Gene Pitney's songs set the tone for some much

Gene Pitney
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JAMESTOWN, N.Y. - Gene Pitney just passed away, quietly, at 65, right after giving what the critics say was one of his best performances ever.

His voice wasn't was it was when we listened to his 45 rpm records in the early 60s, but his enthusiasm for performing never stopped.

Here's a link to a story about his passing:

Gene Pitney

Is it me, or do we seem to be losing about one icon a week?

My favorite Gene Pitney song is "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance," though "24 Hours From Tulsa" is close. He wrote tons of other songs for other performers including "Red Rubber Ball," a hopeful tune about a broken-hearted young guy who sees a sunrise and realizes that life will go one.

I sat and watched a sunrise one morning overlooking Chautauqua Lake with that tune blaring out of the radio in my mother's yellow 1966 Pontiac Tempest Lemans after a difficult evening with a young lady who had dropped me like a hot rock.

"Now I know you're not the only starfish in the sea,
If I never hear your name again it's all the same to me,
I think it's gonna be alright, yes the worst is over now,
the morning sun is shining like a red rubber ball."

It might not be Dylan Thomas, but it's poetry anyway.

I'm going to honor Gene Pitney in my tiny way by learning to play a few of his tunes on my guitar. I've practiced some chords and sung of his verses, but my God that man had a set of vocal chords.

Gene had lots of other songs, his "Town Without Pity," perhaps burned into my memory the most. It was played as a "slow dance" a lot and because it was so slow and so melodic, even I could grab the hand of Linda Hansen or Sue Kettle or Sally Smith and get away with a twirl on the gym floor without tripping.

Here's the lyrics to Red Rubber Ball and Town Without Pity.

Oh! And one not-too-quick thank you to all the folks who sent me personal emails and posted messages at the end of yesterday's entry about the nasty gram letter I received.

I will, "Blog on" until the reunion and beyond, too. Can you imagine the legends we are going to create in July?

Cheers.

Town With Pity

When you're young and so and love as we
And bewildered by the world we see
Why do people hurt us so
Only those in love would know
What a Town Without Pity can do..

If we stop to gaze upon a star
People talk about how bad we are...
Ours is not an easy age
We're like tigers in a cage
What a Town Without Pity can do..

The young have problems Many problems
We need an understanding heart..
Why don't they help us, try to help us
Before this clay and granite planet falls apart...

Take these eager lips and hold me fast..
I'm afraid this kind of joy can't last
How can we keep love alive
How can anything survive
When these little minds tear you in two..
What a town Without Pity can do..

How can we keep love alive
How can anything survive
When these little minds tear you in two..
What a town Without Pity can do

Red Rubber Ball

I should have known you'd bid me farewell
There's a lesson to be learned from this and I learned it very well
Now I know you're not the only starfish in the sea
If I never hear your name again, it's all the same to me

And I think it's gonna be all right
Yeah, the worst is over now
The mornin' sun is shinin' like a red rubber ball

You never cared for secrets I'd confide
For you I'm just an ornament, somethin' for your pride
Always runnin', never carin', that's the life you live
Stolen minutes of your time were all you had to give

And I think it's gonna be all right
Yeah, the worst is over now
The mornin' sun is shinin' like a red rubber ball

The story's in the past with nothin' to recall
I've got my life to live and I don't need you at all
The roller coaster ride we took is nearly at an end
I bought my ticket with my tears, that's all I'm gonna spend

And I think it's gonna be all right
Yeah, the worst is over now
The mornin' sun is shinin' like a red rubber ball

Oh, oh, oh
I think it's gonna be all right
Yeah, the worst is over now
The mornin' sun is shinin' like a red rubber ball

Nasty fan mail suggests shortage of Zoloft in NY

Nasty envelope
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

SACRAMENTO, Calif. - I had a stack of mail two-feet tall awaiting me at the Journalism Dept. this morning, the result of not going near campus for nearly a month.

God, it felt good, too, to stay away.

But, in among stacks of announcements of lectures I wouldn't attend even if paid, come-ons for new textbooks, and the occasional brochure for new computer stuff, there was a first-class letter with the handwritten envelope you see in the photo here, postmarked March 7.

Handwritten envelopes in 2006 are such a rarity. Usually such an envelope would contain a personal note from a former student who had landed a great job and wanted to tell me all about it. Thank-you notes for letters of recommendation usually come in that size envelope with handwritten addresses, too. This one had a Buffalo, N.Y. postmark, which was a tip-off it probably wasn't from a former student. A few of my students over the years have traveled east, but the ones that do, usually head to Washington D.C. or New York City.

But, well, the brief note inside certainly turned out to be personal.

Here's the entirety of what was inside the envelope, folded quite tightly:



Ouch!

If I was sensitive, that nasty-gram would send me to either the wine jug or the Prozac bottle in a heartbeat. Maybe both. Well, not Prozac, because I don't have any or have ever had any, or... Never mind. Let's move along...

But I am not really that sensitive. Too many years in the news business, I suppose. One letter to the editor some years ago suggested that I go back to college and get a degree in journalism.I didn't take that letter too seriously either, because the letter writer misspelled both journalism and college. And it was from a high school teacher. Ouch again.

But in this case, well, I have never been able to take anonymous letters very seriously. They are just so, so, so, ummmmmm, chickenshit?

Wait! I'm sorry, let me amend that. That's not fair to the patriotic poultry population of America. (I know, I know, it was an obvious joke, but sometimes obvious works best. Watch Jon Stewart on the Daily Show.)

By not signing their name, or putting a return address, the whole criticism falls pretty flat.

So, sorry Ms. or Mr. anonymous former-classmate. I suggest you simply don't read this blog if you find my musings frankly, well, not amusing. And please, please, follow through on that awful threat to boycott the 40th reunion of the Class of '66. Your presence would be missed, though, only if we knew who you were. What a conundrum!

In that vein, I'm giving the envelope and note to some of our criminal justice, CSI-type students on campus for them to do some detective work. I mean, the handwriting is distinctive and virtually every computer printer in America leaves a signature now, a signature that is invisible to the naked eye. (That signature was included as a public safety measure many years before 9-11, so don't blame The Patriot Act.)

I am just kidding about the criminal-justice students. But I do want to offer my sincere thanks to the writer of the note for reminding me that this reunion is about, well, the Class of '66 of Southwestern Central High School. All of us.

We all had our faults in 1966. We all have faults in 2006. Mine is sometimes not knowing when to stop writing and shut up.

Soooooo...

Buena suerte (or bon chance) classmates and amigos.

I hope to see everyone in July, all critics included.

