Hi,
First, since no one wrote to say she or he was a close friend of Patty Rose, I'll try to call her this weekend and bumble through an explanation. And there's been no word about Ellen Winters yet, either.
Second, from Carol Ewig Duran: I meant to reply last week, but I do know that Janet Riccio passed away several years ago. I was not in direct contact with her, but my brother and Janet's brother are very close friends, so I was always aware of what was going on in her life. I'll hope to forward better news next time.
[Rich -- Actually, we already knew that because Janet's name is on the class web page. Carol must have told us some years ago. I really need to update and crosscheck my class lists.]
From Janice Williams Teeuwe: I do believe Jerilyn Ferrera Betts lives in Tucson, Arizona, now.
[Rich -- So, sometimes, do I, and I'll have to check on Jerilyn this Christmas when I'm there. Unless someone knew Jerilyn Ferrera well and would like to chase her down before that.]
From Ed Albrecht: Frank Bonlarron class of '63, is Eddie Bonlarron's brother. As mentioned last week, Ed was in the class of '65. They were both my neigbors on DuBois Avenue, Eddie was my Best Man, and Frank was very tight with my brother, Billy. I know at one time Frank was managing the rock group The Left Bank who did "Walk Away Renee." He also managed the Strawberry Alarm Clock when they did "Incense and Peppermint." But I'm not sure what he is up to right now. As far as Eddie goes, I received an e-mail from him a long time ago with his phone number and, you guessed it, I misplaced it. Just a little trivia.
From Jerry Bittman: This link has been around the e-mail circuit a few times, but it's always worth another listen. It's one of the best 60's review presentations that I've seen. Enjoy and remember.
objflicks . com/TakeMeBackToTheSixties . htm (please remove the spaces)
And a great series of maps from The Washington Post, sent by a friend of mine: 40 Maps That Explain The World. washingtonpost . com/blogs/worldviews/wp/2013/08/12/40-maps-that-explain-the-world/
From Emily Kleinman Schreiber, news of another party: The Class of '61 will celebrate our Big 70th Birthday Bash. Everyone's welcome. Saturday, October 12, 2013. The Wild Fish Restaurant, 507 Guy Lombardo Drive, Freeport, New York. 1:00 to 5:00 PM. Buffet and Cash bar -- $45.00 per person.
Emily adds: After the party, we can explore Freeport's Nautical Mile, which is totally recovered from Hurricane Sandy. Please RSVP as soon as possible. The restaurant is locking in the buffet price until August 23rd, and our reservation will be held until September 12th, but we need to meet our guaranteed number by then. Please contact me for details at: Cre8em @ aol . com
A remind of the other party on October 12th: The Class of 1963’s 50th Anniversary Reunion. It will take place at the Cornell Club in Manhattan. The price for the luncheon will be $75/person. The invitation is extended to alumni from other classes who would also like to be there. Please contact Amy Miller Cohen for details at: ymarellim @ aol . com
A social note lifted from Facebook: It appears that Larry Kincade, the late Grace Dibble Kincade's husband, has remarried and was just celebrating his new anniversary. Congratulations.
Finally, something I'd stashed for a slow week: Every Teenager Should Have a Summer of ’65 By Joyce Wadler, published in The New York Times, July 10, 2013
There are people who make fun of teenage romances, but I never do and that is because of Rob. He strolled up the street in the tiny Catskills town of Pine Hill one day in the summer of 1965 carrying "The Catcher in the Rye," the badge of a kindred spirit, wearing a canary yellow cable knit sweater. You did not see that shade of yellow on an American guy, but, of course, Rob had not yet become an American guy. He was a Hungarian, working as a busboy at a small hotel owned by another Hungarian. The Catskills were like that then. I was 17; Rob was two years older.
“Do you remember a conversation we had one night near the lake about God,” I was saying to him this weekend on the phone. “I told you I had been thinking there was nobody out there and I thought that was pretty bold of me.”
He did not, but he remembered something I had forgotten entirely. “I was telling somebody the other day you were the person who introduced me to Bob Dylan,” he said. “It’s kind of funny because 50 years later, I’m still listening to Bob Dylan.”
Rob lives in Budapest. “What was my father like when you met him?” one of Rob’s two daughters, then in her late teens, asked me once.
“He was funny,” I say, which sounds wrong to both of us the moment it is out because Rob was never a guy who always had to be on. He was dry and smart and observant. He spoke at least four languages. He had lived at the Y when he first came to New York and always seemed calm and perpetually amused.
