Hi,
It was a great weekend. Everything came together, including something I'd been trying to negotiate with the hotel for almost a year. More about that later.
First of all, I lied: the party was supposed to start around 6 PM on Friday. Instead, it started at 3:25. Dennis Shapiro and I had planned to meet at the hotel at 3:00 to do some final checking. At 2:30, I called him to say I was stopped on the Cross Island Expressway, with fire engines pushing past. The guy in front of me had climbed on his car roof, trying to see what had happened. Dennis said he'd delay leaving home for a bit, but then traffic started to move. It turned out to have been only a two-car crash, with no one hurt, but I guess the firemen were worried about a car fire.
At 3:15, I walked into the hotel to see Valerie Nelson at the lobby desk. Since Valerie lives close by, I was surprised to see her checking in. She wasn't. Ellen Epstein was. Valerie had picked her up at the airport.
I said I'd see them shortly and called Dennis to tell him where I was. He said he was on his way, so I went to the hotel restaurant to make sure it was set up as it had been when I'd seen it last June. It was, and I spoke to the manager, explaining that we'd have between 15 and 20 people for dinner and drinks that evening, starting near 6:00. He said that was fine, Friday nights were slow, and we could push some tables together and order whenever we wanted to. As I headed to the lobby to wait for Dennis, I noticed Valerie sitting at a counter near the bar, with a glass of red wine.
I stuck my small duffel bag under a stool and started to talk with Valerie. She was waiting for Ellen. Then Bernie Scheidt appeared, and Peter Rosen. Or the other way around. Then Art Halprin and Neil Guberman. Then Ellen. Then Joan Aires and Rosemary Mercurio. Then Dennis, and he and I never really got around to doing what we'd been meeting early for. One of those things was to get name tags, but everyone quickly agreed we didn't need them.
As the group grew, we moved from sitting on stools at that counter near the bar, to sitting on a couch and chairs near that counter, to dragging other chairs and drum-like low stools/drink tables to sit on near the couch. Finally, we moved to tables which we pushed together. By then, we were 15, including Marilyn Horowitz, Jane Wolff, Irene Saunders, her fiancé, Jerry, and Stu Kandel. Maybe. I'd started a sign-in list, but people were too busy talking, so writing down names and phone and room numbers seemed unimportant. At some point, I did remember to check in, so I'd have a room number to list.
And our number kept growing. Every time I thought we were all there, someone else showed up, and it was hard to keep count because people kept moving. Peggy Cooper and her husband, Les. Barbara Brill. Henry Gabbay. Mary Ferranti and her husband, Bashir. Larry Rugen. Les Glasser. Mark Yetman. Danny Stellebotte. Jay Berliner. That's 26, and I may have missed someone. I may also have originally underestimated our number expected that evening because I didn't want to panic the restaurant staff. Around 7:30, Marilyn Horowitz checked the last class newsletter, from 4-21, to see who else was expected, and we were only missing Carol Bunim and Bob Okin. As it happened, I read a e-mail from them, today, Sunday, which explained that they were unable to come.
Laura Littner had phoned Friday morning to say the same thing. And Allen Moss had hurt his back so couldn't risk the 7-hour drive from Maine. Dennis Pizzimenti later said he and Benette would have picked Allen up on their drive from New Hampshire, wrapped him in a blanket, and thrown him in the back of their car. I can picture that, and I think Allen got off easy.
Emily Kleinman also called in sick. By the way, the reason I'm mainly avoiding women's married names is it's hard enough to follow 40 people at a reunion without having to juggle double last names.
The surprise phone call came Thursday night from a man who introduced himself by saying, "I'm not sure you'll remember me." It was Jerry Gold. I remembered. You don't forget one of the brighter people in your class. He'd recently sold his dad's house, and the real estate agent, Linda Tobin Kettering, who was also from South, had told him about the reunion. Jerry said he'd tried to be there, but he lived on the West Coast, and his traveling schedule hadn't worked out. But he said to give everyone his best.
When I passed this news on to the party Friday evening, a couple of people asked, "Wasn't Jerry dead?" as if that were reversible. It seems a rumor had stated at the 37th reunion.
Once we'd settled in, we overworked Rose, who was taking care of our food, and Ken, who was handling our drinks. But they were smiling at the end of the evening because we treated them well. Around 10:00, some people started for bed, somewhat hoarse, but at midnight, there was still a small group of us there when the restaurant manager stopped by. He said he might have a private room for us for Saturday night, so we looked at it. It was ugly and bright, but it was nearby and private, and the manager said he might be able give us a waiter to handle our food and drink orders. He took my cell phone number and said he'd confirm on Saturday.
