Letter to the Class of 76

            Truly, there are few things sweeter than being in the company of kind-hearted people who “knew you when.” In 1972-76, we thought we were cool, although really we were gawky, clumsy, hesitant, hopeful and always yearning for more. Flashing back at Scorchers was just that, a trip.  

            Disorienting, at times, you bet. The faces and names were all familiar, yet different. I kept wondering: is it my eyes, or my memory, or the fuzziness of both? Saturday night was probably as close as we’ll get to our own Twilight Zone episode. What made it special, though, is that at any point in the evening, if you closed your eyes and let the voices in the room wash over you, the years in between evaporated. Our hearts beat just as fast, the smiles were just as bright, and as long as the spirits in our glass didn’t overwhelm the spirits in our hearts, it was, as they say, all good.

            But within that joy of reunion, it was a gathering tinged by sadness. In the years since we screamed out of E.J. Thomas Hall, twenty-two of our classmates have passed away. In this category, one is a big number. Twenty-two is frightful, numbing.   

            Each one of these faces from the yearbook spark very special memories. If it weren’t for the way in which each one of these people touched us in a very direct way during a very formative period of our lives, we might be able to go on with our days with this glance in the rearview mirror.

            In my case, it was John Kynyk’s death almost eleven months ago to this day that settled into my chest and made me realize, statistically, we’re at that point when there will be more funerals than weddings, more eulogies than births. 

            Thinking that his departure is representative in some way for each of us in regards to each of these late, great classmates, I’m pushing myself on his behalf to put pen to paper, or more precisely, fingers on a keyboard and try to construct a fitting tribute. I can assure you that just as I did for the previous 53 years, I’d much rather be tucked away into a corner…but we should collectively pay our respects to those who precede us into the unknowable. My version of this reminiscence is probably no different than any of ours would be for their respective close friends. So hopefully this will stand as a square in the larger quilt of our love for them and that time in our lives. 

            John and I logged countless days on practice fields, in smelly locker rooms, and on buses with bad springs but lots of laughs. We lost and won fortunes during nickel-bets poker games in his basement.  We took off on long car trips, propped each other up during the Parties in the Park downtown at Chester Commons, labored on the same construction crew in the summers, and served as each other’s best man. He helped me when my family time was rough…just by being there.

            John died doing what he loved most: outdoor adventure. As many know the story, but for those who don’t, he was leading a rafting/hiking trip in the Grand Canyon last October when he slipped. A split seconds later, he was no more. The news ran through me like brushing up against our neighbors’ electric fence on Abbey Rd. Just a couple months prior, I had done my first rock climbing trip with John in Arizona where he lived. He was so careful in his preparation and instruction. We were in his garage, belay lines looped around a beam. He told me to lean back, feel the tug of the rope, and then re-check my climbing harness and the knots, twice, and to recite that process out loud. I looked at him and said, “John, we’re standing in your driveway.” I’m here to tell you, there’s nothing more stubborn than a Ukrainian who has taken a safety class. My friend and drinking buddy and classmate and brother I never had, looked at me and said firmly – “If you don’t say it out loud here, we’re not going there.”

            So I said it and felt idiotic. And thankfully, we went. It was exhilarating climb and I got just a glimpse of the freedom and excitement he drew from that pursuit, just like he did from white-water rafting and camping in the wild. 

            The very same afternoon that Cheryl Lutz posted the notice about John, an editor for a magazine in which I had an upcoming piece sent me this email: “I would like to add you to our contributors page. If you're game, send over a 100-150 word bio and a high res picture of yourself.”

            My response was: “Josh, This might be a little more pensive than anticipated. The attached photo is not me, but instead my friend from high school. The picture was taken right after we had finished a 50-mile ride which a group of us had done for my 50th birthday.  Two hours before writing this, I learned that John died.  "Balance" (which was the title of the story) is dedicated to his memory.”

            His funeral service was the day before Halloween, which also made it two days before All Saints Day and the Day of the Dead festival, all of which seemed somehow fitting. As I drove home to North Royalton, where our home will always be, I stopped about 30 miles north of Columbus. There was a park near the exit. Being in no hurry to get to the service early, I followed a path into a blaze of autumn colors, leaves crunching underfoot. What I was doing was my memorial to him, much more meaningful than putting on a suit and tie and standing in antiseptic funeral home.    We’re just a bunch of knuckleheads from N. Royalton, I thought. Just like in elementary school, then junior high, then high school, when we had to quiet the noise, we headed out into the woods behind our houses. And we walked until we were tired of walking, hands jammed into the front pockets of our jeans, feeling the cold wind blow across our face, sky going gray, cars in the distance, out of the house, out of our minds, out in the world.