“You must have been making out like crazy in these woods when you were a teenager,” a friend I was showing around the Catskills said recently.
“No need,” I said. “We had all these deserted hotels. Sometimes with beds.” Not very good beds, it’s true. The mattresses were so skinny they could be rolled up, and they smelled heavily of mold. But the deserted grand hotels were an answer to a teenager’s dream. It’s too bad no one wrote songs about them — we were probably too limited a demographic.
There are people who make fun of teenage romances, but I never do and that is because of Rob. He strolled up the street in the tiny Catskills town of Pine Hill one day in the summer of 1965 carrying "The Catcher in the Rye," the badge of a kindred spirit, wearing a canary yellow cable knit sweater. You did not see that shade of yellow on an American guy, but, of course, Rob had not yet become an American guy. He was a Hungarian, working as a busboy at a small hotel owned by another Hungarian. The Catskills were like that then. I was 17; Rob was two years older.
“Do you remember a conversation we had one night near the lake about God,” I was saying to him this weekend on the phone. “I told you I had been thinking there was nobody out there and I thought that was pretty bold of me.”
He did not, but he remembered something I had forgotten entirely. “I was telling somebody the other day you were the person who introduced me to Bob Dylan,” he said. “It’s kind of funny because 50 years later, I’m still listening to Bob Dylan.”
Rob lives in Budapest. “What was my father like when you met him?” one of Rob’s two daughters, then in her late teens, asked me once.
“He was funny,” I say, which sounds wrong to both of us the moment it is out because Rob was never a guy who always had to be on. He was dry and smart and observant. He spoke at least four languages. He had lived at the Y when he first came to New York and always seemed calm and perpetually amused.
“You must have been making out like crazy in these woods when you were a teenager,” a friend I was showing around the Catskills said recently.
“No need,” I said. “We had all these deserted hotels. Sometimes with beds.” Not very good beds, it’s true. The mattresses were so skinny they could be rolled up, and they smelled heavily of mold. But the deserted grand hotels were an answer to a teenager’s dream. It’s too bad no one wrote songs about them — we were probably too limited a demographic.
Most teenage girls have to leave their boyfriends when they go off to college, but I did not. When I went to NYU., Rob returned home to Queens to work in his parent’s candy store. At the dorm, the other girls are impressed: College boys are scruffy, unreliable, stoned. Rob is a cool European guy. But I don’t want a European guy. I want a funny, fast-talking New York City boy who doesn't have to be back at the candy store by 11 on Saturday night, to put together The New York Times. My values stink, and I break up with Rob. Fundamentally saner, he gets a scholarship to NYU., where he meets a smart, pretty American girl who grew up in Paris and whose name is Lucy. Between junior and senior year, when I hear they have married, I feel the deep, unequivocal, “Oops.”
But here is the upside of being an adult: You do not have to be in a romantic relationship to keep the love. I have known since I met Lucy that she is the better match for Rob, and I like her. If Lucy comes alone to New York we hang out. With the boyfriends who matter you get a new friend, the wife. And later, when their children grow up and come to New York and need a place to stay, you get to fuss over them and see how great they turned out.
Next thing you know it is another day in summer, the summer of ’98. My friend Herb and I have just finished a bike trip in France’s chateau country and we are waiting for Rob and Lucy. When they drive up, we are all talking at once. We drive to Provence. Around three in the afternoon we pull up to a little guesthouse and the owner says it is too late for lunch but maybe she can scare us up something. Forty minutes later we are sitting at the table, having the freshest salad I have had in my life.
“This lettuce was in the ground 20 minutes ago,” Rob says. Why, with the billions and billions of sentences I have heard, do I remember a sentence about lettuce? But I do. It is great lettuce and my first boyfriend and his wife and my best friend and I are all together. I have pictures. We four in the house in Provence, grinning.
Somewhere out there a 17-year-old girl is sitting outside on a muggy day and a teenage boy is about to walk up to her. Don’t knock it.
“This lettuce was in the ground 20 minutes ago,” Rob says. Why, with the billions and billions of sentences I have heard, do I remember a sentence about lettuce? But I do. It is great lettuce and my first boyfriend and his wife and my best friend and I are all together. I have pictures. We four in the house in Provence, grinning.
Somewhere out there a 17-year-old girl is sitting outside on a muggy day and a teenage boy is about to walk up to her. Don’t knock it.
The South '65 e-mail addresses: reunionclass65 . blogspot . com
The South '65 photo site: picasaweb . google . com / SouthHS65
Rich
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