Share your stories from any time in your life. Whatever has made you you: The Good The Bad and the Saintly.
Saint stories
Following a lifetime of challenges and heartache,
classmate experiences an unexpected blessing
By Joy Hull (formerly LeBarron)
I wasn’t sure I wanted to attend our 50th class reunion. Would people be the same? Would I still feel out of place? Would I be safe? (I have a compromised immune system due to radiation and chemo, and haven’t been in large groups since COVID. I haven’t been anywhere to speak of.)
And then, a very positive thing, a blessing from God, happened.
But first, let’s go back a few decades. I hated school. From 1st through 12th grade, I was made fun of or ignored. I was bullied because I was the fat girl with glasses who didn't have friends. I never fit into a school that, it seemed to me, was full of cliques – the jocks, the popular kids, the beautiful/thin girls and handsome guys, the kids who were involved in sports, pep club, and all the clubs and after school activities. I cried a lot.
But I made a best friend in high school, Ann Keeler. She was my ride or die friend! I did graduate, by God’s will and my Mama's determination, but I didn’t attend graduation. I was done. Ann and I moved into an apartment together.
Aside from school, I had a wonderful childhood, so blessed I just didn't realize it. I didn’t know my biological father, but I was adopted as a baby by a wonderful man, Delmar LeBarron. The word “stepdad” never crossed my lips or his, he was my Daddy who worked hard at two jobs, providing for my Mama and me. But there were struggles, and my parents moved us in with my Grandma, who had a small but beautiful home in Edgewater.
My parents eventually divorced, and a few years later, my Mom met and eventually married a man with three children, and we became a blended family. I had a bonus Dad and siblings.
I never really dated much, but after a couple of failed relationships, I met my husband, Mike. We had an amazing son, followed by the birth of a beautiful daughter a couple years later. We raised our kids right next door to my childhood home. When our kids were in their teens, we moved to Nebraska and I became a bar/restaurant owner. Tragically, my husband committed suicide a month before my son's high school graduation, and I didn't know what to do or where to go, but I couldn't stay in Nebraska. I walked away from my business and moved back to Colorado, because I knew my rock – my Mama – was there. She would do anything for me, and loved me more than I loved myself. I didn’t think I’d ever love again.
I started a career as a Blackjack dealer in Blackhawk, where I met my future husband, Don, who was raising his two children. We became a blended family and lived in Wheat Ridge. Even though Don and I had steady employment, we struggled to make ends meet, the cost of living was high, so much higher in Colorado. So, we moved back to Nebraska with my son, but my daughter stayed in Colorado because she was engaged. One evening, I received an emergency phone call from her – her fiancé had committed suicide. My poor daughter had lost the two men she loved most. She returned to Nebraska, and all I could do was tell her I would be there for her, just as my Mama was for me.
Life went on, but on Aug. 22, 2016, I found a lump in my groin and was referred to a surgeon who said it likely was nothing and wanted to watch it for three months. My response was direct and firm: No, today, we are going to do a biopsy. Days later, I received the news that I had Stage 4 Metastatic Squamous Cell Carcinoma, Unknown Primary.
After visits to specialists, biopsies, scans, labs, etc., a cancerous lymph node was removed, and I started chemo and radiation in October 2016. I finished the last of 33 radiation treatments and chemo in January 2017. During this time, my Mama was battling dementia, and my Dad was her caretaker, but it got to be too much for him. After I finished my treatment, we moved Mama to Nebraska to live with us. She was almost always crying and begging or agitated, and she eventually didn’t know me, which shattered my heart. On Jan. 25, 2018, my Mama was given the peace that only God can give, an angel on Earth and now in heaven. I miss her every day, but find consolation that she is at peace, surrounded by our other loved ones.
Later that year, I was diagnosed with three blocked arteries in my heart, and I had surgery. It seemed like one health issue led to another, and I have seen many specialists and had numerous tests and biopsies, including surgery on my carotid artery for plaque build-up that was caused by radiation, cellulitis, also due to radiation, which made me septic. That led to many other surgeries, most from radiation damage, pre-cancerous lesions, and other damage from radiation.
But I know I am one of the lucky ones. I’m truly blessed. I am thankful every moment of life, as it is not a given, but a blessing.
Other heartache came my way – my Dad passed away at age 93 in 2022 from complications from COVID, and my husband, Don, suffered from diabetes, but was relatively healthy until June 2023 when he was diagnosed with a large mass on his liver., which doctors initially pronounced non-malignant. Of course, it wasn’t, as we later discovered. He was gravely ill, slightly confused, feverish, weak and had lost 60 pounds. Don was transported immediately to the University of Nebraska Medical Center in Omaha, and seven teams were working on or with him. The next month would be the most grueling and painful for both of us. With no answers, Don was declining rapidly, and they decided to do a third biopsy and put him on a ventilator. His kidneys were shutting down, and he was put on dialysis. He had “some type of cancer,” probably lymphoma, the surgeon said, and could no longer receive treatment because he was so ill. I had to make a decision I wouldn't wish on anyone, to have him removed from life support. He died on Sept. 25, 2023, much too soon, at age 68. We were married for a little over 20 years.
I'm trying to live, to find some happiness, but I miss him so much. I know he wants me to be happy. My faith is stronger than ever in my life, and I truly lean on God!
About that blessing I referred to earlier, because of the reunion, I recently reconnected with Leslie Hatfield (formerly Krolicki), who is a ray of hope and sunshine. (And, yes, she’s the JHS ‘74 graduate who dived off the Casa Bonita cliffs on a dare the summer after we graduated.) After thanking God for each breath, knowing how fragile and unpredictable life and death can be, I decided to attend our reunion, and will be tagging along with Leslie. I'm actually very excited.
Thank you to everyone for all the hard work, countless hours and dedication you've put into making this a milestone reunion. You've done an amazing job. Special thanks to all who have shared their stories, and especially to Peggy Miller for having the courage to tell hers. Her story hopefully reminds us that, since we don’t always know what’s happening, let’s be kind to everyone, always.
Classmate survives brutal home life, and comes out the other side
by Peggy Miller (Lee)
Editor’s note: Parts of this story are difficult to read.
I wasn’t one of the popular kids in school, not at Molholm Elementary, Belmont Junior High or Jefferson High. I was that wallflower who usually hoped no one would notice her.
