When I told my family/friends I was going to my junior high school reunion they looked at me like I had three eyes, primarily because they haven’t made that stop in the Wayback Machine http://www.toonopedia.com/peabody.htm. Many of them commented on how they didn’t even remember many people from that far back, let alone stay in touch with them.
I/we did.
Seeing everyone on Saturday night, May 2nd, 2009 felt more than special, it felt unique. Once, twice, maybe three times in a lifetimeish, made possible for two reasons.
First, the environment that motivated us to get together when so many others don’t after 36 years. An environment fostered by the administration and teachers that managed it, and we were fortunate enough to have two of our most beloved representatives with us in Mr. Reginald Landau, Assistant Principal and Mr. Allen Stier, Music Teacher.
When I picture Mr. Landau, the snapshot’s in Ms. Marzulli/Mrs. Farmulare’s 7th grade Math/Homeroom class, wearing a grey 3-piece suit (think “Clyde” Frazier sounding like the “Cos” talking about education - on steroids - then read paragraph 6 of this Daily News editorial www.nydailynews.com/archives/opinions/1995/06/20/1995-06-20_______and_make_this_chancell.html ). Putting his thumbs under his vest by the armpits, striking a masterly pose, he asks, “How are my cherubs doing today?” .
A wise man, very precise in his vocabulary, he always seemed to be thinking three steps ahead of us (which probably meant at least one step ahead of the teachers). Even the night of the reunion, when he’d ask anyone of us open ended questions, we’d be afraid to answer. Indirectly, through his presence and sublime delegation (more on that in a moment) he made us (me anyway) smart (it’s a relative term). Period. End of sentence.
I recall the day in 9th grade when he came to me and said “Fertig, I need you for two periods before lunch” (the good news), and then walked me to the cafeteria where he handed me a pencil, paper, and tape measure? Turns out I had to measure the entire 9th grade class for their caps and gowns, which really turned out to be a lesson in hair maintenance (the not so good news). With the wonderful diversity in our school, by the time I was done, my hands could wax a limo. And of course who did I get near the end? Barnett Crawford (the bad news). All I needed was to pull the tape measure too tight around his fro. I had a vision of Mr. Flug presiding over my funeral and calling, “Barnett Crawford 7-12 up to the mike” just like he did most days at lunch.
When I think of Mr. Stier, I get multiple images. The name Charles Ives, with each letter written separately on yellow construction paper over the instrument room door. Ives was a modern American composer by night and an insurance salesman by day. He brought home the bacon but kept his passion, and so did Allen Stier. I think of a certain smile, right after he tapped the baton and right before we started to play, like a little kid who might get what he wanted for the holidays, but then again might not.
Somewhere during the 8th grade Mr. Stier either had a renewed interest in guitar, or thought it would add to our sound, and he started playing with us in the jazz band during performances, becoming even closer to some of us – a player/coach. I can’t quantify it, but bottom line, he was everybody’s favorite teacher, and the bands didn’t sound ½ bad (yes I’m trying not to sound biased). We wanted to play for him. He cared.
And he pushed us. The hell with “Plink, Plank, Plunk”, we were playing “Night on Bald Mountain” by Mussorgsky from the movie “Fantasia”. And when the trumpets couldn’t play quiet enough (near the end of the piece, after the storm), he came to the back of the room with me, Bill Robinson, Mike Desimone, and Byron Williams*, and said, “You know how after you get done kissing a girl? After the excitement? When you feel really calm? That’s what this should sound like.”, only thing was, because we weren’t David Hanson or Michael Sada (the only two guys who knew what that was like, hell, they had probably had their drivers licenses by then), we had no idea what he was talking about.
The second factor that made the evening memorable was us. Whether we see each other regularly like Aff (Tom), The Captain (Pete Marchelos), Hesh (aka Howard Alan Hoffman, hell, Hesh and The Captain are like me and Mrs. Jones), and me, once every decade or so like me and Mitch Seiler, or once every thirty six years (which is how long it’s been since we’ve graduated), which means if we do this in another 36 years we’ll be 86 (that‘s older than Mr. Landau and Mr. Stier now! - kidding sirs), there’s a bond I felt when I looked into everyones eyes, a shared history that in the grand scheme of things few of us on the planet are fortune enough to experience, that we’ll always have.
So here’s to us!
Here’s to 109!
And here’s to the next reunion (may it be in less than 36 years)!
Also, just as I’ve shared a couple of my memories, I’m remised that we all didn’t share them during coffee and dessert (I suggested it to Janice. How come you didn’t remind us to do this? You’ve got three men in your house that if they stood on each other’s shoulders would be taller than the Freedom Tower if they built it, you could have gotten us to do this!). So, if any memories of moments, teachers, or classic scenarios come to mind, like Chris Poulios at lunch growling “Take a seat Flugie”, or me (I was not alone) repeatedly filling Barry Levine’s black cons with fruit salad and quintuple knotting them to the cafeteria table (where in the world is Barry Levine? probably teaching nuclear fusion at MIT), perhaps we can share those on the Facebook site, or click on the pencil below and I will post them there…
* hell of an artist, he used to read The Boston Strangler during class and draw amazing pictures of naked ½ bodies - either top or bottom - reconnected in erotic combinations that I still can’t fathom.