He drove like a madman & always watched my back

John Rupp
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

BURLINGTON, Vermont - Back in that halcyon final year of high school - and for the next couple of years - I witnessed John Rupp drive his automobiles at speeds that didn't just defy New York state traffic laws, they sometimes defied the laws of physics.

But in all of that time - save one - he and his vehicles came through unscathed, though people he passed (frequently on the wrong side of the road or on the shoulder) or people driving in the other direction, probably needed oxygen or a double dose of their nitroglycerin after the encounter.

When John dropped out of college in Florida and I dropped out of Villanova at the end of the fall 1967 semester, the plan was to make some money and go to the 1968 Olympics in Mexico City. What a grand adventure that was going to be! We would be like Alexander Scott and Kelly Robinson from I Spy!

But then we met these girls at the Gloves and, well, there went that idea.

Adios Mexico! It took me 30 more years to finally make it there. And I can't even remember the girls from then that we were so truly madly deeply in love with!

Today, I found out that John has been battling cancer for the last few years. In typical Rupp fashion, he didn't tell me, or very many other people. But it's gotten more serious now - and he is probably sooooooo pissed off at me for publishing this, that it's a good thing he's propped up in a chair in his house in Burlington, Vermont, yelling at the morons on the Fox Nut Network.

At least that's what he was doing this morning when I called and chatted with him. He was in pretty good spirits, said the drugs had the pain under control and if he wasn't in pain, the drugs would have him laid out cold.

We are all at the age where things like cancers and other illnesses are catching up to us. Still it's a shock to hear it.

At Snug Harbor one summer night in 1967 or 1968 - the same night that John's mother's red '65 Mustang went airborne into a ditch - John came dancing across the floor with a lady friend to warn me that my ex-girlfriend was in the bar. She was looking for me because she wanted to deliver a message. The last message had been a pitcher of beer dumped on my head at the Pastime in Lakewood, so he and I beat feet out of the bar and into the night, laughing.

We watched each other's backs a lot in those days.

Today, I can't watch John's back from California, and I feel kind of helpless. But I thought I could at least post his contact information here, in case you want to send him a letter, telling him how much trouble he is going to be in if he doesn't come to our Class of '66 Reunion in a few months.

It's just few months, Kelly, and we (the entire Class of '66) insist that you and your wife Paula bring your cute four-year-old daughter, too.

We'll see you then, amigo.

Contact information:

John Rupp and Paula Provencher
201 Brand Farm Drive South
Burlington, VT 05403
ph: 802-658-3640

John's email: johnrupp@mail.com
Paula's email: udabest@hotmail.com

State of the Reunion message from Randy Carlson

State of the Reunion message
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

JAMESTOWN, New York - I hope that these shots taken of the documents sent to me from Randy Carlson are all readable... If you have a problem, just click on them which should take you to the original web page where they are posted.

There you can make them bigger, download them or, well, whatever you want.

The photo/document above is Randy's state of the Reunion message (clever, very clever R...).

And here's the list of who has made reservations:



And here's who we are still looking for.



Randy and his committee have done a great job of wrassling all this stuff and deserve a hand - and a few drinks - at our first informal event in Bemus Point.

You can let him win at golf, too, if you want, but that might be going a little too far.

I had a file shot of Tom Wrinn - one of people we are looking for - so I'm posting that in case you run into a guy who looks just Tom, but 40 years older. Of course, he might sport a Mohawk or have a beard and/or an earring.

Tom?

A contributed photo & story from Randy Carlson

Ireland photo with Randy Carlson
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

DUBLIN, Ireland - No, this is not the 2006 American Ryder cup team enjoying a pre-match practice round at the K Club. The site is in Ireland, at the Royal Dublin Golf Club, May of 2005. But the players are more a hack then a crack golf group.

The cast from left to right is Rick Brown, former SWCS teacher (who will be golfing with the Class of '66 at Chautauqua and probably attending the informal events), Paul Hedin “Class of 67” architect at Habiterra who personally knows the Morris sisters (that’s for Mike’s benefit), moi (John Giacco would be so proud) during one of the rest periods when I wasn’t searching the gorse for one of my errant shots, Bill Evans, former Jamestown area Pizza Hut owner, and last, but not least, Tony Barone who used to own the Lakewood Drug Store back in the day.

I sent this to Mike to follow up on his junior class post and to give him a SWCS-related topic where he didn’t have to do any heavy lifting. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind similar submissions from other classmates.

Looking forward to July, see you then.

Being the son of the school principal

Van Swearingen
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

JAMESTOWN, New York - I don't know if Van Swearingen will be among us this summer at the reunion of the Class of '66, but I remember being acutely aware in high school that he was the son of the principal.

Son of Cheese, that awful nickname we had for Mr. Swearingen.

It wasn't that Van was likely to say something to dear old dad. Van was good guy I remember, but had a certain sadness about him, perhaps the burden of his dad being the principal. Maybe it something else like seasonal affective disorder. God knows I had it during those long winter months. (And I still do. Why do you think I'm so fixated on living in the tropics?)

My mother was a teacher, a 4th grade teacher at R.R. Rogers school in Jamestown, a school largely populated by Puerto Rican immigrant children who spoke a very staccato Spanish, precious little of which she could understand.

I'm not entirely sure what that has to do with Van Swearingen being the son of Cloise E Swearingen, except that it jumped into my mind as I thought about my mother getting to know many of the SWCS teachers through various teacher functions around Jamestown.

I never had a chance walking into a new classroom. The teachers all knew that I was Evelyn F. Fitzgerald's son and also what her expectations were for me. It all started with Robert Lamp in the sixth grade and I was still dealing with it in senior year with Harry Robie and Hubie Davis.

It took me several years in high school to figure that one out, too.

So I wonder what kind of expectations the teachers had of Van, son of the boss so to speak? I remember Van did very well in school, and his photo pops up in various athletic photos. A well-rounded guy.

Let's hope Van makes it to the reunion. I want to buy him a drink in honor of his dad who put up with all of us.

Staging photographs at our 40th Reunion

The Five
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

JAMESTOWN, New York - When I saw this shot in the yearbook, I realized that this (and more than a few others) could be easily staged again and maybe even put together into some kind of publication after the reunion: sort of a then and now.

I don't know that the photo I ran a few days ago (of the guys in drag) should be restaged, but then, that might be the hit of the whole party. Cast your ballots: restage or not?

But this one is a classic high school photo, probably taken down at the snack bar area next to the football field. I had a white raincoat just like the one on Randy Carlson in the middle. Was it a London Fog? Good grief, the things you remember.

If those young faces aren't familiar, they are (right to left): Dan Loucks, Dave Carlson, Randy, John Schultz and Jim Nelson.