My parents moved my brother and me around a lot growing up, so I was the new kid again at Molholm in 5th grade. Thankfully, I met (JHS ’74 classmate) Barb Clough at our first recess. We both felt compassion for one of the kids on the playground who was handicapped and all by himself. I immediately felt like he needed a playmate, so I befriended him and kept him company. I guess Barb felt the same way, because she did the same thing. From that moment on, we’ve been best friends for 59 years and counting. Like sisters, really.
Sixth grade was a tough year. We went through about four teachers that year, due to a classroom of bullies, the likes of which I had never experienced before, nor since, in school. Rough bunch they were, and in hindsight, I’m relieved that school shootings weren’t a thing back then, because I’m relatively certain it would have become a thing because of them.
I absolutely hated going to school because of that gang. The revolving door of teachers just couldn’t hack this group and, frankly, neither could I. But unlike the teachers, I wasn’t able to just quit and leave. Of the many bad days that year, one stands out because the large group of bullies got into a bit of a fight during class. I was minding my own business and wishing it would end, when one of the bullies, a girl, stormed down the aisle and kicked my leg as hard as she could. It hurt so badly and, of course, made me cry. I just wanted out of there.
On to Belmont which, for the most part, I didn’t mind. I joined Pep Club and felt like I belonged to something for the first time. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to participate in any of the after-school rallies or activities, so I quickly became an absent member.
On to Jefferson where I mostly maintained my anonymity as best I could. As much as I wanted to be a part of everything, groups, activities, sports, etc., my parents wouldn’t allow me to. I wanted to have fun like everyone seemed to be having. I had a mouthful of crooked teeth so I never smiled, and I didn’t get braces until I was 16 ½. I was so embarrassed by my home life, and hardly made many friends because of it. I was just basically trying to get through each day.
You see, from the day I was born, my dad was an alcoholic. By the time I was 5, my mom had become a co-dependent alcoholic. I had a brother who was four years older, and four years bigger, too, and our dad beat the crap out of both of us on a daily basis, with a belt. He treated my brother terribly and told him constantly that he should be better, like his sister. As a result, my brother resented me, and he beat the crap out me daily, too. (As I look back, I can’t blame my brother for feeling resentful.)
Our parents ran two businesses in Lakewood, so we came home from school to an empty house every day. As soon as I got in the door, my brother terrorized, tortured and brutalized me, with the threat that, if I told mom and dad, he would make it worse the next day. If they were home, and my brother was beating on me, and I would scream for help, my dad would get pissed off because I was screaming, and beat me to shut me up.
My brother chased me with a knife, sat on me, and rubbed the dull side of it on my throat. I locked myself in the bathroom, but he figured out how to pick the lock. When I was 12 and my brother was 16, he and my dad got in to a bad verbal fight. My brother, by then 6 feet tall, was big enough to stand his ground against our dad. My dad was drunk and became so angry at my brother that he got his rifle and held it to my brother’s chest and told him to leave and never come back. He left and never did.
A part of me was so relieved because my brother was one less thing I had to face every day.
In 10th grade, my gym teacher recruited me for girls basketball, but my parents said no because they didn’t want to be bothered with driving me anywhere after school or on weekends. In 11th grade, my teacher tried again to recruit me for track because I was really good at the hurdles. Again, my parents put the kibosh on that.
I had a job as a cashier at the Miller’s grocery store at JCRS, starting in mid 11th grade. I drove an old ’62 Oldsmobile Delta 88 that needed its spark plugs cleaned every week because they got fouled by oil and gunk. Thanks to the “ladies auto mechanics class” at school for teaching me how to work on cars. By the end of 11th grade, I had almost all of my credits to graduate, and only needed two credits our senior year, so I chose art class. I had a couple of other classes, but they were electives and not required.
By our senior year, I had saved up enough to buy a new car. The ONLY nice thing my dad ever did for me, and I know my mom was behind it, was he said he would co-sign on the new car, if I put $1000 down and made double payments for six months. Challenge accepted. I drove my brand new 1974 Dodge Challenger off the showroom floor for $3800.
But things had gotten really bad with my parents, and it was all I could do to keep this awful secret, pretend to act “normal,” whatever that was, and maintain the A’s and B’s that my dad required me to have. He couldn’t have cared less when I did get good grades. He told my brother and me every night at dinner that we would never amount to anything, and he forbid us from going to college. Because this was drilled into my head so much, I had no idea that there were counselors at school. I’m not sure knowing would have mattered.
I nearly dropped out of school, eight weeks before graduation, because of my awful home life. Thankfully, one of my other best friends, a next-door neighbor who was five years older than me, got wind of this, knocked some sense into me, and gave me the support I needed to get to the finish line. I’ll admit, though, I probably ditched more school that year (and had never before ditched, ever!) than anyone. I waited all day in the church parking lot across from school, until school got out, to go home. I scraped by with all D’s to graduate.
The night before finals, I was in my room studying, and I heard my drunken parents fighting, loud banging and screaming. My dad burst my door open and told me to get in my car and go find my mother because she had run away. I was scared and shaking. My mom had never done that before. Our neighbor drove me up and down Colfax for a good hour, but we never found her. When I got home, she was there. My dad had thrown her down the stairs, and she ran away in her night gown and hid by the trash cans in the alley behind our house.
After graduating, I moved out of my parent’s house and into an apartment. I married my first husband in 1977, and had a daughter in 1980. I enrolled at the Colorado Institute of Art and got a degree in photography, then went to community college to learn accounting. I was divorced in 2002 and am now married to my second husband, whom I love very much. Before retiring, I owned two businesses, a portrait photography studio and a bookkeeping service.
I have a grandson, 24, (who had better not make me a great-grandmother yet!), and a 10-year-old granddaughter, who is my little buddy.
My husband and I live in a 55+ community in Arizona, and we love the warm climate. I sure don’t miss that snow, but I do miss Colorado, and it will always be my home.
So, that was my life during school. I didn’t tell you this story for any pity because I don’t want any. I think the reason that I felt compelled to share this with you is because, unlike those with so much to share and reminisce about all the fun they had at Jefferson, I only have this. The schoolmates who I became friends with were awesome, girls and boys alike.
In this fifth decade since our graduation, the only bitterness I hold is for my dad, who died from cirrhosis at age 62 in 1994. My mom died in 2007, and my brother and I are now reconnected after a 27-year estrangement.
I look forward to seeing you all in June and, who knows, maybe I’ll make some new friends!
