Fiftieth reunion

“It started in Bristol at a dee jay hop
They hollered and whistled
Never wanted to stop
We pony and twisted
And we rocked with Daddy G
The kids in Bristol are sharp as a pistol
When they do the Bristol Stomp”
Dovells

Toni and I drove east for Upper Dublin’s Class of 1960 fiftieth reunion, stopping for two nights at Jim and Kate Migoski’s in McMurray, PA, then staying two nights at the Hilton Garden Inn in Fort Washington (three blocks from the house where I grew up), and finally being Terry and Gayle Jenkins’s overnight guests on Mountaintop Road in New Hope, just a virtual stone’s throw from the Delaware River boundary with New Jersey. Both our hosts had cold Yuengling beer (Pennsylvania’s oldest brewer) on hand and watched exciting Phillies playoff games with me (alas, San Francisco won the NL championship series in six games). The Migoski dog Hastings liked to jump up next to me on the couch and cuddle until he got too warm, while the Jenkins cat Nelly was more circumspect but after a few hours joined us while we had snacks.

Going up to our room at the Hilton we ran into Phil Arnold, who brought some CDs of Fifties music in case the deejay needed them. Around noon finding the Map Quest directions ambiguous, I made a test run to the Flourtown Country Club Driving down Bethlehem Pike, I noticed that the field where I played baseball was now a swamp. There was no trace of the miniature golf course, but the state park at Whitemarsh, where George Washington’s hearty army of 12,000 camped for six weeks in the fall of 1777 before moving to Valley Forge for the winter, looked the same. When I was a Cub Scout, that was the final destination for the Memorial Day parade. Reunion organizers Janet Stuart Garman and Connie Heard Damon were at the hall, putting the finishing touch on the display items, including photos of deceased classmates. They gave me hugs and said that people were still working on local “undecideds” like athletic star Percy Herder to persuade them to attend. Percy did come. When we were teammates in seventh grade on Mr. Bekmezian’s Hundred-pound football team, one time in punt formation I hiked the ball to him rather than the punter (my eyesight was bad). He skillfully booted it away as if that had been the plan all along.

Among the first to arrive at the afternoon reception were Larry Bothe and wife Pat, who live in John Mellancamp’s hometown of Seymour, Indiana. He flies planes and she is a history buff, so we Hoosiers found things to talk about. Before long the bar area was abuzz with laughter. While most of us looked our age, everyone looked great. Lee Lee Minehart revealed that she joined the Peace Corps after college (ultimately serving in Afghanistan) because otherwise her parents would have expected her to live at home. Her dad was State Treasurer of Pennsylvania, and at Toni and my wedding in January of 1965 when the band played “Hello Dolly” he came dancing by singing “Hello Lyndon” - LBJ’s 1964 campaign theme song. Lee Lee’s husband Bob emigrated to the U.S. with his family from Ireland. He’s written a memoir about his experiences, including being ridiculed when he went to a school in Detroit dressed in clothes that his classmates found to be weird. Nancy “Sissy” Schade came even though two classes behind us. Her beloved late sister Molly had many memorable parties at Schady Acres, and Sissy was part of our gang. I took her to the movies once on a double date. Sissy spotted Jimmy Coombs and showed him a scar from the time she was on his shoulders and they jousted with Molly and Penny Roberts on bikes. Sissy fell and broke her arm. Jimmy’s wife passed away a few years ago, and he was with a very attractive and personable woman who resides a few houses away from where Vince Curll used to live. For a science project Vince and I boiled a dead cat and assembled its bones. Old girlfriend Mary Delp Harwood, sporting a hairdo that made her grey hair lustrous, came with hubby Russ, who inquired about our move from the National Lakeshore. Wendy Henry Wellin, attending her first reunion, also looked marvelous with neatly coiffed blond hair. Bob Elliott, the class cut-up turned school principal in Hawaii, quickly reverted to form and was telling stories that left people in stitches. While a student at the U. of Hawaii he rented an apartment on Poki Street across from where we lived two years later. Nancy Schrope mentioned being scared when Jarrettown School closed and her class, including Connie Heard and Wayne Wylie, transferred to Fort Washington School in third grade. I felt a similar sensation when my parents moved to Michigan for a year right before I started eighth grade. Both Wayne and Phil Arnold, who hitched a ride with us to the Flourtown Country Club, inquired about Pam Tucker. Haven’t heard from her in months, I replied.

