Jerry Smith

of For 35 years I've been introduced to countless friends of friends as "the guy who had the most amazing parties, and over time the descriptions that follow tend to resemble "Risky Business" more and more, and I've always been happy to perpetuate the illusion. But every time the same thought goes through my head - by several degrees of magnitude about 50 or more fellow graduates expwrienced 24 hours of bliss on a hot Saturday in early June of 1979 on a spit of land in the middle of Lake St. Clair known as Shmiters Island that left any of the extravaganzas Jeff Goudie and I ever imagined.

Though the water was probably shallow enough to walk to shore I'd swear I recall there being a nerdy guy trying to send distress signals with a transistor radio, a guy in a sailors cap and red shirt handing out ice cold cans of ice cold Budweisers from a bottomless pit refrigerator before feasting on the wild pig we hunted as the women gathered berries and prepared cheese and crackers. And while I can no longer be certain I didn't dream the whole thing, I also recall canoeing with Bomber, stems and Paczos to another island in the Shmitter chain that was about 20 feet in diameter but had a nice beach and a single palm tree, and the four of us yelling, one word per man "TURN-UP-TH-TUNES" back to our fellow castaways on the big island, then snacking on fresh coconut, some fine Indian tobacco and 8 or 10 ice cold Budweisers.

Then of course was the magical evening I spent under the stars with a sultry red head movie star, and waking to the sunrise to find she had disappears and Stempien had taken her place in my arms. Which was awkward. However much of this is fact or delusion, the words Steve Schmit (in that order) have brought a smile to my face for 36 years, and hopefully to the gaggle of survivors who, unfortunately, were rescued around noonish the following day. They say no man is an iisland. I never knew what they meant, but assumed it was profound - until June of 1979 when I leaned it was total bullshit.  Cheers Steve. 

Jerry Smith

ODE TO SCHMIDTTER, TAKE II

It was very sunny and I was on my second (third) tequila sunrise at the Cleveland Yacht Club (as a very appreciative guest) when I read and replied to this sad news poolside. Seeing it again I'm horrified to see about 17 typos and out-and-out grammatical fuckups, not to mention a half-baked attempt at what could have been a pretty good tribute, all of which I am almost as ashamed of as my father and Mr. Moll would be (before he slammed me against a locker and kicked me out of his class).

Unfortunately this site does not appear to offer an editing tool, so out of respect for all of them and for Steve, below is a sober revision:

For 35 years I've been introduced to countless friends-of-friends as "the guy who threw the most amazing parties" in high school. Over time the descriptions that follow have tended increasingly to resemble the plot of "Risky Business" and I've always been happy to perpetuate that illusion (especially the part about the train ride with Rebecca DeMorney and my tenure at Princeton). But every time I hear a new version the same thought goes through my head as I recall a hot Saturday in early June of 1979 when about 50 or more fellow graduates and I experienced 24 hours of bliss on a spit of land in the middle of Lake St. Claire known as Schmidters Island that left any of the extravaganzas Jeff Goudie and I ever carried off (without a single arrest or casualty) in the dust - by several orders of magnitude. 

The water in the really good (but far from great) lake was probably shallow enough to walk to shore. Still I'd swear I recall there being a nerdy guy trying to send distress signals to the mainland with a transistor radio he converted into a two way communication device (and subsequently, a microwave and a blow drier), a guy on Ritalin in a sailor's cap, white bell bottoms and red shirt handing out ice cold cans of ice Budweisers from a bottomless pit/refrigerator and feasting that evening on the wild pig the men hunted in the hot sun as I helped the women gather berries and prepared cheese and crackers.

While I can no longer be certain I didn't dream the whole thing, I vividly recall canoeing with Bomber, Stemp and Paczos well after midnight to one of dozens of uncharted islands in the Schmidter chain, this one about 20 feet in diameter that had a nice beach and a single palm tree. Most of all I recall us observing that the only thing wrong with the picture, aside from there not being a tribe of very needy Amazon women waiting to take us prisoners as hoped, was how great it would be if the Door's song that was barely distinguishable in the dark distance was louder, and the four of us yelling in perfect cadence, one word per man "TURN-UP-THE-TUNES" back to our fellow castaways on the big island. And of course our elation when, after just a few attempts, Jim Morrison's screeching chorus on "Break on Through" ramped up a few decibels as we snacked on fresh coconut, enjoyed some fine Indian tobacco and sipped 8 or 10 ice cold Budweisers before walking the canoe back to safety.

Then of course was the magical evening I spent under the stars with a sultry red head in a skin tight dress, lipstick and heels I somehow hadn't noticed in three years at Groves, and waking to the sunrise to find she had disappeared and Stempien had taken her place in my arms. Which was fairly awkward but deeply disappointing.

However much of this is fact or delusion, the words Steve Schmidt (in that order) have brought a smile to my face for 36 years, and hopefully to the gaggle of my fellow survivors who, unfortunately, were rescued around noonish the following day by Schmidtter's dad and his hot... I mean very sweet female companion, on the cabin cruiser that it turns out had been docked on the other side of the island the whole time.

They say no man is an island. I never knew why they said that or what they meant, but assumed it was profound - until June of 1979 when I learned it was total bullshit.  Cheers Steve. 

Paul Andrews

Steve was a big man, with a big heart.