Love Story
A Grandpa’s Reminiscence on Valentines Day
By Vince Guerrie
The announcement was delivered with a push to my left arm designed to make me move away from the table so the “beeper” could gain a clear path of escape from the temporary bondage she had been in while working on “her” computer. The computer is an old Gateway that we’d had forever before we finally bought a new one and transferred all the files. We left the old one set up on the coffee table in case there were any files we forgot to move.
In the meantime, because it sat there for so long, the computer became hers by default and it had to remain in that very place in case she wanted to “type” on it in her own special 2-year-old way.
She signals that she is through computing for the moment, as there are other things to move on to, and I am in her way, hindering her advancement to the next activity. And believe me, in her world, there is always plenty to do.
After escaping the bondage of the arm and the table, she’s off to the kitchen to promptly open one of the lower food cabinets. She begins removing its contents to create, in a not-so-organized way, a pile of cans and boxes on the kitchen floor. When all is as it should be (scattered and chaotic), she stands up and marches into the office where her grocery cart is stored. The cart is a miniature replica of a real cart, made of metal, with real wheels and just her size. Securing the cart, she returns to the kitchen and informs Grandma it is time to go shopping by looking at her, smiling and announcing “shop.” Shopping means Grandma and she put all of the scattered items on the floor into the cart at which point the 2-year-old pushes the cart around the house in random routes, through the living room, around the table and across the kitchen, laughing and giggling all the way.
Tiring quickly of the shopping expedition, she leaves the cart behind and proceeds to the refrigerator where a magnetic doll is stuck to the black door. There are several magnetic outfits arranged around the girl in a circle. The outfits can be used to dress the girl in winter, summer and in athletic clothes.
“Grandpa, sit!” she commands and motions with her hand to a spot on the floor next to her. This indicates that I am to sit and help dress the girl on the refrigerator. A 60-year-old, 260-pound man is sitting on the floor of his kitchen next to a pigtailed 2-year-old who is dressing a magnetic girl. I probably wouldn't do it for anyone else, but what can I do when so assertively commanded?
As soon as I get to the floor and put a pair of magnetic boots on the girl, she stands up, grabs Grandma’s hand, and takes her to the zone in the family room for some stickers and coloring activity, leaving me and the fridge girl to our own devices. The zone has a little stool with an owl painted on it, the computer, and a coffee table whose end is covered with dolls, games, books, baskets and sticker pages. The zone is the first thing set up for every visit. Nothing else happens until the zone is ready and functioning properly, which means everything in its place and to her liking.
She and Grandma, securely ensconced in the zone, make a mermaid out of stickers and crayons. The mermaid has glasses, tattoos and yellow skin. When finished, the mermaid is shown proudly to the other members of the family (me) who clap, praise and generally carry on in a manner that would be overkill for the debut of the Sistine Chapel. The praise is, however, expected whenever a new project is revealed and around here, the supply is endless. During the project reveal, the computer catches her eye so it’s full circle back to the old machine where she announces “type” and begins to work at the keyboard with a ferocity that only a college freshman whose paper is three days late can match.
And so it goes with Felice. The only thing that I can imagine coming close to the energy of a 2-year-old child is a small, contained, nuclear reaction. Every visit is an adventure and a gift. What a pleasure it is to see a human being take shape and become her own special person. Dez and I feel privileged to be a part of it, and are blessed, albeit tired and worn out, that we can share in the miracle of this amazing little girl.
“Bye Grandpa,” she says as she gets her coat on for the short drive home. She makes the phone signal with her little hand, pinky and thumb extended like a receiver, puts it to her ear and announces, “Call me, we’ll talk.”
She and Dad leave in a flurry of bags, toys, dinner for mom and kisses. When they are gone, Dez and I stand in the midst of the flotsam of the visit. The computer is on, paper is everywhere, clothes magnets litter the kitchen floor, crayons are scattered about the table in the zone, story books cover the arms of every chair, and Pete, the cat, is propped up against the book basket in his usual place. It looks as if a mini tornado has made its way through the house.
Dez surveys the damage and flops in her recliner, exclaiming, “Wow. I should pick this up but I’m too tired, I’ll do it in the morning.” She has never been so happy to see her house in such complete disarray.
But now the house is quiet, eerily so. We sit in silence for a bit, marveling at what just happened. Then we begin to recount the highlights of the visit. Did you see……she is so funny….and smart…..how did you like the new shoes…….wow, what a kid.
At the end of the evening, we both thank the heavens that she came into our lives and has “rocketed” us into a new dimension of family, the Grandparent zone. God bless you, little one, and may you always be “in the zone.”
See you next time. Until then, call me, we’ll talk.
On the 60th anniversary of The Beatles debut on The Ed Sullivan Show, ’74 classmate recalls biggest brush with fame
By Janie Magruder
His ground rules were specific: No questions about the good old days, departed spouses and especially not tiffs with, nor dredged-up dirt about, former collaborators/collaborations. The only questions allowed were those about his new children’s book.
But I figured he’d soften, since he had kids and I had kids, and that common ground would provide a little wiggle room.
It did.
And that’s how … I sang to Paul McCartney and he sang to me.
In 2005, I was the children’s book editor for The Arizona Republic in Phoenix, the state’s largest newspaper which, before the Internet killed print journalism, had space for and reader interest in new literature for kids. Many books arrived daily, and I would peruse them, choose a few to read, write about, and recommend, or not. Some were great. Many more were trash.
A side note: People think it’s easy to write books for children. After all, they’re just kids, right? String together a few random thoughts about a lost puppy, add some rhyming words, get your neighbor to draw some pictures, and you’ve got a book. Right? No. As a general rule, young readers are astute readers. They know when you’re trying to pull the wool over their eyes with a dumb story about leaping lambs.
But, I digress.
During this particular season nearly 20 years ago, many books were being written by “celebrity authors,” two words that, by and large, should not appear together. Unless you’re talking about Judy Blume, Beverly Cleary, Eric Carle, you know, them. And my phone in the newsroom was ringing with calls from publicists for Ray Romano (do children love Raymond?), Jason Alexander (it’s not me, it is you), and Madonna (not even borderline), who offered interviews with their clients. I declined. (I have since begun to regret passing on Madonna just for sheer bragging rights.)
One day, though, the voice on the other end of my desk phone was a British guy. He greeted me and identified himself as a publicist for Paul McCartney. Riiiiight, I thought, looking around to see which of my colleagues was laughing, pointing, whispering, or otherwise punking me. Seeing none, I found my voice.
“Oh, hi?” Classy.
“Paul McCartney has a new children’s book out. Would you like to speak with him about it?”
