Update 4-30-02


Wow,

We had a party.

We talked.  We ate.  We drank.  We danced.  (Well, some of us did.)  We hiked.  We played golf.  We worked out.  Some people even soaked in the hot tub.  And did I mention we talked ourselves hoarse?

We caught up.

Well, we tried to.  I had three days worth of five minute conversations, many of which could have lasted an evening.  I learned things I probably should have known in high school and heard stories that possibly haven't been told since then.

We took pictures---many of which will turn up here in time.  Just send me the prints, and I'll scan them, then send the photos back.  Or e-mail me digital files.  My home address, for anyone who missed picking up the printed bios, is:  23030 Dolorosa Street, Woodland Hills, California  91367.  And if you missed picking up the printed bios and need a home address or phone number you think was printed there, just ask---because, for privacy, we're not putting that information on the home page.

We had fun.  As Paul DeMartino has already said about the smaller gatherings, people who once seemed to have nothing in common suddenly found lots to talk about.  Some folks made new friends.  Others found old ones.  Missing people were lamented, and, more times than I can remember, I heard, "He should have been here."  "She would have liked this."  "Have you heard anything at all about them?"  There are still eighty people we're looking for, and maybe one hundred people we know of who couldn't, or wouldn't, come to the party.  Fortunately, there'll be other parties soon.
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I kept being asked, "When's the next reunion?"  "When are we doing this again?"  Possibly as soon as 2005---for our fortieth anniversary---or maybe in five years.  The Class of '61 is now on a five-year reunion cycle, which it seems to find comfortable, and we could try that.  Though some people seem to think it would be easier to round off to forty, then go by fives from there---which is why the next reunion may be in three years.  And there will still be smaller parties before then.

The New York mini-gatherings may continue regularly, and I heard talk of offshoots in Florida, D.C., and California.  Talk was that a reunion in three years wouldn't attract nearly as many people as this one did after seventeen, but that doesn't matter:  fifty people shouting could probably make just as much noise as the nearly one hundred and forty who got there this time.

And we did make noise.  We nearly got kicked out of the hospitality suite twice.  Once, because the hotel rules had changed after a party last week had to be broken up by the police; the second time, because it was 10:30 at night and other hotel guests already wanted to sleep.  Imagine that.  But the Friday night party that was supposed to start at 7:00, actually started at 3:00 in the afternoon, just as Dennis Shapiro and Paul began unpacking the wine.  And despite the fact that at 10:30 we were relocated to the main lobby by the hotel manager, the party went on to midnight, or two, or even four---it all depended on when you finally wanted to go to sleep (which some people never seemed to).

But while we continued Friday night, it was the Marx Brothers' stateroom.  The hospitality suite had four rooms, but people preferred to congregate in one.  They came.  They jammed against each other.  They partied.  At one point, some local young folks merely having their tenth high school reunion asked, "How come there are so many more of you than us?  And how come you're having so much more fun?"  Maybe because some of us hadn't seen each other since 1965, slightly before the Class of '92 was born.
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Most of Saturday, people were on their own, but the time still seemed to go too quickly.  I'd tried to get a little sleep, but it turned out I was still on L.A. time and because of my usual late hours hadn't dozed off till dawn.  I was awake by 8:00, as people gathered for coffee in the hospitality suite next door, then finally got out of bed at 10:00.  From then, till 6:00 the next morning, I was running, though I didn't bring my camera out till the evening party.  And even then, I took fewer pictures than I'd expected because so many other people had cameras.  The food was reportedly great, though I somehow forgot to eat:  every time I started toward the serving line, someone started another conversation.  An hour later, I saw the waiters bringing plate after plate of cakes, all of which seemed to be eaten as soon as they hit the buffet tables---except for the one Jerry Bittman supposedly chased after when the bus boys finally began to clear.  Still, I managed to miss the cake-eating, too.

Six teachers showed up:  Toni Rea, Theresa Margolin Bargman. Booker Gibson, Bernie O'Brien, Joe Caruso, and Ed Schmidt.  Virginia Ressa Schmidt had been expected, but wasn't feeling well, and an eighth teacher---Irving Saffrin---had only been invited that morning, when we finally got his phone number.  Logically, he already had evening plans, but said that, under any other circumstances, he would gladly have attended.

The teachers seemed well, and happily retired---their average age easily topped seventy.  Many brought regards from teachers who hadn't been able to come, or sent their best to students who also couldn't be there.  Still, by 11:00, they were largely gone, and the juke box, which had played quietly under conversation, was cranked.  For the next hour-and-a-half, people danced, as eagerly as we had at sixteen.  And when we were finally evicted by the clean-up crew, we again migrated to the main lobby.  At 2:00, we closed that bar, but still people didn't want to quit, and several dozen slipped into the supposedly-off-limits hospitality suite to finish off the last five bottles of champagne.  That's when I finally got around to eating, picking the least unhealthy leftovers from Terri's snacks:  seven asparagus sticks, two apples, an individual-size Drake's coffee cake (very dry), and four small bags of Fritos---maybe nothing has changed from high school.

Sunday morning, people gathered for pancakes and goodbyes.  Checkout time was noon, but there were still stragglers in the lobby at 2:00 as Paul loaded the last few bottles of hospitality suite wine into his car.  "Better to have too much than run out," he said, smiling, then added that all had gone well financially, and he thought we were still a few hundred bucks ahead---pending his final audit, of course

There were a couple of things we all agreed would change for next time, mainly having a larger, always accessible, hospitality suite so we didn't have to keep going back to the lobby.  But other than some late night huffing at the hotel manager, everything had gone peacefully.

So on behalf of all of those who helped put the party together---Terri, Paul, Dennis, Nancy, Fran, Roz, Emily, and Jane---I say "You're Welcome" for all the "Thank Yous," and "You done goods."  Finally, a toast I was happy not to make at the party, because I don't like the attention, but I'll offer happily now:  "To absent friends."


Rich