Yearbooks have fallen out of vogue at most schools and colleges. Every few years, my university has a fundraiser type approach me to say how wonderful it would be to have a yearbook. Wonderful until I tell them what it will cost to get it shot, organized and printed.

More than a few schools and colleges have gone to video yearbooks, but even those are complicated to put together and don't have the same look and feel as our red-covered Centralian which I've been hauling out on a regular basis for nearly a year now.

Here's another photo from the Centralian that might be reshot sometime at the reunion, provided both Linda and Marty attend.

We were all divided by age and class

Juniors at SWCS
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

JAMESTOWN, N.Y. - The junior class of SWCS (Class of '67, now) merited their own page in our yearbook.

Ok, it wasn't our yearbook, it belonged to the school. But how many of you bought a yearbook every year? I don't see many hands out there? I think I did get one when I was in 7th grade. ("Cherish those memories," my mother probably said when she handed me the cash to buy one. I don't cherish a single memory from 7th grade. Sorry, Mom.)

The photo with today's blog reminded me that when we were seniors, juniors well, seemed sooooo junior to our exalted status.

For me, that exalted status was largely political as I remember being thumped on the wrestling mat rather thoroughly by a few juniors. And out on the track, there were a couple of juniors who gave me good races in the 220. And in French? Jaysus! Or should I say, "Mon Dieu?"

But age segregation was the rule of law, unless you slipped up and were held back for a year. I notice that in one junior home room photo, Art Johnson is standing in the back row, but I'm sure he was in our classes for most of our high school years.

In California, in many schools there's much more mix-and-match going in all classes, all dependent on the student's ability.

That would have had me graduate in 1964 in some subjects. In math, I might still be sitting in class on the Hunt Road campus. I believe I have a nightmare about that from time to time.

But remember how quickly all that senior-junior stuff changed a few years after graduation? Suddenly, the juniors weren't part of another caste.

In 2006, we can look forward to all those juniors picking up their Social Security checks just a year behind us. And they probably are getting hip replacements, face lifts and buying Rogaine at a clip very close to that of exalted seniors.

But those sophomores... Well ... Will they ever catch up?

Yearbook photos that just keep on giving

A photo in search of a caption
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

JAMESTOWN, NY - I'm guessing that no one in this photo ever ran for public office. Had they, well, do I need to go there?

I believe this was some part of some basketball, inter-class game but whenever I thumb through the yearbook and see it, I always pause and wonder what these guys told their kids when they got ahold of the SWCS yearbook - or now grandkids, I suppose.

Although now that I think about it, anyone see that photo featuring Barry Bonds?

Barry Bonds as Paula Abdul

Anyway, can anyone out there name all six of these beauties from our yearbook? I'm pretty sure I see Lou Acquisto and Bill Taylor on the right and I think Bill's younger brother Pete on the other end of this chorus line. And maybe Gary Zebrowski? But I can't be certain.

In other news, the countdown clock for the Class of '66 40th reunion is getting louder, and yesterday Randy Carlson received an email from Dotti Holdsworth who says she will be there with her husband. Here is her yearbook shot from 1966, one she's probably happy to show the kids and grandkids.


Dotti (Holdsworth) Carlson

I don't know what number Dotti and her husband's attendance brings us up to, but I hope to sometime soon to publish a full list of who has committed to coming to all - or part - of the bash July 14-16.

Is it really only four months away?

The challenge of riding a bicycle around loose dogs

Not a friendly face
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

LAKEWOOD, New York - Along West Summit Avenue, when riding my bicycle home from 'downtown' Lakewood, from right at a corner we called 'Dead Man's Curve' and until your cleared Craig Fransen's house (the beautiful stone place past Stoneman Avenue), there were at least four half-crazed dogs that just loved to run out and grab your pantleg as you rode by.

If you were lucky it was just your pantleg and not your leg itself.

The Beebe family (Alan?) had a black Labrador that was especially ornery and thought I deserved to be knocked off my Schwinn and onto my rear on the pavement. I would pedal like a maniac as I approached his house, lifting my feet up at the last instant and praying that I would coast beyond his range of running.

Usually, a string of profanity that cost a dozen Hail Mary's at confession would come pouring out of my mouth - as if the damned dog could understand what I was saying about its lineage.

It made me feel better, though.

One rainy afternoon, there was a beautiful - and very large - tan boxer waiting for me, sitting on the steps a few doors east of my Uncle Gordy Puls' house.

And I was just tired enough that I was not going to try to sprint past the dog, who came out routinely after me and was a serious biter.

Instead, as I came pumping by - and he came out running - I swung my foot right into his head with a resounding thump that send him yelping in one direction and me crashing in the other.

Lying on the pavement, I expected to become a bruised chew toy for the pooch, but I wasn't - for the pooch.

The fellow who owned the beast came running out of his house and gave me hell for kicking his prized, if slightly insane and totally vicious - pet.

He, I'm sure, understood what I suggested about his lineage and what he could do with his goddamned boxer. I'm not sure what I suggested is anatomically even possible but it made him even madder to hear it.

It wasn't too long after that the Lakewood began enforcing a leash law for dogs and daytime was suddenly almost safe for bike riders whizzing past dogs. But at night, many of the same dogs were let loose once the sun went down and even walking could be very interesting.

I never had trouble with that boxer again, though.

Standing on the corner, watching the world go by

Corner of Cherry & 3rd Streets
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

JAMESTOWN, New York - I'm sure that 35-plus years ago, I stood on this corner a lot, long before the wheelchair ramps were installed and those cute lamp posts were put in.

We have those same lamp posts right outside my house here in Sacramento, though I don't have any of that white stuff I see on the ground.

It was on Third Street in Jamestown that everything seemed to be: the Carnahan's, the Eckerd Drug Store, Bigelow's Department Store - even the jewelry store next to Bigelow's where I bought my first wife's engagement ring (on credit, of course). We'll let that whole part of my life ride for now.

Just before I left New York for points west in 1970, I trundled about the downtown streets of Jamestown working for the Crown Dental Laboratory delivering packages here and there to dentists like Drs. Greenbaum who had offices over the top of the Woolworth store. I don't remember very many elevators in the buildings. In fact, except for the Hotel Jamestown and Bigelow's, I don't remember any.

But don't put too much creedence in that. I'm also the one who couldn't remember Pauline Lopus from the SWCS Guidance Department. Plenty of you did. (Thanks for the emails.)

Third Street was also the auto cruising spot, I remember, though the Jamestown Police were not always too friendly to our repeated passes through downtown along 3rd Street.