“Huh?” Brilliant.
Recovering and nearly speechless, ready to scream like one of the teenaged girls on any given tarmac in 1964, I stammered, “Ohhhh, yes?” Genius.
The nice British man set up our phone interview. Because I didn’t want to do it in the newsroom, knowing that my colleagues would be out of control, trying to listen in, interject and commit other unprofessional annoyances, we arranged for Paul McCartney to call me at home. The time and date were set, and the ground rules were communicated.
No asking about Linda. NO asking about John. No asking about memories as a Beatle. Ask only about Paul McCartney’s new book, “High in the Clouds,” which he had co-written for his young daughter Beatrice with former wife, British model Heather Mills. I imagined the book was mediocre. I wasn’t wrong. Didn’t matter.
Another side note: One of my greatest points of pride about our three sons, Elliot, Joel and Sean, is they have exquisite tastes in music. They grew up listening to Eric Clapton, seeing him in concert with Jack and me when they were about 16, 13 and 7. They air-guitared to Jimi Hendrix, and The Rolling Stones. They revered Bob Dylan, The Doors, Cream and Pink Floyd. We gave them a pass for liking Led Zeppelin, but drew the line at The Grateful Dead. (I assume some of you will disagree.)
They knew a lot about The Beatles, and had listened to Jack’s dozen or so Beatles albums growing up. (Recently polled, they said their favorite Beatles albums are Abbey Road and the White Album.) Back then, they were so blown away that their mom was going to interview Paul McCartney that I just had to ask each if there was a message I could give him.
Our youngest, then 12, said, “Tell him he’s rad.”
Our middle, then 18, said, “There isn’t anything I could tell him that he hasn’t heard already.”
Our oldest, then 21, “Tell him he sounds like Jesus in ‘A Day in the Life.’”
Before the interview, I read the book, a 96-page “adventure novel” co-authored by English children’s author Philip Ardagh and illustrated by Brit Geoff Dunbar. It’s about Wirral the Squirrel and his forest friends. A synopsis:
“When Wirral the Squirrel is forced to leave his woodland home, destroyed by the expansion plans of the evil Gretsch, he vows to find the fabled land of Animalia, where all the animals are said to live in freedom and without fear. Aided and abetted by Froggo, the hot-air-ballooning frog, Wilhamina, the plucky red squirrel, and Ratsy, the streetwise rodent, Wirral's personal quest turns into a full-blown plan to save enslaved animals everywhere - a plan which is fraught with danger.”
This is the guy who wrote “Maybe I’m Amazed?”
I wrote down some questions in my notebook and added the boys’ remarks to the end. My tape recorder and extra pens were ready to go. Paul McCartney called late one afternoon from his car that was driving him to a concert in Seattle. Why is this important? Read on.
Answering the phone and somehow finding my voice without screaming, I lied about how good the book was, thanked him for calling and started asking my questions. He proceeded to kindly answer them until THE PHONE LINE WENT DEAD. I didn’t have enough to write my book review, never mind giving him my boys’ messages. I hung up in despair.
And then — I cannot believe I’m typing this sentence — Paul McCartney called me back. Just let that sink in.
His car had entered a tunnel and his phone lost its signal. When our discussion about the book ended, I told him I had three sons who were big fans, and two of them had messages for him.
“One says you’re rad.” He laughed.
“Another says you sound like Jesus in ‘A Day in a Life.’
“No,” he said, “that was John.”
And then Paul McCartney sang to me (from the song’s interlude, “I read the news today, oh boy”): “Ahh-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ahhh” … I’d love to turn you on….”
“No, the part,” I somehow said, then sang, “‘‘Woke up, got outta bed, dragged a comb across my head…’”
“Oh, right,” Paul said.
I was so high for the rest of the interview I don’t know what was said. He may have proposed marriage, for all I know. I wrote the review, and it was published, and the experience remains one of the Top 5 in my life.
Because I sang to Paul McCartney, and he sang to me.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=usNsCeOV4GM
Tina and John
Tina Mathews
Tina Mathews showed up at WRJH part way through seventh grade but, by the end of eighth grade, she was gone again. Her junior high years were bookended by Dunstan JH, then she graduated from Bear Creek High in a class of more than 1,000 students.
Tina had an unusual childhood – difficult, she would call it. Her parents didn’t get along and they divorced. Her mom married Mike Maul’s dad, and her dad married Mike’s mom, so Tina and Mike became step-siblings. (We finally found Mike- stay tuned!)
During Tina’s short time as a Farmer/Roadrunner, Tina made many friends whom she recalls by name today. She found WRJH a warm and welcoming school, one that seemed to have an element of unconditional acceptance.
With a bit of steering by Bob Weibel, Tina reluctantly showed up at our 40th reunion picnic, wondering if someone with such a short history would be welcome. We learned that the very popular John Albert had attended Dunstan for some of ninth grade, and then also went to Bear Creek. They remained good friends for many years.
In about 2015, John called Bob out of the blue, and they reminisced about those formative early teen years. After a nice visit, they vowed to get together, but what Bob didn’t know was that John was dying of cancer. He died in January 2016, leaving behind his husband.
Tina and I got together recently at a local Starbucks to look through some old yearbooks, and she shared some heartwarming stories. On or about her first day of school at Dunstan, one “sevvie” watched another walk into class. It’s not unusual for there to be a measure of Puppy Love in junior high, but real love? Paul Dobrinsky fell in love with Tina Mathews that first day, but he didn’t have the nerve until 12th grade to do anything about it!
While Tina was at WRJH, Paul wondered if he’d ever see that girl again, so imagine his relief when ninth grade started at Dunstan and they were together again. Tina says she doesn’t remember Paul from seventh grade, but Paul could describe the purple dress she was wearing that day.
In high school, on their first date, he asked Tina to marry him and she told him no. Her uneven childhood had given her some great common sense and maturity. But as time passed, she also realized they were meant to be. They married right after graduating from Bear Creek and are still happily married. Who doesn’t love a love story with a happy ending?
Tina had a long career in the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, and recently was interviewed by a colleague. Tina’s career and life had many twists and turns, but the constant was her teen love, Paul Dobrinsky.
I told Tina that 90% of WRJH classmates that she mentioned from memory will be at our reunion in June. See ya then, Tina Mathews Dobrinsky!
