “Have Joe drive you.”

Because I hesitated George became annoyed. His final word was “Try” and then he hung up.

Several years later, after each of us married others, we spoke again. But that’s a story for another time.

Author’s note – Because I am losing my sight I am seldom bothered by outside distractions making my memories even more vivid.

Mary Jane Schriner

A Fragrant Memory

Yesterday on my 78th birthday my son Michael and his wife Michelle sent me a dozen lovely American Beauty roses and by late afternoon my small apartment was filled with their fragrance. It reminded me of a long ago time when I received my first dozens roses.

There was a knock at the door and a man’s loud voice called out, “I have a delivery for Mary Jane Elster.”

When I opened the door the man handed me a florist box with a red satin bow.

I quickly removed the bow, took off the lid, and to my delight, found a dozen American Beauty roses with a note inside.

The handwritten note simply said, “Happy 16th birthday, Champ.” Love, George

I still have the note, the red satin bow and best of all, the memory.

Mary Jane Schriner
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Miss Rheingold 1952, and the Crown goes to…

The phone rang at midnight and when I answered it I heard George’s voice telling me, “I just took Miss Rheingold home and I’m back at the William’s Club.”

At that time I had no idea who Miss Rheingold was but recently Bill Gutman, a well-known author and good friend, explained that, back in the day, Rheingold Beer ran a yearly contest in New York to choose the most beautiful contestant. Some of the finalist were Grace Kelly, Tippi Hedren and Hope Lange.

George said his date was with the 1952 winner Anne Hogan and then he went on to say, “Elster, you ruined me. I use to be fun – lots of noise – right in the center of the old party. Now, look at me.”

My response should have been, “That’s okay George why don’t you relax with a nice mug of Rheingold Beer.”

Mary Jane Schriner
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George really did like Meatball Calzones!

George and I often went to a local Italian restaurant in Westlake, Ohio, called the Elzona. And as you can imagine, from watching Seinfeld, George always ordered the Meatball Calzone. I never paid much attention at the time but when I see that episode it makes me laugh.

In fact, George liked the calzones so much he nicknamed the Elzona the “Calzona.”

Author’s note – George preferred meatball calzones to eggplant calzones.

Mary Jane Schriner
© All Rights Reserved

George gets his first taste of Humble Pie

In my two previous articles concerning my friendship with George Steinbrenner I described George’s Deluxe powder blue convertible but what I failed to mention was on my seventeenth birthday my parents gave me a sporty light green 1950 Plymouth convertible.

When George heard about my gift he hurried over to our house to check out my new car.

As soon as he saw that my convertible was smaller than his convertible a look of relief spread across his face. And to top it off the MJ40 on my license plate was not as prestigious as his G7S. Therefore, in his mind, he was still the teenager that owned the very best car in Bay Village, Ohio.

Original art by Mary Jane Schriner

One warm summer's day we were sitting underneath the oak tree in my front yard when we began to compare our cars. George complimented my car but, as usual, he boasted that his car was bigger, better and faster than mine. That was it. In his devious way George had thrown down the gauntlet and I knew I must accept his challenge.

That evening we met, with our cars, on a small dirt road in a neighboring suburb.

Then we parked our cars next to each other and at the count of three we put our pedals to the metal and like grease lightning we plunged into the night.

Halfway to the end of the road George zoomed by me and won the race. Then to make matters worse, when I arrived at the finish line he walked over to my car and said, in his most annoying tone, "Don't feel bad "Sport" it's not your fault my car is bigger and faster than yours."

We did race a few more times but our final race was so devastating for George we never raced again.

Our cars were parked together and at the count of three I took off in a cloud of dust but when I looked to the side George was nowhere to be seen. Of course, I stopped and went back to George's car and there he was, the race car king, sitting behind his steering wheel with a scowl on his face.

He explained that the gas gauge had broken in his "bigger and faster" car and it was out of gas.

Trying to help I said, "Don't feel bad, "Sport," I'll be happy to drive you, in my little car, to get a can of gas."

On the way to the gas station George was slouched down in the passenger seat. He was a broken man. I knew this was my chance.

So, with a sympathetic tone in my voice, I asked him if after we got the gas would he like to get something to eat and then I said, "I'd love to treat you to a big slice of humble pie."

We never raced again.

Mary Jane Schriner
© All Rights Reserved