Anyone remember what was on this corner, circa 1966? I'm sure it wasn't a savings and loan branch with cute benches out front. If there had been benches, I'm sure I would've spent some of my time camped out on one.

A quick link to see the weather in Lakewood NY

Lakewood weather link
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

LAKEWOOD, N.Y. - I added a new link to this web page today - a quick button that takes you directly to the Wunderground.com site for Lakewood.

I already have the page bookmarked on this computer (along with Sacramento, San Francisco, Puerto Vallarta and Valois, N.Y. I tend to linger on the Puerto Vallarta page.).

For the past two summers in New York, I've used the radar function on the site to help me plan each day - sometimes hour by hour. Two years ago, when it rained like hell all the time, I would scan the radar for a weather window and then charge out of the house when an hour or so of sun seemed likely. My neighbors all started watching me for cues, heading out on the lake when they heard my outboard start.

I thought the site might come in handy when it gets closer to July and the reunion and the hard decisions we need to face: Raincoat? Shorts? T-shirt? Windbreaker?

It's nearly spring already in California and I know that false spring is probably starting to tickle Chautauqua County. I remember getting all excited this time of the year as the ice would leave the lake suddenly and the grass would start appearing in patches as snow melted. Visions of my ski boat skimming across the water would be dancing in my brain while I was supposed to be paying attention to Ed Smith in physics. Ed would catch me daydreaming a lot.

Then, a blizzard would come in (usually around Easter) and that was the end of that daydream until May when the snow really was gone.

More on daydreams another time. But for now, hit the link and then plug in your zip code, too for a forecast.

Jamestown High School Class of '66 reunion

Jamestown High School
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

JAMESTOWN, N.Y. - Jamestown High School is having its Class of '66 40th reunion the same weekend as we are.

Their reunion, at least from what I understand right now, will be at the Lakewood Rod & Gun Club.

No kidding.

Too bad the Pastime is gone. We could have had a competing social event across the canal that separates the two places. Talk about old times.

I spent one hot summer at Jamestown High School, taking algebra from a Mr. Rizzo who was far better teaching than Carl Rennells at SWCS. Or maybe it was just that Rizzo scared us all into studying. I passed with flying colors at the end of the summer, swearing I would never spend another summer at Jamestown High School. Remember life before air conditioning?

I also remember we had a fellow in that class, from Jamestown High, whose name was Attila. I'm not kidding. His last name was something close to Quataroli. But don't try to look him up in the phone book with that spelling. He was a purported tough guy, who I spotted carrying his mother's groceries down the street later that summer. Even tough guys have moms, I suppose

I know during our high school years, there wasn't too much socializing with Jamestown High School. If I remember correctly, Jamestown HS was sort of the 800-pound gorilla, while we were a more modest weight.

But after graduation, when we would all return to Jamestown from various colleges, or tours of duty overseas, the playing field was more level and the rivalry less intense. Conversations were almost possible.

Here in California, I occasionally run into Jamestown High grads - all of us refugees from the snow. It's always fun to talk with them about the Pub and some of those joints down on Second Street where you could sneak in 17 (17? How about 16?) and get a beer.

Uh-oh, I hear the whistle of the Nostalgia Express and I don't have time to ride that train today.

But start your countdown clocks, July is just around the corner.

Look for Ed Westerling at the SeeZurh House

Guidance counselors SWCS 1966
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

BEMUS POINT, NY - Randy Carlson just passed along the first 'teacher' response to the invites for our reunion.

It comes from Mr. Ed Westerling, one of our guidance counselors. Ed says he might be able to come and swill drinks, er, visit with us at the SeeZurh House Friday night.

And if you are a little hazy on which one he was, he's in the upper right hand corner of the photo with today's blog.

Gene Munson is in the back row with him. In front is Miss Lopus and Royce Mallory.

Why no first name with Miss Lopus? Because I have absolutely no recollection of the woman at all. Period. Was she real, or did they just need four people to fill out the yearbook shot?

Gene I clearly remember because he was my guidance counselor and we argued all the time. (Well, as much as were allowed to argue with the designated adults.) Royce I remember because a couple of years after graduation, I got to know a fellow named Bud Storm, who lived in Lakewood and worked with me at the Crown Dental Lab in downtown Jamestown.

Royce was Bud's next door neighbor and apparently while off getting his EdD one summer, he learned how to play the guitar.

"It ruined him," Bud told me once. "It just ruined him. He used to be really industrious. Now all he does is sit around and strum that goddamn guitar."

Bud wasn't much on music, apparently.

Ed's letter to Randy I will email to the class list. It's a PDF, and when I try to paste it in here, well, the results are pretty funny.

In case the PDF won't open, here's Ed's address in Florida:

Ed and Margie Westerling
4194 Fairway Place
North Port, Florida 34287
Tel: 941-423-973

It's raining, I'm bored, so let's go bowling. Bowling?

Bowling alley circa 21st Century
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

LAKEWOOD, NY - The rain outside today here in California is drumming down hard, just the kind of all-day crap I remember from this time of the year growing up, rain that would turn to slush about 5 p.m. and then freeze solid on the roads after dark.

What a fond freakin' memory!

But the rain also reminds me of what we sometimes did on rainy days, and even on a few occasions for dates.

Bowling.

Yup, bowling. Or, as we used say, the Polish national sport. (I bet I'll hear about that one... My apologies in advance to anyone whose heritage includes the fine European nation of Poland. I promise not to draw any cartoons, either.)

As the rain poured down many Saturdays - and it was clear that we would not be partcularly welcomed at anyone's house - we would hook a ride to the Lakewood Bowling alley at the top of Chautaqua Avenue, don some awful-smelling shoes and launch heavy bowling balls down the lanes, pretending we actually knew what we were doing.

I think I was about 30 years old before I figured out how you really score bowling.

But the times I remember most vividly were when we erroneously thought that bowling would make for a good double-date situation. Good in concept, bad in construct.

Bad? Well, it was bad because the girls seemed to be far better at bowling than we were, perhaps because they were not trying to show off - just get the damned bowling ball all the way down the lane without landing it in the gutter.

I watched one of our male classmates (who shall remain nameless here today, but you can guess) launch an airball that crossed two alleys, coming to rest in a third lane still moving forward with incredible speed.

It helped whoever was supposed to be using that lane to get a spare, I recall. Nicely done.

Then there was always the chance you would be there, trying your best moves on your date (the best moves allowed in public anyway) and someone's parents would be two lanes away. Whether they were actually watching or not, it felt like taking your mother-in-law on your honeymoon.

More on that issue another time, thank you very much.

The bowling alley was a well-lit alternative (and much cheaper, I think) to going to a movie downtown. And in February or March, well, those romantic (well...) drive-in movies were a distant dream.