Memories of Michael Gene Kuball
By Tom Satriano
It was the summer of 2004, and our 30th JHS reunion had just ended with a picnic at an Edgewater park. When I got home, my phone was ringing, and it was Mike Kuball, who’d attended the Thursday and Friday festivities and had just returned home to Phoenix, Ariz.
“I decided I’m moving back to Colorado with my folks, getting back to Grand Junction, where I spent my first nine years,” Mike said. “That reunion changed my life, and I have to be closer to everyone. I’m so glad I came. I’ve never been hugged so much in my life! I can’t believe how many people still care about me!”
Mike was born on All Saints’ Day in 1954. We became friends in the 7th grade, sitting across from each other in Mrs. Harlan’s Language Arts class. He had a sensitivity that few got to see.
In high school, the Jefferson Saints won their only football title on Mike’s birthday, 50 years ago today, and he carried our team to victory. To celebrate in classic fashion, Mike took the opening kickoff and ran it back 93 yards for a touchdown to open the game. It happened so quickly, even the cameraman missed it.
On my birthday, in 2014, Mike called again, saying he needed some help with some problems. We hadn’t heard from him in a number of years. It soon became clear to me that Mike just needed a little boost to become more independent, and that meant getting him a car. I sent emails to classmates, telling his story and asking to send whatever they could afford. I drove out to Grand Junction to help him figure out the next steps, and the next day Mike was driving a nice used car. Everything had come together.
Oh, and the Saints responded – when I returned home a few days later, my mailbox was full of envelopes containing contributions from classmates. This may have been our class’ finest post-high school collective moment.
A few months later, Mike drove to Denver for a celebration at Kim Dopheide’s house. He had planned to move to the area, but as soon as he arrived, he couldn’t believe the growth and quickly realized Denver was too big for him. He returned to Grand Junction and all was well. Until it wasn’t.
In June, 2016, Mike called again. “I just got back from the doctor,” he said. “I have cancer. It’s probably spread.”
It was difficult to believe this devastating news but, as in most everything he did, Mike stood strong and tough. He vowed to fight the cancer, and he did. We started a pilgrimage chain, and more than a dozen Saints visited Mike, some for hours, some for days. He received emails, cards and letters, and he read them over and over. He was still surprised by all the classmates who cared. He died in October of that year.
The summer and fall of his final season was a sad time, but it also was a poignant time. Mike had taken good care of his parents for many years, and after they had died, he had continued to work hard and he turned a corner. The Dunbar family, Ronda’s sister, Robin, and her mom, Peggy were a lifeline for him for all of his life. Peggy sadly passed a few years ago, too.
Recently, when I obtained a digital copy of football games from our junior year, I was anxious to see Mike in action – that swagger, speed and power. Just watching him walk brought me right back to his glory days, and it was bittersweet. I think Mike would’ve loved to see these unearthed films from the gridiron.
Mike would be 69 today. Happy birthday, my friend, and RIP.
And thanks to all of you who helped Mike in big and small ways throughout his life.
My Three Homecomeggs
October, 1971
There were about a dozen of us inside Kim Dopheide’s garage, working on our entry for the Homecoming parade, the 10th grade float. I’m sure like in most things, then and now, that the gals were doing most of the creating and the fine detail! (Thanks for all you who did and still do!) Suddenly, we heard some weird noises, unfamiliar ones. Thirty seconds later, Mr. Dopheide came into the garage from inside their home- “Some kids just drove by and threw eggs all over the house.” Understatement. They covered the Dopheide’s house at 3140 Webster, from chimney to basement windows. We were caught completely unaware. We heard later that the class of ’72 was the culprits. Perhaps some of us had heard about the tradition and we tried to keep our location a secret? I don’t recall that, or having a revenge plan, so I think we just took our sophomore lumps and planned for next year.
October, 1972
The not-so-secret location was Merle and Diane Shirley’s house at 6900 W. 33rd. Brett hosted parties big and small, slumber parties- Brett’s house was THE hangout throughout all of school. Brett recalls the float being assembled in an enclosed garage next to the carport, and locked up overnight. My float design days were over, so I don’t recall seeing the float that year! Egg- wise, we had some success this fall. We had some baseball players and athletes; it seems ’73 featured more hoods and wrestlers. On Night #1, Rick Calomino and I were hiding behind a bush as we noticed a dozen ‘73’s approaching. We knew if we stayed put they’d see us, so we decided to run past them on the other side of 33rd. Eggs whizzed by us, but we got past them, unscathed. Just as we were patting ourselves on the back, blam- some ’73 slug launched an egg bomb and hit me squarely in the back of my head! I’m allergic to raw egg, so my scalp was itched red that night. The next night, it got worse for me. I was inside Brett’s car port, firing eggs with some efficiency, holding my ground. Suddenly, Don Keir, out of eggs to misfire, picked up a handful of gravel and threw it at me. Blam 2 – a rock hit my eye! Ouch! Nancy Wood, the doctor’s daughter, drove me to ER. Scratched cornea. I had to wear an eye patch for the next week. I knew it was Keir, but what was I gonna do about it? Sic Marchbank on him??? Like we all mostly did when we were bullied, we just took it. So that ended my egg slinging for the duration of junior year. I recall that we did damage to both sophs and seniors, and a Saintinel article confirms it.
October, 1973
Now the ’74 Egg Army was more than prepared! Candi Griffith held court for the last float party on 48th Ave. On the first night, 4 or 5 of us climbed into a truck with two more inside the truck and we were stopped on 41st Ave., waiting to turn right onto Pierce, when we saw a sophomore drive by with a car dripping with yolk and albumen. He pulled into the car wash on 44th. We waited, probably across from Eulberg’s house. We soon saw his clean car heading back up Pierce and blam, blam, blam- we emptied a lot of our eggs on that poor kid. There was no time to be victorious because we saw red lights flashing behind us. WR police! “Alright you guys, give me all of your eggs, you’re done for the night.” We reluctantly handed them over, being careful not to break any on the officer. Tom Cone (of course!) had his dad’s army jacket on, packed full of eggs in at least 6 different pockets. “No, officer, I don’t have any more eggs”, Cone pleaded. “Come over closer, young man”. Frisk time. Thump, whack, crack…we could hear the eggs breaking inside Tom’s coat and soon, the gross dripping confirmed it. “Alright, follow me down to the station on 38th and Newland.” We had to call our parents to pick us up. Cone called his Uncle Baca, as Mr. Baca was used to getting his four boys out of trouble! Cone’s dad would’ve enacted some real corporal punishment had he learned of this! Tom and I can’t remember who was with us, so we ask the other guilty parties to step forward, to take a bow!
