Update 8-9-05

Hi,

The party started before the party started and maybe even before that. I got to the hospitality suite about 5:00 Friday afternoon. It wasn't supposed to open until 7:00, but soon Robin Feit, Barbara Blitfield, Terri Donohue, Peggy Galinger, Stu Kandel, Dennis Shapiro, and Paul DeMartino were there. Some of them had already been on a snack-buying trip to prepare the room for the evening's guests. Others, like me, had just turned up to have fun. And soon Terri, Peggy, Stu, Dennis, Paul, and I were having dinner in the hotel bar. Then Robin and Barbara and Neil Guberman and Art Halprin were there, and soon we were all back in the hospitality suite, joined by Judy Peters, Allen Moss, Ralph Kramer, Danny Stellabotte, Mark Yetman, and two dozen others. Then it was suddenly past midnight, and we were back to six people, with maybe fifteen of us set to meet at 9:30 for breakfast.

What happened between 7:00 and midnight? A whole lot of talking. There were no shrieks, of people being reunited after seventeen or twenty or thirty-seven years, as there had been the last time. Almost everyone there had been to our 37th reunion and was mainly hoping to continue conversations. I kept hearing people say, "I never got to talk with everyone I wanted to three years ago, and I want to do that this time." And so we talked. And it's funny: the hospitality suite was probably four times the size of the room we crammed forty people into three years ago -- nearly attracting the police -- but halfway through the evening, almost everyone was standing at one, ten-foot-wide end. People would come in through the double doors, see someone they wanted to see, and just stand there talking. Snacks were uneaten, chairs were unused, and the bartender was severely under-employed. Paul had brought a boom box and appropriate CD's, but if music was playing, it couldn't be heard over the talk. Finally, Peggy, Martha Morenstein, and I set off for a quiet corner of the room. The temperature was twenty degrees lower, and for a while we could even hear ourselves as we sat at one of the round tables. Then other people noticed that we'd opened the Northwest Territory and joined us. Soon chairs were spread out, tables and couches were filled, and the overall temperature of the room balanced out.

More conversations with me began with, "Now you can't use this in the newsletter, but..." And here I thought I'd established myself as the essence of confidentiality. In the four years, I've been relaying class news, I've only pissed off one person irretrievably. Still, I promised everyone who asked that I wouldn't report anything they told me, and that alone is reason to come to these parties -- there were some great stories. Not the nostalgic, "Oh, wasn't that sweet," variety, but the filling-in-gaps kind. So that's why Vince Tampio was always smiling at Clara Hoogenboom. (No, you won't get that one out of me.) Besides, everyone tells his or her own stories best.

The great thing about these parties is no one seems to be living in the past. Everyone acknowledges it, as well as our common bonds, but no one wants to go back to chinos and teased hair. It was also great seeing the teachers who were there: Bernie O'Brien, who somehow looks younger than we do; Irv Saffrin, white-haired and rounder at 86, but still fielding compliments for his biology teaching; and Theresa Margolin Bargman, dressed as stylishly as ever. Over the evening, they collected ever-changing circles of admirers.

And some things I can tell you without permission: Ralph Foster is still working. Who's Ralph Foster? Those of us he coached will never forget (JV soccer and track). He also taught 7th and 8th grade science. "Crazy" Ralph Foster was a frequent revision of his name, along with "Loony" and "Raving" Ralph Foster. More than one guy at the party quoted Foster's Marine-like motto: "There's only one reason for you ever to miss practice -- a death in your family. Your own." And it turns out he's still coaching, plus has a national reputation. I'd forgotten that, in addition to fall soccer and spring track, he also coached the winter rifle team. Rifle team? At South? Yep, there was a rifle range at Central or Memorial, and the team practiced there. Now Foster coaches at King's Point, the Merchant Marine Academy. And I trust that none of his cadets ever dare miss their targets.