            There’s a tradition in wrestling that when you’ve wrestled your last match, you leave your shoes in the middle of the mat to signify the end, that you left all you had on the mat, and that all that remains of the time and sweat and effort is that lonely pair of shoes. Last year after his death, since we were both thirty years beyond having our old wrestling shoes, the woman with whom he had moved to Arizona sent me a pair of his climbing shoes, which now grace a shelf in conference room at our publishing company. Before right now, only one other person in our class knew the back story of that pair of scuffed up pair of shoes. I treasure all that they signify. 

            High school was a golden period when we had lots of time, and hopes, and even dreams to share...but not much more. The months and years we spent knocking around created memories that are more special now since we can't make any more new ones.  I suspect others have similar memories of Walter Jackson, Tammy Virostek, Jeff Fogel, Jeff Stafinsky, Heidi Hofer, Mark Ondo, Linda Marzek, Cindy Powell, Bruce Weber, Marvin Lally, Bill Emig, Mark Legan, Bill Bowser, Greg Hardy, Marlow Palmer, Cindy Brom, Peggy Carey, Tom Richard, Susan Kocsis and Steve Wolf. It’s hard to imagine they’re really gone. On this honor roll, there’s no first, or second, or anything but wistful resignation and grudging recognition of mortality.

           We were a class, but not a generation, essentially unmarked by war. My first fake ID entailed some strategic whiteout and retyping to a copy of either Duane Koler’s or John Bernhardt’s draft notice, or maybe it was George Bilokonsky’s (it’s better there are three, this way they can all claim “odds are it wasn’t mine”). Then again, buying beer back then didn’t entail that much scrutiny so my forgery skills weren’t very crucial. I only mention it because it reflects how close we came to the sword’s edge. For our older brothers and sisters, Vietnam clawed through their ranks and forced them to face the end at a time they had barely begun adulthood. 

          We were lucky. And still are. For the most part, we pushed back the specter of death until now. It’s always easier to shift back to the happier memories and the laughs. Our dear departed classmates would be the first ones to tell us that we have to keep moving forward. To quote Churchill: “never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever give up. Never give up. Never give up.” Now remember, Churchill liked to drink – he would’ve fit right into our class – so maybe he thought he was being concise and just lost track of a few “evers”. Instead, let us paraphrase him: we will never, ever, ever forget them. So these final words to John and our other sisters and brothers: long will they live on in our hearts and minds. Forever young. Forever cool. Forever.     

 ---Richard Hunt, Sept 27, 2011

 

Dream On 2011

There once was a class of North Royalton High,

Who came together again after 35 years had gone by.

 

It began with smiles and laughter at the new stadium game,

Didn’t mind too much the drizzle and rain.

 

The next morning some walked through the halls of the past,

Reflecting on how memories did certainly last.

Memories indeed, of Gibby and sports, and proms and games, band, and basketball courts.

Memories of friends and mischief and dreams, 35 years is so far away it seems.

 

But the weekend has come and now it is gone

And memories of our night at Scorcher’s is almost like a song.

 

A song about faces, familiar or not,

A song about caring, a song about loss,

A song about the past and again about dreams,

And a song about what life really does mean.

 

No concern about popularity, being a jock, or a brain,

Only concern for another and happy to be together again.

 

Happy to see those that were there,

And sad to know that some didn’t care.

35 years, seems hard to believe,

Yet, now new friends, great memories to treasure, and take as we leave.

 

So for now, once again, time to say so long

September 24, 2011 is almost like a song.

 

A song about laughter, a song about tears,
Even if it's just for today, a song about memories of all those past years.

So until we meet again, sing your own song

And continue to Dream On, Dream On . . .

Dream until your dreams come true.

Reflections by Sandy Zimlich on her flight from Ohio back to Las Vegas

October 1, 2011

 

 

  A "Love Story" from our 5th Reunion! 

Say, I was reading the spot for the 5th year reunion. I can tell you that it was held at Michauds's Party Center in Strongsville. I don't really recall when exactly it was, however. I do know it's how I met my husband. I'd been at a planning meeting with Deni Klug and Sandy Zimlich. They were going  up to Groucho's Saloon at Southland and invited me along. We go in and lo and behold there were the Kloscak brothers, Joe and Jim. So I get introduced to Joe (this was in March) and we hit it off and he says "would you like to go out sometime" and I say "sure" and he says "how about tomorrow?" and I say "tomorrow will be fine" and he says "you're not supposed to say that, you're supposed to say "here's my number, call me and I'll let you know". To which I reply "I don't play games, you want to go out tomorrow we'll go out, you don't, that's fine too, I'll find something else to do" and I walked away. Joe always tells people that that's the minute he fell in love with me. LOL, little did he know my other option was to sit at home with my parents and watch The Love Boat. Of course, now that he's lived with that stubborn/opionated woman for 27 years he may think he should've just let me keep on walking. By June he'd proposed and we were married that October. The rest, as they say, is history. So I owe Deni and Sandy a big thank you. And, if it hadn't been for the 5 year reunion, who know's I might still be single!  

Cheryl Maust Kloscak