Even though I was generally useless as a warrior the 3 years, it is common knowledge that JHS ’74 took 2 of the 3 Homecomeggs.
MY NEW SCHOOL
In January 1972 I was a recently arrived mid-year transfer to JHS. Because the semester at my old school ended before Christmas break (very civilized IMO), and there remained roughly three weeks in the Saintly first semester after the holiday break, I had the option to attend a full slate of classes, attend no classes, or some combination thereof. I chose a hybrid schedule, signing up only for a Math class with Tom Gard or Dennis Shepherd (can’t recall), and a PE class with… Mr. Blank? The rest of the time was mine to use as I pleased.
I was a Free Range transfer. A stranger in a strange land. Well, not entirely: I knew that some of my former classmates from grade school at St. Mary Magdalene’s were Saints: Jackie Travis, Lisa Dominguez, Tina Shearer, Cathy McCaffrey, Rhonda Allison, among others. So too were some of my old acquaintances from little league baseball: Jim Brown, Rick Calomino, Dan Eulberg, and Rick Peterson. Others as well. So, not entirely a stranger, but definitely free range.
My default hangout spot was the Cafeteria, my ‘study place’. This particular day, I was studying in the cafeteria – more, studying the backs of my eyelids, as we used to say in my house, than actual studying, And using a copy of Ray Bradbury’s ‘I sing the Body Electric’ as my pillow. Suddenly – THUNK! – my pillow was pulled out from under my forehead, and I awoke somewhat confused and a little dazed. Looking up, I saw the oh - so apologetic face of Amy Murphy, grinning her irresistible grin and trying over and over to say she was sorry. Oh, the comedy of the situation. She introduced herself, and I myself, and after chatting for a minute or two, I realized that she was Not a stranger. She explained how her dad and his kids used to attend 8:30 mass every Sunday at SMM, and usually ended up in the pew behind the pew that I always sat in, and that she recognized me from those Sundays. It was all coming back to me. The tall balding man, leading four cute blond kids up the side aisle and taking their places behind me. There were no assigned seats, but I always sat near the front just off of the center aisle (my dad would have not have approved of anything else - I usually attended alone), and the Clan Murphy almost always sat just behind me and a little to my right. We laughed and reminisced a bit about the efficiency of Father Nelson’s Masses (he was a former Army chaplain who had served in war zones and knew how to get through a Mass quickly), and the brevity of his sermons and how that served young fidgety parishioners like us (me) particularly well, and, Voila! I had made my first new friend.
In the days that followed, I made many new friends, and many new old friends – people who I had known in the past and who were still as big hearted, open minded, and abundantly kind as they had always had been. It is not hyperbole to say that becoming a Saint was life changing. I had come home to a place I’d never been before (thanks Johnny D). The rest of my time at JHS was more of the same, new friends whose presence and importance resonates with me to this day, and acquaintances who changed my life so much for the better.
Reunions are oddly similar. Seeing folks I’ve not seen for years. Folks who are the same as they ever were, but different too. Change and Evolution – the thrilling constants of this life. Invariably, I show up at reunions, having not seen many of my classmates for a long time, with minor trepidation. Soon, though, I am home again, renewing old friendships, and, also invariably, making new friends. It has been the magic of reunions for me.
So to any of you hesitant to attend the reunion in June, I say, show up, lean in: you will no doubt encounter the same open minded, big hearted folks, gifted with abundant kindness, who I always meet there. And your life will be a little better. Or a lot.
Jerry Invents the Drive-Thru Pizza Window
Reed Street Stadium 1968-1970
Take your memory back to a crisp, autumn Friday night in October, 1968. You’re meeting some friends to go to the high school football game at Reed St. Stadium, nestled just west of Reed St. Elementary and right next to, for many, our new school - WRJH.
Junior high meant more freedom on weekends, and no night jobs yet, so we were all probably the most free to stretch and explore during those pubescent and formative years. Great memories! For many of the boys, going to Reed St. on Friday night meant sneaking into the game from the east - over the fence, or over the grade school. None of us had 100% success gaining free admission, but the challenge was the buzz! And like Rick Peterson mentioned in his Red Meat story on our website, our parents weren’t just handing over extra money, especially for something that could lead to potential shenanigans! So ya see, they forced us to break the law! We might’ve had allowance money saved, but it was stashed for more important things than paying the Jeffco R-1 sports dept.
We always hung out behind the west stands, the home stands, which seemed to be JHS’s home site. I think Jeffco “away” games were mostly at 6th & Kipling. We saw highschoolers making out. We said dumb jokes like “Under the Grandstands” by Seymour Butts, or “Yellow River” by I. P. Frealy. Someone might have a pack of Blackjack gum they’d share. Hey Jude was #1 on KIMN and we all watched Laugh-In every Monday.
We were on the lookout for any rumor of any junior high girls at the stadium, and also pointed out the high school lookers from afar. We wouldn’t dare walk across the front rows to find a seat. There were too many potential high school bullies, intermingling with somebody’s parents! So we went around the back and usually sat on the west side, but north of the crowd.
After the gridiron action, especially by 9th grade, we’d go to Jenny’s to eat! Jerry Nealon started working there in 9th grade. Jerry has a funny video playing here in Saint Stories. He claims to be the first person in Wheat Ridge, while working at Jenny’s, to invent the Drive-Up window!
The LOVE Bus
A Life Well Loved and Well Lived
as told to Tom Satriano by Liz Krolicki Goldman,
widow of Larry Goldman, JHS ’74
Larry Goldman would be flying high: On Sept. 21, 2023, exactly nine months after his death from lymphoma, his first grandchild was born to Larry and Liz’s son!
Larry knew what he wanted to do for a living when he was young and then actually did it. In first grade, he drew a picture of a United Airlines plane, but he loved Continental Airlines more. How sweetly ironic, then, that Larry became a Continental pilot, until a strange twist in 2012saw his career merge with United.
Larry Goldman grew up on 22nd and Depew with an older brother and a strong, loving bond with his mother. His childhood was happy — the proof was in his ever-present smile, easygoing personality and quick sense of humor — and he seemed comfy in his own skin.“Larry was the classic mama’s boy,” Liz said. “He talked to his mother every day and I thought it was great. Today, our sons call to check on me almost every day ... the wheel goes a full circle.”
Larry bonded with his Jefferson High teammates during 10th grade basketball, and he also started dating an “older” Saint, Liz, class of ’73. (By the way, Margie is her twin, and Leslie is ours.) Part of the requirement was that she loved airplanes, too.