And I heard the story of Nat Kruskol and the printing press. Kruskol was the print shop teacher, and one day he was demonstrating why you should never wear a long tie while operating an electric press. As the tie got caught, and his head bobbed and bobbed and bobbed with the movements of the reciprocating plates, Kruskol shouted, in the same rhythm, "Get the scissors! Get the scissors! Get the scissors!" I also heard the story of his in-class heart attack several years later. After feeling intense chest pains, he quietly sat down at his desk and calmly said, "Go across the hall and get Mr. Caruso."

Kruskol survived that attack, though unfortunately not another one some years later, and so many of our former teachers are also gone. Fortunately, there are stories like Theresa Margolin Bargman's that echo what Helen David wrote us a few weeks ago: "The high school was new, and the community was new, and so many of the teachers were almost as young as their students. So many people were just so happy to be there." She also thanked everyone for inviting her to both reunions: "I love seeing all of you."

There were also stories of the morning when the Cuban missile crisis was at its worst, and of Clara Hoogenboom, tense and pale, but somehow holding it all together. And of Miss Lawrence, the English teacher, delicately turning away from her class after the PA announcement that John Kennedy had been shot, so she could discretely wipe away tears. And of Mr. McDonald, the school librarian, hiding under his distant office desk while a young, female assistant went to break up a fight between two football players. Switching to student stories: one of us, as a new 7th grader, rounded a corner too quickly and got accidentally knocked flat by one of South's more fearsome tough guys. "Watch out where you're friggin' going," the 7th grader told the giant, unaware who he was talking to. Instead of simply mashing the boy, the big guy helped the smaller one to his feet, saying, "I've never been talked to like that before. And I never want to be again." A woman listening to that story said, "That guy was beautiful. He had muscles at fourteen that most men never have."

And that was just a tiny portion of what I heard on Friday night. When thirty-five people are talking almost simultaneously for five hours, you can't catch all the news, even if you had permission to pass it on. The party continued at 9:30 the next morning. Allen had been up at 6:00, scouting the neighborhood for a good diner. He'd already found a good deli on Friday afternoon, when he'd needed a snack. Judy had failed to eat with him, to her later regret. Just never trust a hotel barman when he promises you fresh turkey.

So a dozen of us loaded into three or four cars and drove to the Spartan diner. "Wait," someone said," We can't go there. North was the Spartans." But the diner looked more Middle Eastern than Greek, and besides, they served Virginia ham -- that was Southern enough for me. We stayed a couple of hours, talking and eating, then -- back at the hotel -- some of us went for a walk, some went to the pool, and some to the gym. Neil had skipped breakfast and gone straight to the gym, saying he could never work out on a full stomach. After one o'clock, we all seemed to gravitate to the pool -- the outdoor one. There was an indoor one as well. Lynn Nudelman, Irene Saunders, and Allen had tugged three lawn chairs under some shade trees, and the rest of us gathered around. Some swam, Linda Cohen knitted, and Ellen Epstein was just laughing along. Barbara and Robin joined us, then Art and Neil. Peggy had to leave before the evening party, and Nancy Nudelman and Martha had only been able to come on Friday night. Then Rachael Robinson, Benette Steindam, Dennis Pizzimenti, Ira Mitzner, and Rob Kelman found us. We kept shifting the chairs further under the trees as the sun moved and adding chairs as additional people arrived. We'd posted a note on the hospitality suite door and lifted some of the remaining snacks from the night before. The outdoor pool closed at six, when most of us needed to move on to showers anyway, but by that time, Paul and Dennis had returned with word that Booker Gibson had arrived and was setting up in the ballroom. Faced with the news that the hotel wouldn't move its grand piano down four steps, Booker had brought his own electronic keyboard, and Sherry Finkle '77 and her husband Neal Murphy '77 were setting it up. Booker looked great, much as he always had, but with greying hair. Sherry looked like she could have just graduated, and Neal seemed to have never forgotten that he'd once worked on stage crew.

