My Fiftieth High School Reunion

This weekend was my high school reunion. My 50th high school reunion! The reunion of Upper Merion's class of 1971.  The tenth time that a dedicated committee has brought us together.  Amazing people. 

This year brought an additional challenge, the Covid virus.  A number of my closest friends did not attend.  After all, we're 68. We are old. That virus wants to kill us.  We had to fill out a contact sheet in case anyone came down with the virus.  Chances are good.  Few people wore masks. (My Ruth Bader Ginsberg mask didn't match my ritzy, glitzy blouse.) Odds are good there were a number of unvaccinated people.  And, because we're old we had to lean in close to squint and read name tags or stick our ears up to someone's mouth to hear them speak. We hugged; we hugged a lot. Hopefully, our reunion won't be remembered as the  Class of 1971 Super Spreader Event.

Part I of the reunion happened on Friday when we toured the old high school.  It will be torn down as a new school is being built, so I truly appreciated Huck L. and Sherri B. taking us down memory lane.  Well, memory lane for some people. Nothing looked familiar to me.  Glen T. found his locker and assured me that mine had to be somewhere near his because homerooms were alphabetized in the good old days.  Nope. Nothing. Until we saw the staircase. Oh, I remembered that staircase and all the times I had to run from the gym, up those stairs to my locker, and then down those stairs to catch the bus....or watch it drive away. Good times. It was interesting to see the pool again as so few schools have pools anymore. That sure brought back memories...the horror of wearing regulation bathing suits provided by the school.  And if you were a fat girl, the horror of walking by the boys to get to your bench.  Another trauma for me was being blind as a bat, unable to see a thing without my glasses, and getting yelled at by Mrs. Harlan because I couldn't see her and I had no idea what was going on. In the old days, teachers didn't have to accommodate disabilities. You were on your own.

A Happy Hour followed at a popular local restaurant called Peppers.  A few beers and everybody was friends again.  I talked to Kathy R. and it was delightful. She, too, is a retired teacher.  And, I haven't seen her in 50 years!!!  How many people have you not seen in 50 years that you can jump right into a conversation with? The retired teacher part didn't hurt; we survivors of the educational trenches share a universal bond. I walked up and introduced myself to people rather than play a guessing game.  I let them pretend they remembered me and told them it was great to see them again. When I left, the party was still going strong. The Class of 1971 showed those young whipper-snappers at the bar, who were wide-eyed shocked at the idea of a fiftieth reunion, that old people rock!

The big event started the next day at a senior appropriate time ,6:00pm, and was held at a fancy hotel with a parking lot perilously far from the front door.  That's when I noticed that my dress shoes, which I've probably had for twenty years, were on their last legs. I kept slipping out of them and praying they wouldn't  disintegrate before I walked in the front door. (I tried on four different outfits before I settled on one, but I never thought to check the shoes. Let this be a reminder to you, dear reader, if you want to be comfortable at a big event, check your shoes.) The hard working committee made name tags with our high school pictures on them.  Of course, the print was big so I could read them without getting too close. Everybody was so nice. Everybody pretended they remembered everybody else. Everybody was joyful. It was such an "up" evening!

I enjoyed catching up with people. My good friend, Laurie R. was my dinner date. The food was good and so was the conversation at our table. Laurie sat to my left, my goods friends Janet and Glen T. to my right, and the hunkiest boy in the senior class, Walt W., sat across from me with his adorable wife who has also come to all the reunions.  After dinner, I wandered the area trying to catch up with long time friends.  I have to give a shout out to Nancy N.  She is still working full time as a nurse in Florida. Last year, she worked the Covid unit. Nancy, you are a hero! And there was Chris C., a boy who gave me a carnation in seventh grade, and just made the day of a shy and not too attractive young girl. I never forgot him or his sweet gift. He forgot it, of course, but I think I made him happy to let him know he was remembered so fondly all of these years. Fifty years folks, fifty - count 'em.  Patty B. (who has the most whimsical picture in our yearbook as she looks off into the distance thinking what a PITA picture day was) was there with her brother. I was immediately transported to the old days when I used to bring my brother, Glenn, to the reunions. So many of his friends were at the reunion and they told me stories of why and how much they loved him.  One classmate, who has already told me bits and pieces about their trip out west, wanted to tell me stories about my brother and the women he met on the trip.  I still don't want to know that!  I only had to tell a couple people that Glenn had died, for which I was thankful. And I was thankful, too, for the good thoughts shared with me. I always joked that Glenn had more friends in the Class of 1971 than I did. 