Travel back in time with me — It’s the early ‘70s, and some laid-back, long-haired Jewish kid driving a flower truck meets the Catholic Krolicki, whose family had 12 kids (10 girls and 2 boys),including two sets of twins. Liz’s mom didn’t see her daughter’s future with this guy, but she came around when it was clear her son-in-law was on a great career path. Larry’s mom immediately welcomed Liz with open arms.
“Larry’s idea of a fun date was going out to Stapleton to watch the airplanes land,” Liz said.“While some other couples were doing submarine races, we were watching planes land and identifying which airline they belonged to.”Larry and Liz graduated from high school and college, then married and had two sons, who bothare pilots for FedEx. Liz followed Larry into aviation, too, working in communications for Frontier, then Continental.
Their amicable split, about 20 years ago, was an easy arrangement that enabled them to co-parent their boys. Calling it “divorce-light,” they stayed close. “Our family’s hearts have always been in the sky,” Liz said.
Larry and I spoke on the phone about every 10 years, with me trying to persuade him to fly in for a reunion and him saying his schedule didn’t mesh. He’d ask about classmates, and I’d catch him up.
Larry was loved and respected and a good friend to all his entire life. His life was too short, but it was filled with love and meaning.
His 12-year battle with lymphoma was difficult for his family, and it was bittersweet that, two days’ before his death, Larry’s family learned a baby was on the way. I like to think Larry is still airborne, watching over his family, especially the new little one.
Thanks to Liz for helping to tell Larry’s story. We hope to see her and her sisters this June.
The Revenge of the Fresh Meat
by Rick “Pete Peterson,” Class of ’74
Twenty-four blocks — the distance from Wheat Ridge Jr. High to the Peterson house on 26th Avenue and Newland Street. Although my parents would drop me at school in the morning, it was up to me to figure out how to navigate those 24 blocks home. This meant walking because no classmates were driving yet.
Well, maybe Mike Kuball or Ron Kinsey were. (Is it just me, or did they look older than the rest of us? Maybe it was their 5 o'clock shadows by 3 p.m.)
In the cartoon, Family Circus, Billy, the oldest child, always had to pick up milk or butter at the store and hurry home. Billy was interested in everything he saw, so his path never was a straight line there and a straight line home. It curved and turned and looped so much that he forgot why he was at the store and bought a lollipop, then began the long and winding, but educational, road home.
I was Billy in 9th grade.
My parents wondered why, if school let out at 3 p.m., I didn't get home until 4:30 or 5? I explained there were many businesses along 38th Avenue that my classmates and I needed to support. My mom (Editor’s note: The Peterson boys’ mom was amazing.) said, “But you don't have any money.” My dad said, “Rick, they call that loitering, and no son of mine is gonna be charged with loitering.”
Their sudden concern for my well-being, while still making a 13-year-old kid walk 24 blocks everyday, was touching. But I knew they had other things on their minds, like trying to provide for five growing rabble-rousing boys.
Tom Cone lived six houses up, and he would make the trek home with me quite often. The problem now was I would get home even later, as every day after school, Tom had to "goose" every girl he saw, punch numerous dudes in the arm, and pretend to have an intellectual conversation with the principal.
Most days, the walk home was uneventful, but the decision to use Pierce instead of Newland would be costly.
In the movies, the ruffians always accost the weak, then take their money, laugh and move to the next victim. The older thugs from Jefferson High must have figured out our parents never gave us lunch money (a topic for another day), so they tormented us as quickly and precisely as possible, then targeted their next victims.
One day, as Tom and I were walking along, kicking some rocks, we heard, "Fresh Meat!” and a hopped-up pick-up truck with two guys in the back started to slow down on our side of the road. Both guys scrambled to our side of the truck and the onslaught ensued with snowballs and ice balls pelting us at 40 mph. We froze, squatted and covered up as best as possible. I finally had a good use for my geography book, holding it in front of my head.
(Where were Kuball and Kinsey when you needed them most?)
Then it stopped, they yelled “pussies!”, peeled out and took off. Tom stood up, grabbed an unbroken ice ball and hurled it at them. Tom was a big guy, a powerful young man, a ferocious football player, but he had an arm like me. His ice ball fell waaaay short, but the two thugs in the back witnessed our attempted retaliation and alerted the driver. Brakes slammed hard, reverse lights came on, and Tom and I took off for our lives. Adrenaline is real, my friends.
Once home, red-faced, a welt here and there, snow and ice dripping from my hair and clothes, my mom glanced up from the pot she was stirring, never noticing my condition, and asked,”How was your day, dear?” “Great!”, I said, and went to my room.
In our day, we never told our parents anything until the police showed up at our house and said, “Did you know what your son was involved in last week?”
Tom and I returned to the safer route of Newland, but vowed we would exact revenge if we ever saw those jerks from Jefferson High again. We wondered why we would have to go to that place.
One day, as we were walking south on Newland, we saw the truck heading west on 29th, and we instinctively cowered and hid until it passed. Then and there, we decided to do some recon, and for the next week we hustled out of school to track the truck’s path through OUR neighborhood.
Eric Johnson lived on 28th and Pierce, but that was too far south to make our attack. Jim Capra lived on the top of the horseshoe between Newland and Otis courts. We figured we could use his backyard as an entry to 29th.
Our next obstacle: no more snow on the ground. But Tom had a great idea: tomatoes. They were round, squishy and would explode on contact.
On the day of our attack, we hustled to our spot and waited. Hearing their jalopy before we saw it, we stood, aimed and fired. Mine went low, hitting the grill, but Tom's connected on the corner between the windshield and driver's window, which was open. SPLASH!! Brakes jammed tight. We took off south, jumping the fence then down the front yards on our way to 28th, where we took a hard left and headed straight to the safety of Tom's house.
Looking ahead and behind as we ran, Tom did not see the decorative steel light post close to the sidewalk with an attachment sticking out. He hit it full speed. (There’s a reason clothesline tackles are no longer allowed in the NFL.) His feet came straight up about four feet, and he went down hard.
Being the good friend that I was, I stopped long enough to give him some sound advice. “Get up and run, or you are dead!”
Tom managed to pull himself up and crossed Newland, just as the truck turned onto 28th. They cruised our hood for a good hour.
Dad mumbled something about me being extra late, and I moved on to the kitchen, where mom said, “How was your day, dear?” “I replied, ‘Exhilarating!’” She gave a double look, no doubt surprised that I could speak a word with five syllables.