The DJ was also setting up, as well as the photographer. The last had brought a family crew of five, plus computers and multiple photo printers. In addition, Ross Lipsky and his sixteen-year-old student assistant Peter Olson had their video equipment there for the South 50th anniversary DVD interviews. Ross is probably twenty-seven and has been teaching math at South for five-or-six years. But he looked as young as Peter, and they both reminded me of the Hardy Boys. Paul and Dennis had decided to pay the DJ, which turned out to be a great idea, (and I think there was another contract involved anyway). The photographer was free, if intrusive. We were hoping he'd roam the room and quietly take casual shots, but he didn't. Instead, he spent almost a half-hour setting up a couple of nice class pictures, which his staff printed out and sold to willing buyers at fifteen bucks per 8 x 10. Still, the photos that will eventually end up on our home page will mostly come free from Emily Kleinman '61.

And talk just went on and on. It didn't seem to matter what class you'd once belonged to -- and half of the seventy people there on Saturday night were from outside the class of '65. People just had so much in common. If they hadn't known each other before, they quickly became friends and began swapping stories. From our class, along with those already mentioned, I spoke with Pat Gaffney, Joan Aires, Barbara Brill, Larry Coleman, Steve Gootzeit, and Jay Berliner.

One of the stories I can tell came from Art Yngstorm '69. Toward the end of the party, he introduced his daughter, a model. "Holy... cow," I told her, stuttering and trying to stay polite. "I don't need to tell you how beautiful you are." She was probably nineteen, with long, blonde California Girl hair, though I think she'd been raised in eastern Pennsylvania. "She's also an actress," Art mentioned, after his daughter had moved away. "She recently auditioned for a film."
      "How'd she do?" I asked.
      "Well, I was waiting to drive her home, and when she came out of the building, the leading man was with her. I heard him say, 'I think you've got it,' and then she got into the car. Of course, I asked the same question you just have, and she said, 'I think I read very well for the part.' Then, about an hour into our drive, she said, 'Daddy, I think I broke his nose.' "
      "Who?" I asked. "The actor's? Did you get carried away in a scene?"
      "No. The director's. He tried to get me to have sex with him, so I punched him in the face. There was blood everywhere. Running down his chin. All over his clothes. I didn't tell you before because I was afraid you'd go back in there and hit him again."
      It appears that Art Yngstrom's seemingly delicate daughter is not only an actress and model; she's also trained in the martial arts. Little Red Riding Hood ain't so little anymore.

Somewhere after twelve-thirty, after the official reunion party was over and a dozen-or-so of us were packed back into the hotel bar, an interesting idea evolved. It started with something Neil said, about wanting to hang out in the bar for a few hours, to extend the reunion as long as he could. (Actually, there were plans for people to get together Sunday morning for breakfast. But since I wasn't staying in the hotel, I'd decided to finally sleep in.) Anyway, the idea evolved as this: "You know," someone said, "we don't have to wait and only do the big party every ten years. We can just get together as a smaller group. This has really been fun. And if we pick a place in the United States every couple of years, and if everyone who wants to come just books a room in the same hotel, we don't have to worry about raising money, or meeting contracts, or how many people will be able to be there. We can use local restaurants and do whatever we please." So that may be what happens. There may be a forty-second or forty-third reunion, and it may be in Carmel, California, or Key West, Florida, or even Kearney, Nebraska.

One final story, and this is the kind of thing that mainly happens in fairy tales: at the 37th reunion, a number of us had the lasting image of two people slow dancing at the end of the party, their eyes closed, simply holding on to each other. It seems they'd gone together for a while in high school, then had gone to the same college and continued dating Freshman year. Then they'd broken up and had gone on with their separate lives, graduating, marrying, moving away, and having kids. They met again at our party in 2002 and something just connected. "We weren't unhappy in our lives," one of them told me. "Everything could have gone on as it was, though something was just missing." So they found that something. At fifty-five, they fell in love again, and this past June, Rachael Robinson and Ira Mitzner got married.

Pictures online soon, as well as notes from other people as they come in, and more stuff as I remember: Booker playing. Sherry singing. Steve Lando talking. Barbara Peres and Roberta Brill dancing across the room. Meanwhile, thanks again to those who couldn't come but generously donated toward the party. You helped make it happen.