Which brings me to the classmates who were not there and who will never be back again.  I remember the first few years when a table held red roses (donated by the father of one of our classmates killed in a car accident) and a 5x7 picture frame with the names of those who were gone.  This year there were two sheets of poster paper with names and pictures of classmates who have passed away.  I was in for some big shocks as many people I remembered fondly were gone. People I had hoped to see, gone.  I left the table and then returned three times to try to gradually absorb all the names. That's when the whole concept of fifty years truly hit home.

Yes, the pretty and popular girls were there. No, they didn't get fat and ugly, they are still pretty.  And they are nice. Easy to talk to. Happy to be there.  I have to say that most of them were easily recognizable. I told Janice R. she still looked like a kid, and I meant it!  Bonnie D. is still just as cute as can be. I don't think Kitty H. will ever age. But the person who surprised me most was one of the quiet beautiful prom queens. I remember her as a petite blonde long-haired prom queen who wasn't much of a smiley person, and didn't have the time of day for me. She's seems tall now (why did I remember her as so small?) and outgoing, with a big smile, and she remembered me and was happy to greet me. Repeatedly. Because  I kept forgetting who she was since she looked so different. Ha ha ha. We laughed. 

There was dancing that night. The dancing girls were on the floor. I used to dance all the time because Marianne Y. would pull me onto the dance floor.  But, she was on the poster board, and not there to drag me out.  So, I watched the fun girls dance.  And I fastened my eyes on one guy. My secret crush, ah, maybe not too secret. The kind-hearted guy who I think has aged well  and is still adorable.  And I watched him dance with the dancing girls as I sat in my chair  and wished he'd pull me onto the dance floor.

My fiftieth reunion.  So much has changed. Some things remain the same. Looking forward to fifty-five! Classmates, if you're not on the poster board, be there. You'll be surprised at the fun you have.

My Thoughts on Texas and Abortion

 I watch the news. One thing that has appalled me is the glee with which the Texan republican lawmakers passed their recent abortion bill/abomination.

There is no denying that this law is meant as punishment for women who have had sex. If not, why is no thought given to the other half of the equation? No reparations. No responsibility. No jail time for them. No "punishment." No acknowledgement of the male except in a proprietary position - the rapist who can claim visitation rites, the neighborhood guy who gets a kick out of seeing how many babies he can father and who thinks a box of diapers is support, and so on.

These same male lawmakers who believe it is their "Christian" duty to force women to do with their bodies what they (men) believe is right, are the same men fighting against wearing a mask because it's their body and their decision. Huh? Why does that battle cry not apply to women and their bodies? How can anyone not recognize the hypocrisy of these so-called men? Why are all women in 2021 not standing up and fighting this insult to their autonomy?

You know what really happens when laws like these challenge Roe vs Wade? Women don't stop having sex. Or getting raped. Or getting sexually abused by members of their own families. Women seek out illegal abortions. Frequently they die from those backstreet abortions, and it's a very painful death. However, make no mistake about it, the need for abortion will not be legislated into oblivion. I know women who had abortions and now they stand on the side of anti-abortionists because they've "learned better." Dear women, how do you forget your panic? your need? How can you deny this option to other women? What have you actually learned?

Please, don't cry for those "poor babies." Those babies are safely with Jesus. Yes, Christians who are so worried about the babies: their. souls. are. with. Jesus.

The real poor babies are the unwanted ones, the ones born into poverty, the trafficked children, the abused children, and the hungry children...hungry because lawmakers believe cutting their benefits will force their parents to work. Be truthful - do any of you who are so appalled about abortion do anything to help the children in poverty? to care for the abandoned and unloved? These poor children are not with Jesus; they are in hell.

I hope in 2021 our lawmakers come to their senses. I hope in 2021 women realize they deserve to make their own decisions about their bodies. I hope for a miracle.

2020 A Year for the Books

 Literally, 2020 was a year for the books.  The last time I read so many books was when I bought my house and I was too poor to go anywhere or do anything else. I love to read, but not necessarily when it's forced upon me as it was this year.