Soon after, Peter, Neil, Art and I went up to Art and Neil's room to continue talking. Peter gave out first, before 1:00, and at 2:00, Neil said, "You know, Art's on Denver time, and Rich is on LA time, but I'm on Pittsburgh time, and I'm beat." I soon left, but since it was only 11:00 in California, and I usually stay up later, I went looking for a computer. I intended to write down everything I remembered about the afternoon and evening, but once I was facing the damned monitor, I couldn't bring myself to write. So I went to bed.
Saturday was scheduled as free time for everyone, and Marilyn, Jane, Ellen, and Bernie had planned a trip to Green Acres, South, and Valley Stream. Irene and Jerry were off to see family. Peggy and Les we're waiting for Jeryl Monsees and her husband. Art and Neil were waiting for Benette Steindam and Dennis Pizzimenti. Dennis Shapiro was waiting for Ray Sinatra. Martha Morenstein and Allison Altman had been exploring New York City. Stu Kandel was probably running. And I had plans to see BJ Peres for breakfast, stop by and visit Frances and Booker Gibson, and then see Paul DeMartino.
I'd arranged the visit with Booker by e-mail and had spoken with Frances on Friday morning to confirm it. Since I didn't know how well Booker was, I didn't figure I'd be able to stay long, and I'd carefully asked Frances if I could bring one-or-two other people. She said, "Yes, maybe four," so Friday night I'd quietly asked the people I thought might be most interested. All of them already had plans, and I didn't want to ask everyone because I was afraid more than 3 other people would want to go, and I'd have to hurt someone's feelings. Still, when I arrived and hugged Frances for my brother David -- she'd been his music teacher at Forest -- she seemed disappointed that I was alone. "Right after I hung up the phone," she said, "I knew I shouldn't have given you a limit." And just in case I'd gone past it, she'd brought in enough deli sandwiches for 20.
And Booker was fine. He has trouble walking and can't play the piano anymore, but he certainly can talk. Instead of maybe being able to stay for 20 minutes, I stayed for 3 hours and learned all sorts of things. One of the most interesting stories was when he arrived at his Potsdam area school to student teach. Not only the students, but also the teachers, came out in the hallway to look at him. This was 1952, before television had reached this mostly farming community, and almost no one had ever seen a Black man.
Because I'd stayed so long with Frances and Booker, I never did get to meet with Paul DeMartino and was only able to talk with him by phone. He couldn't come to the parties because he's been working overtime reconstructing his 2 houses, which were badly damaged by Hurricane Sandy. But, like Jerry, Laura, Emily, and Allen, he said to give everyone his best.
While I was at the Gibson's, I'd gotten a phone call from Ira Levy, asking where the group was, and a text from Robin Singer, asking the same thing. I'd given them contact numbers for Art, Neil, and Peter, but I hadn't gotten the call I was expecting -- from the restaurant manager about a possible private room. When I got back to the hotel at 4:30, I figured we'd be meeting in the restaurant again and also thought I had plenty of time for a shower.
Nope, the party had begun around 1:30, and Neil had news. The restaurant couldn't handle feeding all 40 of us and didn't have a private room available. But we were free to use the large, comfortable lounge area in front of the bar -- which we'd initially been in early Friday evening -- and we could order in food and bring our own alcohol. That seemed fine, and more people began to arrive. When we hit around 20 by 5:15, Saturday night's restaurant manager, Maria, said, "Wait -- I have a private room for you." She led Neil and me in the direction of the ugly room we'd seen Friday night then turned right instead of left. Here was a bigger, much nicer room, and we quickly said, "Yes!"
Soon, we led the group -- now up to about 30 and carrying boxes of cakes and cookies Ellen and the others had bought at Wall's Bakery -- to our private room. But we remembered to occasionally send scouts to the restaurant, to direct people who arrived later. Martha suggested, "Let's order pizza," which Peggy Galinger said was "Genius," and Martha, Valerie, and Allison went off to get pizza, snacks, and drinks. I dragged in an extra table and chairs from the room next door, and Neil propped open the room's 4 doors, to cool things till the air conditioner did its job. When everything was going smoothly, I slipped upstairs to finally take my shower.
As I was drying, my phone rang, and Martha asked me to come to the hotel lobby to help carry pizza. Instead, I called Neil, figuring I didn't need to be arrested for streaking. When I got back downstairs, everyone was eating and drinking happily. 7 pizzas, drinks, and snacks: 170 bucks. Less than 5 dollars each, considering we were nearing 40.