I suppose I could head to the bowling alley today and try to slam a few frames. It's just down the street from my house heree and my knee feels like it could use some exercise besides the physical therapy stuff I've been doing.

Naw... I think I'll thumb through our yearbook to try to remember who it was who got their thumb stuck in bowling ball and slid halfway down the lane, screaming one wet Saturday afternoon.

I remember the sound of the scream and the list of likely suspects is fairly short.

There were a lot people from the Class of '66 there that afternoon. Anyone else remember who it was?

It was not me, at least the time I'm thinking of.

When it was time for dinner - you headed home

Dinner on the beach
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

JAMESTOWN, N.Y. - The days are finally getting a little longer. Those pre-5 p.m. sunsets were just awful in December and early January.

But it all reminded me of trudging home from wrestling practice and by sometime in March, coming home from those early track workouts held inside the high school because of the snow still on the ground.

Anyone else remember the shin splints we used to get running on the hard floors?

Tonight though, as I was figuring out what time Admiral Fox and I would have dinner, I thought back to growing up when at my house, dinner was at 5:30 p.m. That was 5:30 p.m. every day of the year, except for Christmas and Thanksgiving, when we would either trundle to a relative's house or host the entire Fitzgerald-Puls-McAvoy-Mattison clan at our casa. Still, even on those days, I could see my grandmother starting to fidget if dinner was served any later than 6 p.m.

The time for dinner was 5:30 p.m., by God, and if I was at some athletic practice, well, I ate alone later, in the kitchen, while my grandmother stood at the sink waiting for me to finish so she could swoop up the dishes, wash them and get them back safely in the cupboard.

It was heathenish to miss that 5:30 time, but it was an excused absence.

If I was out on the lake in the summer, or still at Jamesway trying to decide what treasure to buy, or just shooting the bull with Bud Hooper a block away, well, tough nuggies. The Fitzgerald family (my mother, grandmother, and sister) went ahead and had the meal at 5:30 p.m. on the dot.

What I got later was hell for not showing up at 5:30 p.m., because, that's when dinner was served. My mother bought me several wrist watches growing up with the clear directions that I was to get home by the appointed Fitzgerald dinner hour. I still have the Boy Scout watch - it keeps perfect time 40-plus years later.

I don't remember other families being as anal-retentive about dinner time, though I knew that when Derwood Hooper or Art Carlson got home, dinner was served pronto. Not that I actually witnessed that, because my 5:30 get-your-butt-home time was much earlier than the dinner times at other homes.

Since sometime in the early 1970s - whenever the last time I ate dinner in my growing-up house in Lakewood before my mother passed away - I can say with some certainty I have not eaten dinner at 5:30 p.m. Been in middle of cocktails perhaps, but I have an aversion to ever eating as early as 5:30.

Raising my four children (Have I really survived four kids?), dinner was when dinner was. The only thing I tried to do was have everyone sit down all together for a family meal - whenver that could be accomplished. And we always had a toast at the beginning of the meal to some accomplishment of the day, something newsworthy or sometimes just to say thanks to whatever higher power was in our collective vogues that night. Politicians were routinely roasted in our evening glass-raising.

But there was one other slightly odd thing at my growing-up dinner table that suddenly comes back, too - a utter lack of salt or spices. There was no table salt. No basic NaCl. I vaguely remember a pepper shaker on the kitchen stove shelf - up high and dusty.

My grandmother had some kind of dietary problem with too much salt and thus, no food served on our dinner table was salted during cooking or on dinner plates. Salt was verboten, period, spices something I read about in history class.. It could've been worse, I suppose, she could've been a vegan.

The photo with today's blog is obviously not of anything from my childhood. It's from the tropics where people not only rarely eat their evening meal at 5:30 p.m., there's plenty of salt available on the table, perhaps even on the rim of glass justed used to toast the sunset, certainly on the chips and salsa.

Must be somewhere near Margaritaville, where I'm going back soon to find my lost shaker of salt.

The effects of college roommates on life plans

Dormitory room for 4 guys
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

VILLANOVA, Penn. - Exactly why my mother was so hot on my going to Villanova University (where it was very expensive) instead of SUNY Oswego (where I had a Regent's scholarship are set to go) is still a little hazy.

Maybe it was because it was a Catholic college. Maybe she wanted me where the drinking age was 21 (not that it slowed anybody down at Villanova). Maybe she knew she was throwing me into the deep end of the pool.

That's how I learned how to swim in Lake Chautauqua - sheer panic when the water was over my head and the end of my dock.

But my first encounter at Villanova of real note was walking into a dorm room that was eerily similar to the one with today's blog. Four guys, a couple of dressers, no closet at all and some desk/tables left over from WWI.

I had three roommates, Jim Rawlings, Doug McDowell and Chris Ralston. Rawlins was a Navy ROTC guy and spent most of his time smoking cigarettes and dropping the ashes down from his top bunk on my head at night. Doug McDowell was a psychology major (like me) only because we had to put something down on our registration cards. Chris Ralston was an engineering major and studied harder than the rest of us all put together.

Amazingly there were few fights or even arguments. Given the size of the room, you might think otherwise.

But if someone was restless in the night and couldn't sleep, well, nobody slept well.

Ditto for someone getting sick. In a few days, all four of us would be hacking and wheezing and screaming.

Of the four roommates, Ralston (yes, we called him Purina sometimes), was the one who made an on-the-mark prediction about me in one of those late night, sucking-down-beer sessions. (The beer sessions were not only illegal, possession of alcohol meant sure expulsion from the University.)

We each guessed what profession we would end up in. Ralston, of course, was going to build giant buildings and bridges as an engineer. Rawlings was going to be some kind of career military guy. Doug was just hanging on (as was I) to see what the world brought.

I was clueless and could only predict what parties I was going to head to on the weekends. A life plan? Please.

But Ralston looked at me over the top of a Rolling Rock and said the word: 'Journalist.'

"You're one of those guys that just won't stop asking questions," he said.

(He might have said, 'one of those assholes,' but if he did, I've chosen not to remember it that way.)

We all laughed, because I was the one always asking why thing were done the way they were at the university - not a popular thing with the priests that ran the joint and believed the everyone should bow to authority, ecclesiastical or university-wide.

When we had a massive food fight in the cafeteria - and later a strike over the bad food served in the central dining facility - I was the one who called the campus radio station with on-the-spot reports on what dorms were throwing what kind of food out of what windows at the security guards trying to quell the near-riot. Amazing what a mess a jello fruit salad makes when it hits a cop's blue uniform.

I lost track of the guys after a few years. Rawlings left school (as did I) quite prematurely. I hope that Vietnam didn't get him. It wasn't until this moment writing this that that awful thought occurred to me.

