Date: Tue, 08 May 2001 15:46:08 -0700 From: Jack Stenger Subject: Reflections on C. Richard Schroder, M.D. To: "'mcconnar@muohio.edu'" Reflections on C. Richard Schroder, M.D. For most of us, Charles Richard Schroder will be as close to an immovable force as we will know. As long as we have been - certainly as long as we can remember - our dear friend has been longer. So upon learning of his death, many of us likely thought: "This can not be so. We will always have our 'Doc.'" Like many who knew him, the first image of the man was that of the smiling, genial figure who sauntered in his inimitable and leisurely fashion across the Boys' Hill en route to the camp infirmary. To us, the Fort Scott youth of the 1970s and early 1980s, he seemed ancient. (During these years, he was in his late 60s and early 70s.) But even in our youthful dimness, there was in Doc an unmistakable life force obvious to even the most oblivious. First, there was his radiant, ever-present smile. Not just a smile, mind you, but a toothy riot that reflected an obvious love for youth, for camp life, and for life in general. Then there was his gentle bearing, and the mellifluous voice that becalmed all ills. Even if we were too busy to be sick, or were fortunate to avoid the chronic mishaps that called for extended stays in the infirmary, Doc's presence alone brought a certain sense of stability. All was never lost at Fort Scott, as long as the old man was just over there on the other side of the hill. Maturing from camper to counselor brought with it a host of privileges and pleasures. Among these was better acquainting myself with Doctor Schroder. During these years, he evolved in my consciousness to the far more complex personage that he was. Mind you, his foundational attributes never changed - his loving manner, gentle bearing and constancy of purpose were always there. Incidentally, those who never saw him in action missed out on a master. He seemed to me the king of psychosomatic diagnosis. By sheer power of suggestion, and through use of ingenious placebos (read: brauts and a Coke ingested by a peaceful campfire) Doc could outwit most anything campers brought him. None should misread, though: When the situation was grave and injuries needed dramatic attention, he was always capable. But, to me, Doc seemed just as schooled in the psychology of illness as he was in medicine's more physical components. Getting better acquainted with Doc as a Fort Scott staffer meant peeling away his avuncular, outer shell and unearthing layers that reveled more of the man. These memories are most acute when I think of lazy summer evenings by the infirmary campfire. There, surrounded by his loyal medical staff and the occasional homesick camper, Doc would ask questions - queries that revealed his sharp mental capacities and an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. He was one-part camp historian: "In the 1930s, we used to swim in the Little Miami River..." One-part naturalist: "These sugar maples are indigenous to the Ohio Valley." And one-part raconteur. "I remember when you're uncle came to us with quite a blow to his head..." As a background soundtrack, we had Reds radio broadcasts. Occasionally Marty and Joe caught our attention. But more often conversation was bound up in the ebb and flow of the camp season. At the heart of these idyllic settings was a smiling, hospitable Doctor Schroder. We were young, life was good, and the future was as far away from us as Cincinnati lights are from the placid rhythm of New Baltimore in the summer. Eventually, we all graduated and moved on. Campfires gave way to families, to graduate degrees, to new locales and to all the complications that constitute adult life. And real world realities, which Fort Scott had always so successfully defied, eventually consumed the beloved summer camp of our youth. But still, Doc Schroder remained. True to form, he successfully migrated through the vagaries of these times to points of continued service - even at a considerably advanced age. Most Fort Scotters will never know of the deep affection and regard that residents of Oneida, Kentucky, had for our dear friend. But for more than a decade, he lived among the hollers and coves of Appalachia, dispensing to the sons and daughters of the Oneida Baptist Institute the same type of healing craft that generations of Catholic youth had known. Our Doc - Good Samaritan Hospital Doc, Hyde Park and Pleasant Ridge Doc, the quintessential Queen City Man - was very much at home in bucolic Clay County! It was in these years, in the 1990s, that I got to know Doc best and came to most fully appreciate his amazing life. I had never known that as a boy, he summered in Southern California, visiting his grandparents in then-rustic Whittier, Calif. (Once the heart of a stunning citrus and agricultural belt, this region is now a mind-numbing expanse of urban sprawl, crowded freeways and congested population centers.) During these years, I learned of his college years at Xavier, his medical training at the University of Cincinnati, and his monk-like existence as a medical resident at Good Samaritan. Not long after he settled into a burgeoning medical practice, duty called him to the battlefields of Europe. Fort Scotters would have wondered at the genuine affection that the aging members of the "Red Devil" Army battalion had for our Doctor Schroder during its annual reunions. (I had the fortune to accompany Doc to this reunion event in Uniontown, Pa., in 1992.) The same physician who patched scraped elbows for campers, witnessed the devastating effects of war during the 1940s. In the fight against Nazi tyranny, Doc saw death and administered life-giving service on behalf of his country. Did we Fort Scotters, with our short attention spans and busy social agendas, know all the aspects of Doc's multifaceted career? There were his years as medical director at his alma mater, Xavier University. Equally defining of the man were his years as a medical provider at a state medical hospital among society's most marginalized. In his twilight years, I learned of his abiding love for and encyclopedic knowledge of Cincinnati. On occasion, during a drive in his steady Buick LeSabre (a "doctor's car" if ever there was one), he would give a narrative account of the neighborhoods that defined his and his family's life. Price Hill origins. Pleasant Ridge roots. A fledgling practice in Evanston. An apartment and extended family in Hyde Park. In these drives, every place told a story, and every street had a former patient. To me, it seemed no place in Cincinnati was untouched by this aging physician. We need not fear for Doc Schroder. In dying, he meets a friend in God. We all know his faith was strong, that the Christian message of redemption and resurrection was well established in his mind. And for ourselves, the grief we feel in losing a friend is perhaps tempered by the realization that his was a life fully lived. We should all aspire to as much. Fort Scott icon. World War II veteran. Urban physician. County doctor. Generous benefactor. Loyal churchman. Uncle. Brother. Friend. He was all these things and more. I stand among the many who will always say: "I was fortunate to have known him." Long after the flames of a campfire have died down, its embers continue to glow in the night, projecting warmth, light and comfort. Likewise, the treasured memory of Charles Richard Schroder will never be fully extinguished in our hearts. Signed, John Stenger Riverside, Calif. Jack Stenger Marketing Department Riverside County's Credit Union RCUSO Marketing Specialist (888)883-RCCU (7228) (909)779-2164