Except we never got an accurate count. Again, people kept moving. We'd added Martha, Allison, Peggy, Alan Finder, Benette and Dennis, Robin Singer, Mary Sipp, Ray Sinatra, Ira Levy, Jay Tuerk, Stu Borman and his wife, Elize, Jeryl Monsees and her husband, Bayard, and we'd only lost Jerry -- because he was having dinner with cousins -- Rosemary -- because she had previous plans -- and I think Larry Rugen. I can't remember seeing him on Saturday, but there were a number of people I never got to talk with. Larry and I had talked on Friday, and I'd asked Booker about Herta Apfel, and I wanted to report to Larry but never had a chance. That should have taken us to 38 people, and the number for Saturday in the 4-21 update had been 45. Minus, Emily, Laura, Allen, Carol and Bob, Jerry, Rosemary, and Larry, that's 37, so there's a mistake in there somewhere, but I can't find it.
In any case, it was the perfect-sized crowd. Art later said he got to talk with everyone, and Neil said no one could stop smiling. All good signs. And no one could stop talking, either. I heard and told stories I'd heard and told before, but who could keep track? And I heard quite a number of new stories, none of which I can repeat here. They're not particularly private. I just don't have permission. As I've said in past reunion reports, "You had to be there."
Saturday's party started to wind down around 10, which wasn't bad for something that had started at 1:30, but by midnight, there were still maybe a dozen of us sitting around a large, round table. Meanwhile, the restaurant was jammed with maybe 100 noisy folks, still celebrating a wedding. Neil pointed out that if we hadn't gotten the private room, we would have yelled ourselves hoarse. Even later, he, Dennis, Art, and I again finished in Art and Neil's room, mainly telling stories about the late Bob Friedman. He's been dead for over 15 years, but he can't really be gone if he's talked about so much.
We also talked about other people: some we haven't been able to find, and others we've lost contact with. Teri Donohue, Toni Rea, Gregg Weiss, Barry Cohen... These were only some names I remember hearing, and other people, no doubt, were talking about more. And people kept asking, "Why isn't this person here?" "Why isn't that one?" Only those people know.
Sunday morning, about 25 of us had breakfast in the larger hotel restaurant, the one that's only open in the morning. Probably: Marilyn, Jane, Peggy, Allison, Martha, Alan, Valerie, Ellen, Joan, Jeryl, Bayard, Peggy, Les, Art, Neil, Peter, Bernie, Mary, Bashir, and Benette and Dennis. Ira was leaving as I came in at 9:30, so he may have eaten early, and Jay may have been with him. The restaurant was cold, but the low temperature still didn't completely wake me, so I'm not sure who was there. After we ate, we moved back to the warmer upstairs, to the couch near the bar where we'd already spent a lot of time. By noon, most of the people had left, but there were still maybe a half-dozen when I said "Goodbye," shortly afterwards. There was talk about getting the Florida group together soon, since there are easily a dozen former classmates living in that state. There was talk about the 55th reunion, and there was talk about celebrating our 70th birthdays in the same way we celebrated our 55th birthdays at the 37th reunion. By the way, that reunion shared the same dates as this one, April 24th to 26th.
And this weekend's parties had been just as spirited as the earlier ones. But in 2002, when we got kicked out of our Marx Brothers' hospitality suite for making too much noise, we didn't know what to do, and this time, we were far more united. We'd grown familiar with each other again. Peter made a nice little speech, praising my hard work, and I know it sounds disingenuous when I say, "It's nothing." But when you have a group of people who want to see each other as much as our core group, all you have to do is name the time and place.
My favorite part of the weekend was that it was a group effort. Someone suggested picking a date. Someone did hotel research. Someone suggested adding "50th Reunion Information" to the headings of the newsletters. Someone suggested getting pizza. Someone suggested adding snacks and drinks. Someone bought cakes from Wall's. Someone collected the money to pay for the pizza, snacks, and drinks, and when I asked if I needed to do that, I was told it was taken care of. And when I asked if if there was a bit left over to tip the restaurant manager for getting us the private room -- after my almost year-long effort to have a similar room comped had failed -- people went around collecting a buck from everyone, and when that wasn't enough, they went around again till we had 50 bucks. And I'm sure there were dozens of other things I didn't think of that other people simply took care of. So I've been taught to say, "You're welcome," when people say, "Thank you." But, hell, it just ain't all me.
There will be photos online. Mary Ferranti took some. Jay took some. Peter took some. Stu Borman will eventually post them on the class photo site, and some may make it to Facebook. But first, Stu and Elize have to get back to Washington, and they have other stops along the way
There's a bit of a letdown after a weekend like this, and as Neil was sitting on the couch in the restaurant lounge at nearly noon on Sunday, he said, "I can't believe we've gotten to the other side of this reunion so quickly. It seems like we just checked in." Yep, and maybe that's why I'm writing this on Sunday night, instead of waiting till I'm back in LA. It's not that I'm worried about forgetting something. I just want to make it last a little longer.
Rich
The South '65 e-mail addresses: reunionclass65 . blogspot . com (please remove the spaces)
The South '65 photo site: picasaweb . google . com/SouthHS65 (ditto)
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