2020 was rough on this country and rough on the world. The Covid-19 virus crippled us in ways we'd never seen before.  Businesses died. People lost jobs and homes. Hospitals were overwhelmed, their staffs exhausted beyond anything previously experienced. Schools closed and opened, then closed and opened again with teachers doing the best they could with little in the way of helpful direction. Zoom communications replaced physical contact, for those who could figure out the technology. Tempers flared. Fights over mask wearing put shoppers and store staff in danger. Riots broke out, each "side" blaming the other "side." People died. Alone. People survived. Alone. Our government did little, if anything, to alleviate our fears, our struggles, our loneliness.

As bad as it was, 2020 was NOT the worst year of my life. That honor goes to the year I broke my leg and my mother died. The second worse year of my life? That was the year my brother died. The third worse year of my life was the year I bought my house, experienced a vicious group of parents determined to get me fired, determined (and successful) at making my life miserable, and the terrible depression I waded through. So, in perspective, 2020 runs as the fourth worst year of my life. Heck, fourth place barely gets an honorable mention in the contest of the worst possible year.

I hope this year is much better for all of us.  I have hope in a new administration and some humanitarianism returning to our government.  I have hope that vaccines become available to all and put an end to the deadly hold Covid has on the world. I have hope that I'll play trivia again, hug my friends again, return to art classes again, act in a play again, and travel again. 

I need to get back to Key West and have another reading with the gentleman who read my cards. He predicted this year's setback. He wasn't quite sure what he was seeing, but he told me I'd survive it. I have hope that he'll read my cards again with much more optimism. 

2020 ends tonight. I have hopes that its bad karma goes with it. Happy New Year everybody. May you live to enjoy it.

For Delilah's Daddies

Recently, two of my friends had to put down their dog when it became painfully obvious that she could no longer enjoy life on this Earth.  Though the kind and loving action had to be taken, my friends were suffering as they did it.  They are missing her terribly. The void is a physical pain. Yet, Larry confessed to me, he had peeked at Petfinders.com. Was he a terrible person?

Hell to the no!

I lost my first dog, Lucy the Wonderdog, this month some fifteen or so years ago.  I didn't think I could ever recover, yet alone love another dog. Then, I saw Trixie at F.A.R.M. (Fallston Animal Rescue) Her picture called to me, so I went to get her. She was mine. And I didn't know what to do with her. I felt disloyal to Lucy.  Could Lucy see that I "easily" replaced her? How dare I love this new dog when I hadn't finished mourning my last dog. Why had I done this?  Trixie used to look at the picture of Lucy that I framed and placed on top of a cabinet in my living room.  It gave me the creeps. Why that picture? Did she know something I didn't know?  One day I was in the back room, and I heard something crash.  It was Lucy's picture. It had fallen off the shelf. By itself. For no obvious reason. The other pictures beside it were still on the shelf where they'd always been. Trixie sat beside me, looking at it and then at me. I am convinced that Lucy wanted me to know she was still with me. And, I believe, she wanted me to know it was ok that Trixie came to live with me. I mean, the picture didn't fall and smash my new dog on the head, did it?  So, there you go.

I had fifteen wonderful years with Trixie before I had to let her go. That was it. I knew I was done with dogs as I didn't think I could survive that pain again. But, like Larry, I couldn't resist peeking at Petfinder. It was a month before I saw her picture, but I felt Winnie calling to me to come get her.  I adopted her and wondered, again, what the heck had gotten into me. To say this dog was quirky was an understatement. And, she wasn't housebroken. What had I done? Why? One night as I was drifting off to sleep, I heard her in the kitchen. I figured she was getting a drink (and then going to pee on the kitchen floor once again). Sighing, I tiredly decided to just clean it up in the morning.  She padded down the hallway, got to the bottom of my bed, and then just stopped. I patted the bed, and when she still didn't jump up, I sat up to see what was going on. Nobody was at the bottom of the bed. Winnie was where she'd been the whole time, sleeping soundly at my side. I got chills. I knew that I'd had a visit from Trixie. She'd investigated and decided all was ok with the new dog. So, there you go.

My message to Larry and Mark, and all people who lose their beloved pets: Don't hesitate to rescue again. Our animals don't want us to be alone. Our animals know the pain of abandonment and the joy of adoption.  They want us to share this love again.  

So, there you go.

