CENTURY CITY
Next month, on April 22, Robert Schimmel, affectionately known as “Schim,” will join the elite, less than one-tenth of 1% of the United States population, who have reached triple digits.
On Wednesday, I sat on a couch in the house he and his wife had built 34 years ago. Schim, slightly slumped in a large upholstered lounge chair across from me, looked comfortable but unassuming.
“Are you excited for your birthday party?” I asked. Dressed entirely in black—a Columbia puffer, slacks, and Crocs—he shrugged and replied that it would be “just another day.”
His wife, Mary, had reached out to share the news with us, seemingly more excited about this centenarian milestone than Schim himself. She hadn’t told him I was coming.
Behind him, a snow covered mountain landscape stretched beyond ceiling-high glass windows. Most of the blinds were open, except for one, which featured a taped-up poster reading “100 Years Young,” adorned with a mosaic of photos his daughter made. In the corner, their cat hid behind a T.V. stand, and Mary placed a plate of cookies on the side-table by the couch.
Schim described his life as existing in “phases,” with memories grouped together by significant events. Together, Mary, Schim, and I pieced together these phases, lamenting the challenge of summarizing a century in just an hour. Then, Mary pulled out a brown-covered photo album, and Schim’s eyes lit up. She brought it over, and a couple black-and-white frames fluttered to the floor.
He opened the album and pointed to a photo of an 11-foot brown bear, held up by several uniformed men. This picture was taken during his Navy “phase.” He enlisted at eighteen during World War II. The war ended before he saw combat, but he spent years training and ferrying airplanes across the country.
“I can still see myself the first time I flew a Corsair,” he recalled. A Corsair was a prominent fighter plane during World War II and the Korean War. Schim said it was huge. He remembered getting into the cockpit, starting the engine, and rolling down the runway, he said. He pushed the lever, raced down the strip, and then pulled back to shoot into the sky.
The Navy was a good experience for Schim, and he found a lot of camaraderie within his Squadron. Despite the looming threat of deployment to Japan and some “close calls” during training, he cherished the work.
He recounted a particularly harrowing moment during flight training in Memphis, Tennessee, when his instructor simulated an engine failure at an interval of 500 feet.
As the instructor cut the engine, Schim spotted a firehouse and a large field ahead. Instinctively, he steered toward the field, focusing intently on keeping the nose of the aircraft down.
The rush of speed blurred his surroundings, making it difficult to gauge the proximity of obstacles. Suddenly, he realized he had flown through telephone wires, the adrenaline peaking as the wire sliced through the air above the cockpit.
Though the engine managed to sever the wire, it draped across his chest before fully snapping as he landed.
“My life was just full of those little incidents,” he told me.
“They were always happening.”
We looked at a few more photos before Schim closed the book. There were pictures of his friends, of planes, mountain landscapes, and beaches. “How does it feel to look at pictures of yourself from that time?” I asked. A small smile graced his lips.
“It feels good, reminiscing,” he said.
Once the war ended, Schim attended UCLA on the GI Bill and joined the Alpha Sigma Phi fraternity, ultimately graduating with a degree in engineering. He quickly found a job in the aerospace industry and excelled in his career.
Along the way, he built a family: his first marriage brought him a daughter, Heidi, who had two children before sadly passing away from breast cancer. His second marriage to Mary added four stepchildren to his life, all teenagers when they wed.
Now, after 45 years together, the couple has eleven grandchildren and a great-grandson, Cal, with another on the way. The children have all planned visits to celebrate his birthday.
As they shifted into retirement, Schim and Mary bought a sailboat—one of Mary’s favorite memories. They initially had no sailing experience, but they learned quickly, and Schim began competing in races. Together, they would sail, enjoying the open water.
“We used to sail to Catalina, turn off the engine, and let the wind guide us, with porpoises swimming beside us,” Mary reminisced. “Wasn’t that peaceful?” Schim nodded in agreement.
The couple finally moved to Mammoth in 1991, drawn by the allure of land they had first viisted during a trip to Yosemite’s High Sierra Loop Camp. In that era, Mammoth looked different—less developed. Schim skied on wooden skis with bear-claw bindings and leather boots, gathering with friends at the Tavern.
They love living in Mammoth, especially since it provides their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren another reason to visit.
As I put my notebook away and stood to leave, I realized that Schim hadn’t offered any secrets to longevity (he actually said that maybe he had lived too long.) He didn’t give me any life advice, either, even when I asked.
Yet what he did express was pride in his “ability to get along” in life. He cherished all his “phases”— his Navy service, college years, career, family, sailing, and skiing in retirement. He embraces life as it comes, so it makes sense to me that turning 100 feels like “just another day” to him.