I'll wager that my other two roomies graduated from Villanova and are getting ready for their 40th high school reunions just like us. In just four years from now, it will be 40 years from the date when I would have graduated from Villanova with them, if I had paid a little more attention in the classroom.

No, make that a lot more attention.

Long before pilates was SWCS gymnastics

SWCS Gymnastics
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

JAMESTOWN, N.Y. - I've never been much on stretching, though every doctor I've ever had tells me I should. And each day now, I have to do some stretching to get the muscles around my recently repaired knee working right.

Probably time for yoga or pilates.

In high school, the stretchers were in gymnastics, another athletic endeavor at which I had mixed success. I never had the flexibility to stand with the crowd in this photo, though I enjoyed some of the things: the rings, the parallel bars and, of course, the trampolines.

My problem was when I would try to do a flip, I would lose sense of where I was and never completed the manuever properly.

Years later, I came to find out that my inner ear - like many people's - simply can't re-adjust quickly, like in a flip or barrel roll in an airplane. (There's a long story about how I know that.) I could have practiced flips on the trampoline for years and still not gotten a decent one off.

The strength part of gymnastics was good for me, helping a lot with the wrestling and just plain self-confidence. When I was running (until the great Twist-and-Shout knee blowout) I would sometimes stop along the exercise trail and jump on the parallel bars and 'walk' across them, just like we did in high school as part of our drills.

This photo also points out that women, even in 1966, tended to be more limber than men. I didn't count today, but it looks like a 2-1 ratio.

My daughter did gymnastics for awhile growing up and now her daughter - at eight - is about to start, though the California gymnastic's clubs are thinly veiled hot houses for serious competition. Every mom and dad wants their daughter to go to the Olympics.

Jaysus.

I'd still like to get a trampoline for the backyard - Costco sells them for less than $200. But I can't get the image of several of our classmates flying loose off the trampolines in the gym, even with spotters standing by, supposedly to keep them safe.

I don't remember any serious injuries, but I did fly my off myself once, landing safely on Bob Fulcher and a couple of other guys who landed on the floor in a heap with me.

No broken bones, just seriously wounded pride.

And I also remember that I drew a caution from Mrs. Berg (on the right hand side of photo):

NO FLIPS WITHOUT THE SAFETY BELT, PLEASE.

She didn't have to tell me again.

They were the Music Men at Southwestern

The Music Men
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

JAMESTOWN, New York - For some reason, we called Mr. Turner 'Cho-Cho,' something to do with the ice cream bars he ate most days in the lunchroom, watching all of us to ensure that we didn't turn the SWCS cafeteria into some kind of Animal House food fight.

Dalton Berringer, on the other hand didn't have a nickname I knew of. But he was the only music teacher I got to know at all in high school.

Dalton was a whiz on the piano and once I asked him to try to play 'Nutrocker' by Bee Bumble and stingers, a song he said was beyond his abilities. But he said he was flattered that I thought he could play it.

The following summer, while breaking various speed laws on the lake, I was pulled over by the Sheriff's boat and it was Dalton B. himself running the controls, earning a little money in the summer. No ticket, just a friendly warning and mostly a lot of bullshitting about my boat. I realize now he probably wanted me to take him waterskiing.

Dalton B. also played gigs at the Hotel Jamestown, I remember, dinner music on the piano. He probably sang, too, though I don't remember for sure.

Cho-Cho and Mr. Bennett (in the center) did the various bands and I never got involved with band. My mother wasn't able to convince me to take up an instrument and besides, I was probably quite lacking in dee-zire to practice, I'm sure.

But the music teacher I remember the most clearly was a Mrs. Nelson, who might have been our 7th grade teacher. She always led us in song and at the beginning of whatever year it was, had us walk up and sing with her, accompanying us on the piano. It was some kind of test to figure out where we should sit in the room to get the best sound out of each of us.

Do I need to spell out why I remember her so well?

At 13 or 14, my voice, like those of most of male classmates, alternated between the vocals of the highest notes of Vienna Boys Choir and the scratching of Kermit the Frog (who was still just a dream in Jim Henson's fertile imagination).

Mrs. Nelson kept me at the piano for what seemed like an eternity one morning, asking me to try to hit the high notes over and over. She was a musical surgeon with a medical marvel in front of her - the musical equivalent of the Elephant Man.

I couldn't hit the high notes at all (my voice cracked and creaked like a wooden bridge) and the low notes seemed to come just as my voice would click over to Kermit, spilling out of my nose like a bad cold.

"You better take up an instrument," she finally said, dispatching me back to my seat, "You're never going to be much of a singer."

If you were there and laughed, I don't blame you. But it's one of the reasons I can't watch American Idol.

In retrospect, I should've snapped off some witty retort (today I would include menopause and a swat at her hairdo in some repartee), but at that age, the humiliation was quite sufficient to send me back to my seat cowering - and to avoid vocals for years.

What brings this all up now is that a couple of months into trying to make music on a guitar, I've come to realize that the guitar (for me anyway) requires (gulp) singing.

So every time I practice 'Michael Row the Boat Ashore,' or some other zippy song that only requires three or four chords and have to belt out with my voice, I try to block out old Mrs. Nelson from my mind and think about Dalton B.

No matter how bad our singing might have been in class, I remember that he would just smile and play the piano a little louder and louder and louder until his keys and strings of that cheapshit piano would strain like a badly constructed rope bridge.

But in those circumstances, I would sing loud, too. Hell, nobody could hear me!

Maybe today I'll substitute Dalton for Michael when I practice the guitar, a little low-key tribute to the only music teacher I've ever really had.

'Dalton row the boat ashore...'

Wrestling - the refuge of the nearsighted

SWCS wrestling squad
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

JAMESTOWN, NY - My mother was always puzzled why I went out for the Southwestern Central wrestling team.

After all, in 9th grade, I weighed 120 pounds and was already 5 feet, 10 inches tall. (I grew another half inch by graduation, not that it matters.)

And strong was not an adjective anyone used in regards to me at that point in my life.

'Why not basketball?' my mom always asked. 'You're tall and you can run fast.'

True, but the truth was, I couldn't see the basket well enough to put the ball through the hoop - even with my glasses.

But on the wrestling mat, all the action was done virtually by braille so the disadvantages of myopia were not as pronounced - but they were still there.

At the beginning of a wrestling match, when the opponents face each other, there's a period when sometimes you are simply standing, waiting to make a lunge at your opponent. When I lunged, the opponent usually wasn't there by the time I got across the mat, though they always seemed to be able to yank my ankles and drop me on my butt fairly easily.

