To The Boys of 44121…to the core friends I met in the spring of my life,

As you know, I’m sixty-six. I smile more than I frown, laugh more than I cry, and feel better than I look. Moreover, reasonably comfortable with my age, I’m even more comfortable in my skin. But still, I’m sixty-six. Sixty-f’ing six. As are you, my friends, if not older!

Some of you are in Florida. Wieder, (true to form), is on the Left Coast). And while Kraut is seen regularly, even the world’s oldest teenager Brother Bob, moved out of county.

(Then there’s Randy. Randy).

Time marches on, my friends. Inexorably. Time ticks away, buddies, at quickening pace.

In my heart, as the song goes, I can see each of you “for miles and miles”. But I want more— do you?

Remember that moment? No, not one of the ad hoc high school gatherings Bobby tends to orchestrate. (Ed. Note 1: I mean, really. Who has a 46th year reunion? 45, maybe. 50, Yes. But 46?).

How many years ago was it that young in mind, body and soul we posed for pictures on Stuart’s back deck? Fenton had yet to see West Hartford; Art had his original knees; and Ermine? He had hair. (Ed. Note 2: None of us were forty then when, sitting circled in Fenton’s family room, Desert Flower predicted I’d be first to die).


And think about this: none of us is bullet-proof.

None of us.

This year alone we’ve seen two retirements and two other work changes. Our schedules have softened. This month alone, from heart issues to kidney issues our team has been threatened.

It’s time.

Time to convene again, to laugh again, to mock and share again.


We pride ourselves — we all do — about the wonder of growing up where we did, about the splendor of our friendships and the strength of our bond.

It’s time, I say, to all break bread together.

Word spread of Ermine’s six days in the hospital and we rallied. Stu passed a stone and reminded us of Kramer.  Enough of this long-distance crap. But I watch my sugar, Snyder his diet, and Arthur his office.

Seasons are passing.

For my part, I will waive my 4-state rule to meet with my comrades. (Ed. Note 3: Noun used to make Alan happy). So get it done.

Going to go now. Hope I’ve made my point. Let me hear.  Gonna go for a walk. It’s Sunday morning, and the sun is out — for now. Then home I’ll be … watching TV …. news channels … perhaps the week in review.

— Which reminds me:  Garry Shandling died. Just Thursday.  Unexpectedly.

He was a nice Jewish boy from the suburbs.

And he was sixty-six.

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