 

I'm Not Anne Frank

I'm not Anne Frank.  Anne Frank hid in an attic with seven other people for two years. Two years of never leaving the house, of never inhaling fresh air and turning her face up to the sun, of never enjoying the freedom of a walk in the park with friends.  No, I'm not Anne Frank. I have sheltered at home for almost three months, and my spirits have been so low that I have to compare my experience to hers to feel a little better. Pretty pathetic, huh?

I am the poster child for social distancing.  I can just take so much peopling and then I have to retreat to my home for however long it takes me to rejuvenate.  Sometimes, it can take a while.  But three months of isolation has taken its toll on me. Everything hurts on me because I don't exercise. Walking my dog makes my back ache. Deep cleaning the bathroom requires a nap.  My eating habits are atrocious.  I began this experience with the intention of cooking lean, healthy meals. Somehow I got hooked on cheezies and peppermint patties; the hell with veggies and protein.  The eleven pounds I recently lost were back when I last checked. Yard work? Every time I gathered the energy, it poured. So, no trimmed evergreens for me.  My play was canceled before the first rehearsal. The trip to NYC was canceled when  Broadway went dark. And so on. And so on. And so on.

Depressed? Yes, safe to say I am.  I'm not alone.  The seniors of the Class of 2020 lost out on the "senior year experience." My dog groomer's business folded during the pandemically forced closure. The people coming to my church's food pantry are really suffering.  Many new clients join us every Friday lamenting the loss of jobs, the inability to pay bills, and facing the embarrassment of needing help. Some of our clients have suffered drastically because their AA and NA meetings aren't happening.  Many of our regulars are MIA and we worry about them.  Some of our clients are taking out their anger and frustration on us. They fight us about wearing masks. They complain about waiting in line six feet away from the nearest neighbor. One even called me a motherf--, well, you get the idea. It's been tough. People have lost loved ones and were unable to hold or attend funerals.   I have a friend whose sister is hospitalized for dementia, and J. believes she may never see her sister again.  Teachers and students were thrust into a world of on-line schooling that no one planned or trained for. In many situations, the stress of schooling exacerbated tensions already existing between parents, teachers, and students. The world is a mess. Bodies pile up in refrigerated trucks. ICUs are full to capacity. There aren't enough ventilators or even protective gloves and masks to properly equip our tireless medical personnel. Our president jokes about injecting bleach to curtail the virus. He advocates taking a drug that has not been proven to help, but in which he has a financial interest.  He threatens to cut supplies to governors who don't kiss his ass. Leadership? What leadership have we had during this pandemic?  Listening to the president's "news briefs" has been unnerving for most of the world.

Optimists like to say that this emergency has brought out the best in us. I guess I'm not an optimist.

The news is full of violence.  Angry groups of people scream and threaten (with weapons brought into government buildings ) the lives of governors failing to reopen America quickly enough for them.  A black man is murdered by a policeman kneeling on his neck, and that action leads to rioting.  Farmers dump milk they can't sell, putting their futures in jeopardy. People spit on fruits and vegetables causing grocery stores to destroy produce. Citizens show their distain for those of us wearing masks by spitting and coughing on the mask wearers. They claim the government has no "right" to require its citizens to wear masks. Really? Any society, even an American society, has rules and regulations established supposedly for the good of the citizens. Your rights are being denied? Maybe you need to take another look at the rights you're so sure you're entitled to have. Even the things that started out well have soured.  A Facebook group of wine fairies secretly gifted each other with bottles of wine mysteriously left on porches. That went south fast with bottles being stolen from porches and people whining (pun intended) that nobody fairied them. Or posted pictures to thank them for the good deed. The automobile parades past birthday peoples' houses have dwindled and folks are even complaining they can't get enough interest in their parade, or why won't someone do a parade for them???  The happy, optimistic this-is-what-we-did-today Facebook posts have stopped as people seem to have run out of happy optimism.  I am weary. I'm told I don't pray enough; I don't trust God. Well, God gave mankind the "gift" of free will. He probably weeps as He watches how we use it.

No, I am not in hiding because I fear the Nazis taking my life. However, while I am self-isolating, I do fear for my life.  The obvious fear? I am the exact target of this nasty virus that has killed over 100,000 Americans. And too many Americans have said that the extinction of the elderly, aka the weak, is an acceptable consequence for reopening the bars, the restaurants, the beaches, the parks. I constantly mourn the America we've become, and wonder if things will ever go back to the way they were. And then I'm stopped dead in my tracks.  Will we ever go back to the way we were, or is this who we have been all along?  Or, and this is a chilling thought, will things get worse?