At the entrance was a limo that looked like the world’s longest racing car. It was the brainchild of Bruce Allen, who owns a Chevrolet car dealership and brought promotional hats for everyone, as he had done ten years ago. Among his houseguests chauffeured to the event were Joe and Barbara Ricketts, Flossie Worster, and Ray and Jane Bates. Bruce also had the limo driver pick up Bettie Erhardt Gabrick and Joan Eitelgeorge Zaremba. Some folks, such as Eddie Piszek and John Jacobson, were immediately recognizable, while for others (i.e., David Castle, Dick Trow) one was grateful for nametags. Grade school buddies Chris Koch and Jay Bumm were attending their first reunion and looked tanned and trim. When I asked Toni to take a photo of the three of us, Jay got Pete Drake to join us and suddenly a half-dozen classmates were snapping away. Next to me at dinner was Alice “Ockie” Ottinger Corman, whose blond hair was in stark contrast to her dark sultry look in high school. I hadn’t seen her since we both took a commuter train to Philadelphia in the summer of 1962. She recalled that my parents had put up Japanese lanterns for a party at my house. Her dad was chief of police and once interrupted Toni and me parking in a long driveway leading to the Van Sant farm. Chief Ottinger once picked her up at school and then set off in chase of someone speeding. She was so mortified she ducked down below the window. I reminded Pete Drake of the time we were at a drive-in restaurant in Abington and a cop accused him of having bumped into a vehicle. We were dumbfounded because nothing of the sort had happened. Pete replied that the cop had it in for him and later took him to jail, claiming (falsely) that there was a warrant out for him. Pete’s mother raised hell and put something in the paper about it.

Reunion booklets put together by Nancy Schrope contained information about classmates, including “Bucket Lists” (from the 2007 movie starring Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson) of things people hoped to do before they “kicked the bucket.” My entry was: “Visit Greek Isles and write a biography of Richard G. Hatcher, America’s first black mayor.” I interviewed Hatcher extensively a few years ago for another project. Chris Koch wrote: “Play golf at the world’s top ten golf courses.” Hence the vice tan, I figured. Lee Lee Minehart wants to go on an archeological dig (“anywhere,” she exclaimed). Gaard Murphy Logan, who expressed no interest in attending the reunion but wanted a full report upon my return, submitted, “Hike the Cotswolds and Amalfi Coast and bicycle though Provence. In short, spend the rest of my life traveling (if only I were rich)!” Bob Reller, currently in Israel, noted: “I seek to discern the will of my Lord for the balance of my life here on earth, to go where He tells me to go and do that which he tells me to do.” Heavy!

I never had a chance to give my prepared remarks about “Our Time in History” – with examples (JFK candidacy, sit-ins, U-2 Incident, triumph of Rock ‘n’ Roll) of how our senior year was a period of transition between the placid Eisenhower years and the dawn of the tumultuous Sixties. If time permitted, I was prepared to work in references to seeing “Ben-Hur” at the 309 Drive-In, Richie Ashburn being traded to the Cubs, Elvis getting out of the army, and Bob entering the University of Minnesota but spending most of his time at coffeehouses and reading Beat writers. During dessert Janet raffled off several dozen prizes, asking each winner to say a few words; but by the time my name was called (I got a candle) the crowd was restless and Janet warned, “No more than two words.” By then I had pared down my remarks to about two minutes, but no matter.

