Number One Son

One of my earliest recollections of Scott goes back to when, by my calculation, I was four years old. On Christmas morning, at some very early hour, he led Doug and me into the living room to see if Santa had come to visit. The house was cold, and the only light came in through the big, frost encrusted, aluminum framed windows. To this day, I can still feel the textured yellow-gold carpet under my bare feet as we snuck down the hall in single file. Ahead of us, I could see the Christmas Tree, and even though the string of lights were unplugged, the tinsel and antique glass ornaments still glittered in the light reflected by a dusting of snow. When I turned the corner from the hall, there was Scott in the middle of the room, grin on his face, surrounded by all the wrapped packages. I was amazed at the sight, and awed that my big brother let me in on the secret journey to the living room. While I had no doubt the presents were the work of the jolly old elf, it was also kind of like Scott played a part in making the gifts appear. Do big brothers have that kind of magical power?

First Communion at St. Michael.

Like most folks, Scott had temporary fascinations, or phases, that eventually faded. Scott’s, however, were often unique and intense. Like his arm breaking phase. Not his own arms, but other kids’ arms. One summer, brother Doug and Scott were playing on a rope swing that arced out over a gully, and Scott helped Doug with an unplanned, high-dive-like maneuver that resulted in Doug’s arm fracturing. Then it was my turn, when, by some twist of physics, I found my arm positioned between Scott’s bicycle wheels and the pavement, resulting in a greenstick fracture and a stint in the plaster. Finally, one of Scott’s classmates got his turn during an outdoor school assembly. I don’t recall the specific details that led to Scott’s hands manipulating the other kid’s arm in an unnatural direction, while the class was supposed to be sitting quietly, but there it was. The hat-trick of arms. None of these events were specifically his “fault,” but it seems to stretch the word “coincidence” that he was present for all three.

Scott had some other interesting phases that, while less ER-intensive, could have been similarly harmful. About fifteen or sixteen years of age, Scott was finding his teenage persona and style. Some readers might recall the TV advertisements for the album Southern Fried Rock, or the John Travolta film Urban Cowboy. Well, my big brother, product of the Columbus suburbs, with zero connection to the country, or anything south of the Ohio River, went whole hog on the style. There were Charlie Daniels Band, Lynyrd Skynyrd and even McGuffey Lane albums on his record player. He had a cowboy hat, a blue down vest, and cowboy boots. There was even a CB radio in his newly repainted 1970 Chevy Nova. Tragically, it all went up in smoke when the mechanic’s garage, where the car was on the alignment rack, burned to the ground. Hat, vest, and CB included. The boots, however, lived to fight another day.

There were some specific aspects of Scott’s character that definitely were not transitory in nature. In particular, work ethic, automobiles and sailing. Scott started his work life around eight or nine years of age. Dad, a one-man corporate aviation operation, took him to Don Scott Airport to help clean the company airplane. It was the old Aero Commander, a machine perfectly suited to a child’s smaller stature. For $2 an hour, Scott vacuumed the interior, wiped down the belly and washed away the exhaust stains on the engine nacelles. His next job was bussing tables at a Pullman Rail-themed restaurant in Linworth. From there it was on to Doran’s Dairy Delight, and then Sister’s Chicken and Biscuits. (It was at Sister’s that his cowboy boots found new life as work boots. Mom insisted they were not allowed in the house because they stunk of fried chicken.) Running in the background, behind these various jobs, Scott was also a sailing instructor at Leatherlips Yacht Club. After a brief phase as an OSU undergraduate, he worked his tail off for six years as a US Navy Hospital Corpsman and Aviation Physiology Technician. When he returned to Columbus, it wasn’t long before he was working at the Ohio State University Medical Center. When he landed in the ophthalmic imaging department, he was finally in his element. He remained there for the rest of his career.

Of course, all the jobs were required for one of the other constants in his life - automobiles- of all sorts. The first was the short-lived silver Nova that dad helped him refurbish. Then the gold 1970 Chevy Monte Carlo that he bought with the $500 insurance money. Next, there was a blue VW van with custom rear-facing airplane seats. During his time in the Navy, he had a 1960 Chevy Impala with tail fins, and a massive white 1972 Lincoln. There was a red T-bird in the eighties and the black VW Passat with the VR6 motor. He had a couple full sive Chevy vans for work and regattas. Scott’s penultimate ride was his 1983 Porsche 911 with SAILFST vanity plates. It was the focus of a short lived SCCA race phase, but he had fun while it lasted. If you asked him about his cars, there was always a story with some aspect that made his cars just a little more special than yours. That was probably his competitive side. Oh wait, did I not mention his competitive side?

When we were little kids, when one of us got a new game, especially one with printed rules, Scott would read the instructions and then explain them to the rest of us. (Handy when he was the only one who could read.) Then, if victory started slipping from his grasp, as it often did when playing with clever brothers like Doug or Rick, Scott would refer back to the rules and “clarify” that what ever it was that was causing him to lose was not part of the game, or a violation of some previously unrevealed rule. (Of course that only lasted until the rest of us got literate.)

Scott’s true competitiveness showed itself when he was on the water. Racing sailboats was a big deal for him from the time he was old enough to crew for dad. As the rest of the brothers moved up in the pecking order of sailing with dad, Scott moved on to the LYC Jr. Racing Team and crewed for a host of great sailors. When he came back to Ohio from his time in the Navy, he campaigned the old family boat, Interlake 681, and then his own 938, until he and Lynn went all-in on a new Interlake. Terry Kilpatrick built 1340 just for Scott and, like Charlie Daniels and his fiddle, it was an extension of him. He won countless class regattas and the ISCA Nationals three times in this boat .

Of course, none of the post-1986 Scott would have happened without Lynn, Claire, Matt and Megan. Scott’s family-man loyalty trumped (sometimes not by much) everything else he was doing. Scott was the first of the brothers to get married, and Lynn somehow managed to tame him. Acing the ultimate marriage stress-test, Lynn sailed with him when conditions permitted, winning a Nationals and several other regattas. Along the way, Claire was the inspiration for Scott becoming the best soccer dad in town. Megan prodded him into becoming an expert at all things volleyball. All you had to do was ask him, he’d tell you. His most remarkable expertise, uncovered when Matt was a senior in high school, was his profound understanding of the college matriculation process. In reality, it was how he expressed the pleasure he derived from watching his kids grow and succeed.

Lynn and Scott racing 1340.

Dad called him “my number one son,” and he was definitely the production prototype for Savage boys. He was our pathfinder and scout. Just as Scott was there for us in the beginning, it is now our honor to be there for him in the end.