Can Covid-19 bring out the best in us?  Will it teach us lessons about what is really important? Will it leave us permanently changed, selfish, and/or vulnerable in a not-so-good way?  Will it reveal who we are deep down when we think no one can see us?  Will our world become "A Clockwork Orange?"  Will we continue to hoard toilet paper?

I have run out of words. So, let me leave you with words from the expert in social isolation, Anne Frank.

“In spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can’t build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery, and death. I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness, I hear the ever approaching thunder, which will destroy us too, I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquility will return again.”

2019

I was talking life/politics with one of my like-minded friends.  I told her that it bothers me that I feel such pain due to the horribleness in the world: trump, floods, school shootings, trump, children caged and separated from their parents, racism,  trump, trump, trump.  Why can others just ignore the injustices of the world and pretend they don't exist?  What is wrong with them? Or should the question be, what is wrong with me?  So with this blog,  I decided to force myself to focus on things that made me smile this year, to realize that not all is trump-trash. Life can be good. So here goes.  In no particular order, a recap of the Happy of 2019.

1.  The Full Monty. This was the most exciting theatrical experience I've ever had. I actually sang a solo, on stage, in front of a big audience.  I was funny. I got lots of laughs and rounds of applause.  I held my own with theatre professionals, and hopefully earned their respect. I met new and wonderful people. At sixty-six years old, I accomplished a milestone when I thought all of my milestones were over.

2. Flowers.  I am still thrilled that my former student, Martice Huff, sent flowers to me on opening night.  I taught seventh grade; do you realize how long ago it was that he was in my classroom?  To have a former student remember me so fondly warms my heart which too often feels cold. And who can forget flowers on my birthday? Thank you always Ronnie and Lou. You're the best!

3. Hamilton.  How lucky am I that the Cohens had an extra ticket to this Broadway show and they chose me to go see it with them?

4.  Surgery. I had my thyroid removed this summer.  Surgery went well, recovery was swift, my sister took care of me, and I did not have cancer!!

5. Visitors.  My dear, dear high school friend and her husband came to visit. It has been at least ten years since I last saw Cathy Beaver, and yet, we were as close as if no time had passed.  It's FUN to show off Havre de Grace. They got a Barbara S. Special Maryland Tour, and it was wonderful. I realized as I showed off my hometown (well, technically I reside in Ceciltucky; but my heart resides in Havre de Grace) how proud I am of where I live. And, how lucky I am that this part of the world is where I landed.

6. St. John's Food Cupboard.  I work this Cupboard every Friday.  Sometimes I dread getting up and going over, wondering what problems are going to give me a headache that day.  I leave every Friday feeling so full for having provided real help for people in need. Thank God this project has given me an insight and a personalization of a problem that plagues our country. I have a genuine compassion for those in need, and a chance to help in a meaningful way.  Our clients depend on us, and know we will help. We treat them respectfully and offer them dignity that they rarely get anywhere else. They worry about me - my aching knees, my cold hands and ears, my surgery - and they pray for me. They make me aware of blessings that I take for granted.

7. Winnie Poo Poo. My new dog has helped to heal my broken heart. She's got me walking because she won't do her business without a walk.  She has allowed me to become reacquainted with my old neighbors and she's helped me meet new ones. They may not always remember my name, but they always have a big hello for Winnie.

8. Gambling.  Once a week I join two friends, Sheila and Edith, for an evening at the casino. We have dinner and beer...cold, cold yummy beer.  I do ok. Sometimes I break even, lots of times I lose, once I won $500.  I like the slots. I like the lights, the bells, the whistles, and the absolute positive escape from the real world.  It's numbing, which is sometimes just what I need. I enjoy talking to people who are there for the fun. Sometimes I am entertained just watching and rooting for the big spenders. Whatever. I am Barbara. I like to gamble.

9. Key West. My family (and our extended family friends) took its second Thanksgiving trip to Key West this year.  We are so lucky to visit this paradise of sun, water, friendly people, glorious sunsets, entertainment, and margaritas. No matter what else happens or happened this year, what a joyous way to begin closing it up.

Blessings of the new year to you. Look for the good. And celebrate it.