Classmate Freddie Scott ably handled deejay duties with a plentiful supply of Oldies. Still I should have brought my Time/Life CD of 1958 hits that includes “Johnny B. Goode,” “Breathless,” “Book of Love,” “Chantilly Lace,” and “Summertime Blues.” I fast-danced with two favorite partners from past reunions, Bettie Erhardt (still hot to trot) and Mary Dinkins (married to a minister but not inhibited). I told Mary, probably not for the first time, about Latin teacher Mrs. LeVan whacking me with a ruler when I had turned around in my seat to joke with her. I danced with Suzi Hummel, aging beautifully with her blond-white hair in a type of pony tail. She inquired about her old next-door neighbor Chuck Bahmueller, whose mother read stories to her when she was a child. Filled Marianne Tambourino in on Bob Reller’s trip to the Holy Land. After I fast danced with Ockie to “Bristol Stomp” (Bristol is a town in Bucks County not far from Fort Washington), Jimmy Coombs gave us the thumbs up. Soon afterwards Jay Bumm slow-danced with her, evoking memories of their teenage romance. Alice looked radiant. In eleventh grade I took her to a dance after several of us decided everyone should invite someone other than his girlfriend. Doubling with us were Dave Seibold and his date. When I walked Alice to her door afterwards and was about to kiss her, I noticed that Seibold had followed us, hoping for a smooch, too. I went to ask Mary Delp to dance, but Skip Pollard’s garrulous wife said, “You can’t have her.” They were neighbors in Napiersville before the Pollards moved to The Villages in Florida. Still, spouses should know their place at events like these (just kidding). Barbara Bitting and I started a stroll line with Janet Stuart and Donald Stroup and soon others joined us. During the class picture spouses snapped away as Wendy’s homecoming queen tiara got passed around, eventually, I hope, finding its way to Suzi Hummel. Connie called for a moment of silence for those whom we’d lost. I thought of vivacious Molly and nonconformist Charles Thomas, whose hospice caregiver attended five years ago after Charley had passed away in order to meet his friends.

Saturday at eight a.m. we had breakfast with five of Toni’s relatives, my goddaughter Cristin, her brother Chad, Toni’s nephew Kyle, girlfriend Laura and dad Bob DeLeon. We saw Kyle and Laura a few weeks ago and Bob and Chad last year at Jackie’s high school graduation party, but it had seen years since I saw Cristin. She showed off her engagement ring and had photos of her fiancé Tom and sister Alanna’s son. As they were leaving, classmates were gathering for the buffet. I had a final chat with Wendy, Sissy, and others. Lots of kisses, hugs, and vows to stay in touch. So successful was the weekend that there was talk of a picnic in a couple years and definitely another dinner dance five years hence.

Saturday afternoon Terry and Gayle took us for Philly cheese steaks and showed us their shop, the Paper Chase. It was a much bigger operation that I had thought and in a great location, so it was full of customers. I bought a Phillies 2011 calendar and fancy bridge tally (at the employees discount price). One display had tiny packages of material that transformed into quite sizeable socks, shirts, and shorts. A half-dozen 12-13 year-old girls hovered around the display and may have stuffed a few items into their pockets. Terry gave them the eye but did not accuse them of shoplifting. In his shoes I might have confronted them. He told me that theft does occur and squeeze profits but is pretty hard to prevent. Terry used to fly a small plane and once took me on a jaunt over our old stomping grounds and as far as Easton, where I was born. We got to talking about NASCAR. He flew to a couple races with an acquaintance who was a devoted fan. At one they ran into Richard Petty, “The King.” Another time Terry parked near Dale Earnhardt’s black private airplane. His companion ended up talking to Earnhardt and getting a private tour of the plane. It was the thrill of his life.

Gayle made delicious chicken sandwiches for our 11-hour ride home, accomplished in one day. We listened to Ann Tyler’s novel Noah’s Compass on CDs (at the end Toni said, “Nothing happened”). It’s true. Liam, the 60 year-old protagonist, lost his job when a school downsized. Passive and self-effacing, he wakes up in a hospital after someone breaks into his apartment and beats him up. Most of the “action” entails his examination of his two failed marriages and shortcomings as a father. As usual, Tyler creates memorable women characters, including Bootsie Twill, the home invader’s mother, who absurdly hopes Liam will be a character witness at her son’s upcoming trial. When Liam demurs, she says, “Oh, why are you so judgmental?” and offers to introduce him to the son so he can see “what a nice kid he is. Just a kid! Real shy and clumsy, always nicks himself shaving.”

Got home in time for most of the Packers-Vikings game, which I had on mute while I opened a quart of Miller High Life, got mellow, and listened to a tape of an old Clash concert on WXRT. Filled Gaard in on the reunion. A couple times after mentioning someone, I added, “Do you remember him?” She finally said, “I remember everyone in our class.” She was watching the Hugh Grant flick “Love Naturally” but gladly paused it for the rehash. I recall having trouble catching all the English humor references the first time I saw it (what in the world is Banoffee Pie, I wondered) but got the drift when Martin freeman’s character said, “I might get a shag at last” and the woman he was with replied, “Naughty.”