That might have been a coordination issue and not near-sightedness, now that I think about it.

But the wrestling team was good for me because in the middle of the Jamestown winter, I spent afternoons grappling, stretching and sometimes lifting weights, the alternative to which was sitting home eating Chunky candy bars, drinking ginger ale or Coca-Cola and watching black & white television.

We had our wrestling practices at the now-demolished Lakewood Elementary School which was a pretty grim place downstairs in the locker room. We would take over the gym for a couple of hours, skipping rope and practicing. And just before each match, we would go through a ritual called the 'wrestle-off' to see who would get to represent SWCS against another school.

These wrestle off matches were as vicious as any inter-school contest. And to lose to someone you had to then see at school the next day, well, embarassing doesn't quite cover it.

I never made it to the big show, but at most matches I wrestled in the pre-match 'exhibitions,' frequently against people that weighed more than I did. Coach 'Flash' was trying to give me experience, he said.

It did.

I was thrown across the mat from Gowanda to Salamanca to Falconer, though I won a few matches when the guys were within 10-pounds of my weight class.

I used to think that I never made it to the big show because each of the four years I wrestled, we had guys in my weight class who were almost undefeated.

The truth is, as Flash once told me in front of most of the team, wrestling requires lots of muscles (which I was a little short of), great coordination (already covered, see paragraph 9) and an intangible, immeasurable quality called heart.

Only Flash didn't call it heart, he called it dee-zire. You have it, or you don't, he would say.

While I never made much success of the wrestling, his dee-zire lesson did stick and when I went into the newspaper business, I finally understood it as I pursued stories and tried to change the world with that same tenacity exhibited by many of the guys in the photo with this blog who pursued their opponents across the mat.

Dee-zire, you have it, or you don't.

Make the name tags big, REALLY BIG, OK?

Dana Bolles
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

SACRAMENTO, Calif. - I walked into a press conference two days ago and spotted, I thought, a woman who worked for a local radio station with whom I really needed to chat.

As I got close to her, the tiny name tag on her jacket fuzzed out (I can't see worth a damn up close) and, so I said hello Jenny, when in fact her name was Kathleen.

Wrong name, wrong person.

Merde! (See, I did learn some French in high school, thought 'merde' came from Phil Parks, who was several years ahead of us in high school and whose mother was French)

So this latest name tag debacle - and dream I had last night about our upcoming 40th reunion - prompted me to think that we better have REALLY BIG name tags or there will be a whole lot of goofy 'who the hell is that?' kind of looks being shot around the room.

Of course, in addition to that, we could ask people to comb their hair like they did in high school or maybe find a similar outfit to wear. Cheryl Towers had on kind of tennis sweater sort of thing. Or in Dana Bolles case, have him find a plaid jacket that comes close to what he wore in his yearbook photo.

I had one of those sportscoats, too, but mercifully when my mother pushed me out the door for school the day our photos were taken, she didn't make me wear it. I wasn't so lucky when I went to Villanova and my photos from that era - one of which I posted - are about as geeky as geeky gets. Thank God the photos are all in black and white. My plaid sportscoat was purple.

Purple. Jaysus.

Dana, by the way, has still not been located, though Randy Carlson found what he believes is a good address for him and mailed him an invitation. I seem to remember that Dana married Celeste Windoft, daughter of Byron, our American history teacher. And wasn't his dad, Harry, a referee at football games? I seem to remember Dana taking a lot of crap for that.

Dana was also a guitar player - that I remember for sure, and at one point was involved in radio.

In my dream last night, numerous women from our class were coming up and hugging me (it was dream, ok...) but I couldn't recognize any of them! As each one walked away, my wife would ask, 'And who was that?' in a voice that any husband in our class would recognize as the precursor to a full nuclear launch.

Name tags, amigos. BIG ONES?

Let's hoist a glass to toast our former teachers

Grey Goose vodka
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

SACRAMENTO, Calif. - I couldn't find a really good photo of an appetizing meal to post with today's blog.

And frankly, I was a little worried about even searching for what kind of image might come up if I Googled Chautauqua Chicken. (An algae-covered breast of poultry, gently sauteed in...forget it...)

(For the record, I have ordered Chautauqua Chicken to eat at our reunion banquet/soiree/sockhop/freaky-dancing event. Can't wait...)

And I expect to hoist a couple of Grey Goose vodka tonics at the bar with Jim Carr, who is to blame for my keeping a bottle of that stuff in the freezer.

But what I wanted to throw out on the table (Good pun? Bad pun?) is having us (Class of '66 classmates) pay for the dinners and/or drinks of any of our former teachers who might be inclined to show up.

I posted the list of teachers the other day and I hope that some of those folks will come to one or more of the events. But it seems like it would be a nice gesture if, say, Harold Burgard showed up, to buy his dinner.

The Class of '66 is about to send out invitations to these folks, so time is of the essence.

As I suggested it, I suppose I should say I'll kick in the first $25 to the pot towards purchasing any dinners for our former wardens, er, teachers. I don't how many of our former wardens (sorry, slipped) would be willing to traverse the highways to Mayville for Chicken Chautauqua (or other such delicacies). But if we had 10 of these people show up, (Who are actually older than us, can you believe it?) it would be a miracle and triumph of geriatric medicine.

So, please let Randy Carlson know via email if you are willing to throw in a few bucks towards buying dinner and/or drinks for our former teachers. (Ha! You thought I was going to say wardens again, right?)

Why?

Well, it sure would be fun to do the following (particularly after a Grey Goose or two):

- Slap Gunny Anderson on the back and say Hi Gunny!
- Ask Gene Munson why he never mentioned we would eventually need to retire.
- Ask Bruce Crist what he thinks about American democracy - now.
- Give a squirtgun to Tony LoGuidice and let him go table-to-table wreaking havoc,
- If we ever find Dalton Berringer, make him play, As Time Goes By...

AND

Dance with Ethel Goller Enserro, to As Time Goes By, of course.

Break out the tennis togs, it's springtime

Southwestern Central Tennis team, circa 1965
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

SACRAMENTO, Calif. - Definitely some wishful thinking going on on my part, but the sun is out again this morning and the prediction is that we might hit 70 degrees here today, after doing so yesterday...

Wahoo!

So even though I'm limping around the house and can barely get outside onto the brick patio, I think I'll pull out my tennis racquet and bash the ball into the back yard for the dog to chase - and retrieve.

The photo today with the blog is of our SWCS tennis team, most likely during junior year given that Ted Bootey is in it, kneeling in front of Coach Tom Priester.

Ted's dad was a judge, you might remember, and it seemed like whenever I got a speeding ticket, he was the justice that heard the case.