Memories

"Memories, may be beautiful and yet. What's too painful to remember, we simply choose to forget." Cue Barbra Streisand and The Way We Were.

That song takes me back to Millersville State College, now known as Millersville University.  The movie came out in 1973, and it struck a chord with me. The frumpy, kinda loud, intelligent girl finally gets her man, the gorgeous blonde Robert Redford. However, they don't get their happily ever after. So damn unfair! The music always brings a tear to my eye. Ah memories.....  At sixty-six, I have more memories of adventures gone by, than I will ever have of adventures yet to come. Many of my fondest memories were of my college days and the people who wove that tapestry of my life. Often, I wonder what happened to these people I haven't seen in forty-four years.  So, I stalk them on Facebook. The guys especially, I stalk the guys.

Yesterday, one of my FB groups shared the tune Midnight at the Oasis and I immediately shot back to Millersville, 1974, and Mark Q.  Mark was an English major and in a number of my classes.  He was imposing, a big handsome long-haired blonde guy in his denim overalls, a sailor's cap, and his bushy mustache. I called him Captain Kangaroo or The Walrus because of that mustache. He thought I was a good ole gal, and he laughed with me. We were good buddies. One of my dearest memories was the night before his graduation.

Mark was a good student, but a procrastinator. He had a paper to write and turn in by midnight that night if he wanted to get his diploma the next day.  He asked to borrow my typewriter.  I had the cream of the crop of typewriters.  It was electric. It had a ribbon with correction tape built in, a luxury not everyone could afford. And all the keys worked.  When he came to my dorm to pick it up, he was happy to learn that I came with it.

In his room, we worked for hours. Intense hours. But, for this English major nerd, fun hours spent exchanging ideas, debating what to write, laughing in exhaustion, and spelling difficult words out loud. English student fun.  Some of the time, he'd write a section by hand and turn it over to me to type.  When he was typing, I'd relax on his bed, pillows propped up against the wall as I flipped through his Playboy magazines.  Then I'd go back to typing.  Later, when he proofread the paper, he had to manually correct the number of times I'd typed Gertrude Skin instead of Gertrude Stine.  Fun times. Maybe you had to be there?

By 11:00 pm we were finished. Then off to the library to make a copy.  Time was running out. We jumped in his VW Bug and headed into Lancaster to find his professor's house. Those were the days before GPS, and we were lost. At ten minutes before midnight, we found the dark house, stuck the brown envelope with the precious paper inside his door, rang the doorbell once, and drove off high-fiving our success.

Back on campus, he walked me and my typewriter home. I carried a gift he'd given me, a lamp he'd made himself. If any of you are old enough to remember the masking tape covered Matuese bottles that were shoe-polished to look like leather then you can picture the lamp. I treasured it for years. Mark graduated. I met his parents the next day. He said many wonderful things about me and we parted for what I believed would be the last time I'd ever see him.  It made me sad.

By now you're probably wondering why Midnight at the Oasis triggered that memory.  Simple. That summer he told me he'd be working at a dive bar at the Jersey shore called The Oasis.  A few weeks into the summer, I asked my friend Kay if she was up for an adventure. We decided to go to the Jersey shore, have fun on the beach, locate the bar, and surprise Mark. She drove and I navigated. We spent the day, and then the real fun began, finding the bar. Finally, we found it tucked away on an iffy street. It was closed. I was crushed. My crush was not there, and I knew I'd never see him again.

Driving home was bittersweet. We commiserated like girlfriends do. Eventually we were laughing and singing with the radio. And then I saw it. A Volkswagon Bug that looked exactly like Mark's. I screamed for Kay to pass it, but to slow down enough so I could get a look at the driver. It was Mark. He was as shocked to see me in the car next to him  as I was to see him. I rolled down the window and hung out of it, waving and yelling. He was pumping his arm in the air, honking his horn,  and waving frantically at me. Was this Kismet or what???? Then, he turned off the road to go one way, and we stayed straight to go our way.  And, that was the last I saw of Mark Q.

Back to stalking guys on Facebook. I found him. He has had a wonderful life with a beautiful wife, two handsome sons, a home in Florida, and a dream job at Universal. He still had his moustache! He looked great. Except that he wasn't great. The messages on his public page were condolences to his family on his passing in May, 2018.  How can someone who lives so vividly in my memory be gone?

So it's the laughter we will remember. Whenever we remember the way we were.