Update 9-24-02


Hi,

A start with some language lessons:

From Marilyn Horowitz Goldhammer:  As someone who spends countless hours trying to help teenagers see that there IS Jewish life after Bar/Bat Mitzvah, I will be happy to translate for you.  L'shana tova literally means "a good year" and is said as "Happy New Year."

Similarly, from Judy Hartstone:  I'm sure you've already gotten the answer -- shana means "year;" tovah means "good;" l' means "to" (I think).  So, an exact translation is "to a good year" or "Happy New Year."

On a less linguistic -- but as happy -- plane, news from Diane Fruzzetti:  Yes, it is really me, back from the "missing."  Please let everyone know my new e-mail address:  dfruzzetti@earthlink.net.  Thanks.
           
While still hunting the missing, from Ed Albrecht:  Thanks, I would love to hear from Julia Bonlarron.  Barbara Pech just updated me on what she knows about Eddie and his family.  Eddie, as I've mentioned before, was best man at my wedding, and it would be great to see him.

What Barbara told Ed, from our Ms. Pech in Miami:  About the Bonlarron connection: many years back, when I first moved into the community that I reside in, I encountered a neighbor named Gae Bonlarron.  Of course, I was immediately obligated to play New York Geography and learned that she had been married to Frank Bonlarron -- the oldest of the Bonlarron 5 (Frank, Julia, Ed, Mary, John).  They were all my old neighbors from Garden Street, before my 7th grade move to whatever Green Acres is now foolishly called.  Gae, as many recently divorced people, was quite willing to forget the marriage and family relations without further mention, so I respected her wishes and never brought the matter up again.  Since then, she has moved out of the area, but may be findable via one of the search engines.  I will check this out and will also check through the Paula Munoz family, as they still may be listed in old Green Whatever.

Also, busy helping find people, from Jerry Bittman:  I am playing detective and have tracked down Ed Bonlarron in San Juan Capistrano.  I WILL find Ed -- he and Ed Albrecht and I used to walk around the 2nd and 3rd floor hallways every day for years before homeroom began.
  
And still hunting his missing clothes, from Eric Hilton:  If you want to know the inside scoop on the naked ladies in the hot tub, just ask me, as I took the shots!

(The "shots" will be shared as soon as I get home to L.A. and back to my scanner.)

From someone who's also away from home a lot, Peter Rosen:  Robert Fiveson and I had drinks, dinner, and drinks last week when I was in D.C.  He also got to meet my older daughter Sarah and her boy friend.  It was great catching up, and I am so impressed and interested in the work Robert has been doing.

And, from the good Robert himself:  In reference to my warm, fuzzy underpinnings, I guess I am busted.  Did anyone from school days realize that my grandmother was Mother Teresa?  Allen, I, too, am sorry we didn't get to speak more at the reunion, but I have always been a man of few words (though often badly chosen ones). I was very busy that weekend dodging speculation about alleged dalliances, breaking taboos, and fending off innuendo about Tuerk and me (still) being lovers.  ALL LIES -- and besides hasn't anyone else ever sought the solace of a dear friend?  At the 20th reunion, Bernie Scheidt reminded me that in 11th grade Tuerk and I dyed our hair orange, and then Bernie made a crack about us being "suspected homosexuals even then."  ABSOLUTE LIES!  We were protopunks before there were even hippies -- trendsetters and fashion icons. (Our only mistake was not dying our eyebrows, because we ended up looking stupid with orange hair and black eyebrows.)  And some of you wonder why I am bitter!  But, being serious, the best moment for me at the reunion was when I first arrived and Steven Spector approached me to say he really hated me in high school. I asked him if he was serious, and he was.  I inquired as to why, and he told me it was because he "knew" I was boinking all the girls, and he couldn't get any.  I was floored.  I asked repeatedly if he was serious, and I could tell he was -- he still has that Spector blend of Manson menace and Ted Bundy charm.  I laughed so hard that tears ran down my no-longer-boyish face.  I told him that I would have gladly accepted his hatred if only my supposed sexual adventures had been true!  In a world where hatred is the lingua franca of diplomacy, I can only say, what a waste of good hatred.  It's fortunate that I have dedicated the rest of my life to trying to earn the enmity of other men, for the very same reason.

Finally, from one of our northern correspondents, Jean Cohen Oklan:  It has been a while.  I've been enjoying the updates and have some info on Tom Mangan, who was mentioned in a previous update concerning the FBI or INS activity.  A DANNY Mangan was in the class before us.  My sister had this bit of info since she knew him.
      What's new?  I had a birthday September 13th and was happy nothing horrific made the news.  Although I did do something to my back when I bent over to put my
socks on.  Just a reminder that I really need to be serious about taking care of myself at this age.
      Let's see... my husband was part of the resource action taken by IBM in June.  He was one of 988 people laid-off at the IBM plant in Burlington after being in
management for 21 years.  Needless to say, we are trying hard to rearrange our lives, and we're happy that the Vermont Attorney General is starting an investigation for possible age discrimination.  Am I bitter?  You bet!
      Here's an animal story, as I see you have lots of animal stories coming
in these days.  We had a 16-year-old retriever, Pogo, who was put to sleep when we felt she was starting to suffer health-wise.  At the time, I was friendly with a vet
who took care of large animals in the area (cows and horses).  I called the vet, and he was kind enough to make a house call and put Pogo to sleep in her favorite spot.  My husband dug the hole in our meadow, and we buried her.  So when my 20-year-old cat, Bilbo, became ill and didn't recognize me anymore, I called the farm vet again, and he made another house call, putting Bill to sleep in his favorite spot --
although Bill didn't know it at the time.  My husband dug another hole up in the meadow, and we had a service for my truly dear friend, Bill.  
      I was left with one female cat named Kitty, whom I loved.  Now, my husband doesn't really like cats and when Bill and Kitty were 10 years old, I told him they
probably wouldn't be around for very much longer.  Well, when Kitty was 23 years old, I came home from work and found her hanging onto her hassock with her
front claws stuck into the material and her hind legs slid under the hassock.  It was quite a sight, and I lifted her ass up onto the hassock and knew it was time to say good-bye.  Yes, the vet made another house call, and I buried Kitty after 23 years of
wonderful companionship.  These two cats moved up to Vermont with me, saw me get married, helped baby-sit my son, and were always there.  Lots and lots of memories.
      Eight years ago, I adopted an abused kitten that has come through with flying colors.  And our 11-year-old retriever, Ziggy, has fur that's turning white.  And
the vet has moved to Connecticut.  Oy!
      Have a wonderful autumn.

The home page address (though not a link -- you need to type (or copy) this in yourself, on the search line of your browser):  hometown.aol.com/falcons1965a


Rich