I didn't play tennis much in high school, it wasn't until I was in my 30s that I started to enjoy it. I played every afternoon with one of the editors at the Chico Enterprise-Record (where I was editor). We would smash the ball with great abandon to work out our frustrations of working for arguably the most conservative publisher in America.

How conservative? Well, let's say he thought that public education was a waste of taxpayer's good money, for example. Now that I write about education all the time, I'm beginning to understand his point a little better, although the alternatives are pretty unpalatable.

When I did play tennis, usually at the Lakewood Beach tennis courts, I remember there was a decided advantage depending on how hard the wind was blowing off the lake. If you tried to hit into it when it was ripping, the ball would barely make it over the net. Hitting it downwind, you could loft one to Terrace Avenue if you weren't careful.

One afternoon in the spring of our senior year, my 50-plus-year-old aunt, Ethel Puls (Gordy Puls' mother) whipped me in two out of three sets. Must've been that darned wind.

One particular note from this photo:

Standing next to Tom Priester is Merle Butler, who was killed in Vietnam and whose name I always look up when the traveling Vietnam Veteran's Memorial comes to Sacramento.

Searching for Joe Rushin, I found Miss Brownrigg

Miss Brownrigg & Mrs. Levine
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

PORT ST. LUCIE, Fla - Shelley Kales set me on the track of finding Joe Rushin yesterday and while I didn't find Joe, exactly, I did find his wife (and maybe him).

Joe married Miss Brownrigg, one of our SWCS librarians, after his first wife died, all of which happened I think while we were still in high school.

But Miss Brownrigg (now Mrs. Rushin) left Jamestown when Joe retired in 1982 and moved to Florida where she started cranking out novels, all of which you can find at Amazon.com under Beverly Rushin.

One book just came out in paperback and I'll let you know how it is.

Here's her mailing address in Florida, at least according to the Herkimer High School from which she graduated in 1953.

The other data - and message from Beverly Brownrigg Rushin - all comes from the HHS website:

Address: 1342 S.E. Sandia Drive, Port St. Lucie, FL 34583
Phone: (561) 879-0872
E-mail: rushinb@aol.com
Occupation: Former librarian
Family: Married to Joe Rushin

"After graduation from HHS and from SUNY at Oswego in 1957, I recieved my MS from Syracuse Univ. in 1968. We lived in Jamestown, NY for many years until Joe retired in 1982. At that time we moved to Port St. Lucie where I became interested in community activities and also joined a writers group. I now have five published books. Three are at the local public library in Herkimer and I hope some of you will enjoy reading them. The titles of all five are, By the Sea, A Sudden Change of Plans, Broadsided by Love, My Rose and Shades of Love."

By the way, the list of teacher's addresses and contact information that I posted yesterday was compiled in good part from Tom Priester who has been helping get the reunion together. I think Tom is still selling bricks, too, as a fundraiser for the school.

I didn't get any of the letters off to teachers that I intended to yesterday - the over-the-counter painkillers keeping my knee injury under control stopped doing their job and I had to shift to a grape-based pain reliever.

Maybe later today I'll pen a couple of those letters, but no more grape-based remedies. The headache was worse the the knee-ache.

Drop a note to a former SWCS teacher

SWCS Teachers update
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

JAMESTOWN, New York - Randy Carlson just sent around an email reminder about the reunion that included a list of teachers with addresses, and in several cases, sad notes that they have passed away.

He may have sent this around earlier and I never saw it, but what a gold mine.

Thanks 'R' and whoever put the list together.

I know I've mentioned a lot of the folks on that list in various blogs and suddenly seeing their names again - and knowing that they are alive - has cranked up the memory meter again, especially now that the anesthesia from my knee surgery has passed through my system.

I mean, Harold Burgard lives on Pork Road in Clymer. He must be, well, somewhere in his 80s, right? "Every time a noble dies..."

Harry Robie has take up residence in Kentucky. He jump-started my writing career by publicly accusing me of being lazy (I was), and telling me I was wasting an incredible talent (I'm still faking that...).

And Ethel (Enserro) Goller. Gawd. Can't go there.

So in my second day of slacking around the house, unable to do much more than reach for the Motrin and the TV remote, I'm going to pen (it's a phrase, even I can barely read my handwriting) a letter or two to Harold, Harry and Ethel and maybe some others.

Harold, Harry and Ethel: sounds like a title for a British sitcom.

Throw in Hubie (Hubie Davis) and you have a smash hit.

What now-famous actress does Gloria look like?

Gloria Boutelle
Originally uploaded by Brite light photos.

SACRAMENTO, Calif. - Some people loved their SWCS high school yearbook pictures - other people hated them.

Put me in the 'hated-them' category.

I don't know which category Gloria fits into, but when I was looking at the yearbook today, I got stuck on her picture and saw more than a passing resemblance to an actress who has been all over the big screen for years now.

No fair scrolling down, I'll get to it.

Some years ago in one of my classes (called Literary Journalism, an obvious oxymoron my English Dept. colleagues say) I had a young student who bore a passing resemblance to Cybill Shepherd (a young Cybill Shepherd, not the middle-aged woman who does such a fine job imitating uber-bitch Martha Stewart in made-for-TV movies).

In that particular class, I frequently write pieces along with the students, hoping to demonstrate my compentence (or lack thereof) to show that it can be fun, not just work.

But I touched off a riot in the classroom when I wrote that one of the women in the class "bears more than a passing resemblance to Cybill Shepherd," without naming who it was. I also refused to give up the name, even after being plied with copious amounts of alcohol by very persuasive coeds after class. There's some parts of teaching I will miss when I retire.

Last year - 15 years after writing that piece - I ran into that former student in an airport, and damned if she doesn't still have a passing resemblance to Ms. Shepherd. (Remember Shepherd in Moonlighting with Bruce Willis? Well...that's who my former student still looks like - Shepherd, not Willis...)

Anyway, it might be because I saw Mystic Pizza the other night (and either Ocean's 11 or 12) that when I saw Gloria's photo in the year book, the resemblance came into focus.

Get it yet?

It's not the hairdo, which was very chic in 1966. No, I think it's the lips and nose (Sorry Gloria, is this too embarrassing?)

So who is it?

Julia Roberts, of course!

In this photo, Gloria Boutelle bears more than a passing resemblance to actress Julia Roberts. Keep looking at it for a second (and please forget that Julie Roberts was ever married to Lyle Lovett... Banish that image.). The resemblance is there.

So after this, I think I should keep thumbing through the yearbook to look for resemblances to other famous faces. Who knows who lurks within the pages of that red-covered book?

Hoo-boy! Any nominees?