We never saw those goons again, and we lived in peace. That is, until we became Saints in ’71.
Special WRJH Welcomes
By Jim Pool
It was fall of 1970 and I had just moved to Colorado. My mom was dying of cancer, so we moved from Missouri to Wheat Ridge so she could be close to her family.
I had never played football before but decided to play for the 9th grade football team at my new school, WRJH. I introduced myself to my new PE teacher and football coach, Larry Guinn. He said to me, “So you wanna play football, huh, Pool? How tall are ya?” 6 foot. “How much do you weigh?” 190. “Ok, you’re on the team. Go over there and get your equipment on.”
I wandered over to the pile but didn’t know where to start! I must’ve looked nervous or rattled, because soon a voice came from behind me. “Do you need some help with how to put your gear on?” To my surprise, it was the star of the team, Ronnie Kinsey! He was taking the time to show me, the new kid, how to dress for practice! I never forgot that kind gesture, Ronnie’s kindness helped me to fit in with the other guys on the team.
The day after our first game, I was struggling. I didn’t play well. A few days later, after practice, I saw Mike Kuball sitting there in his Ford station wagon, and said hello. Mike asked, “Do you want me to teach you some things about football?” Like, many, I was kind of afraid of Kuball. So I couldn’t believe when he drove me to the park on 29th and Newland and he showed me several plays and techniques. Here was another star player, spending time with me!
My mom passed away just as our football season was ending. I missed the last game because of it. After the funeral we were reading condolence cards that we’d received. To my surprise, Ronda Dunbar, Betty Kamby and one other 9th grade girl signed a card, along with a bouquet of flowers! I had never talked to them, heck, I was afraid to talk to Ronda because of Mike!
I talked to Mike on the phone before he passed away, and Ron and I have kept in touch over the years. I’m planning to travel from Tucson to see everyone at our 50th!
Sad and Scary Summer
by Debbie Mills Platten
The summer before 7th grade had me stressed, angry and many more emotions. I had just finished 6th grade at Columbia Heights, my school since Kindergarten. My parents had sold our house in Wheat Ridge, because my father had been injured at work and things were tight. We moved to Edgewater, and although it was only a few blocks south, it put us out of the WRJH boundary. That meant I wouldn't see my friends in school that September of 1968. The summer break wasn't fun and I only had met a few people. I had lots of anxiety. I was going into junior high AND attending a new school.
In only a few days things got better. Belmont was small and everyone had a big heart. Those three years were so much fun and I made a ton of friends. So heading to high school was very exciting for me. I had my Belmont community, but I'd also get to reconnect with my Columbia Heights friends! I have many fond memories throughout all of my school years.
Rick & Kris in KC: What the Fates Allow
Go ahead, ask me if I ever imagined my life to be in the middle of the country nestled between cow pastures and cornfields? Ha! Never in a million years, but there’s a story and this is it.
After living a fantastical decade in LA, I moved to Chicago. Why? Eesh. It will, in time reveal itself as, The Fates.
After another series of missteps, I got a job on an absolute whim in Kansas City working at Hallmark, where to my endless surprise, I worked for 20 years as the manager for about 20 artists.
Kris, similarly, spent many blissful years on the east coast in Massachusetts. And similarly, after her missteps ended up at Hallmark. This is where it gets interesting.
So I’m working there newly and gratefully divorced, and in walks this girl with the happiest eyes I’d ever seen. Not 10 feet from me. Well, my courtship began in earnest that day. But I was rebuffed at every cookie giving gesture, and then she was gone.
I had no phone number. No address, nothing. Then, as what became a frequent event, Hallmark had layoffs and everyone was reshuffled within the 9 floor, 3,000 employee, 2 city block long complex.
Three months passed and I had given up on ever seeing the happy eyed girl again. And then, she reappeared. Not 10 feet from me. Again.
After a full year of attempted first dates, we finally had ours in early August, 2006. She moved into my little house the following May. On Christmas Day, 2007, beneath the Eiffel Tower, on a really cold night, I asked her to marry me.
She said yes.
We made it official, after a two month engagement, at our little house where we were married by a pal of mine from Los Angeles.
Coast to coast. Together now for 15 years.
The Fates spoke.
The Great Escape in 7th Grade
By Steff Tapp
If I had to choose my favorite night of the week in junior high, it would without a doubt have been Friday. School was over for the week and it was time to hang with my friends. And the best way to spend those Friday nights was a slumber party in 7th grade that combined my Lumbergers with new friends from WRJH like Dorinda Denney and Jodie Dallas.
Friends still remind me of one epic slumber party in particular. The night was spent talking, learning to knit headbands, levitating each other (remember “light as a feather, stiff as a board”?), and making preparations to TP houses. After secretly gathering our arsenal, we snuck out of my Marshall Street house. What a feeling of freedom and danger it was roaming the neighborhood in the dark!
Unfortunately, our escapade was cut short before we even crossed Pierce by the spotlight of the Edgewater cops. We scattered like billiard balls, but were eventually all rounded up. Karen Schroeder was trying to hide behind some bushes, but was pretty obvious. I was already in the back of the squad car crowded next to Lynnette Johnson and sitting on Julie Ursetta’s lap. Our great adventure ended with us escorted home in an Edgewater Police squad car.
I’m sure there were many parental phone calls after that night, and some of us got into a bit of trouble afterwards. The party still ended on an upbeat note with freshly fried sopapillas for breakfast before we all had to face the consequences. Over the years my memory has become a little fuzzy, so can anyone help complete the guest list?
I ALREADY HAD A REUNION
I remember the day pretty clearly. It was four years ago. As I pulled into the parking lot of the golf course, I didn’t give much thought to the things I usually think about:
Did I have sunscreen ?
Did I have a couple cigars, clipper, and lighter?
Did I remember my golf shoes?
Of course, did I have enough golf balls, should my round really “get away” from me?
Instead, I was maybe just a little…..I don’t know if I was “nervous”….but let’s just go with that word. What I don’t remember is, how it came to pass. Probably through the Tom Satriano information funnel, as all things JHS-related seem to flow. Tom is one guy who I can actually connect the dots with over the decades post high school.
But that’s another story !
Anyway, there I was, heading toward the clubhouse, about to tee it up with Tim Swetnam, Dan Eulberg and Jerry Nealon. Hadn’t seen any of them in…forever. We were great friends in high school, and somehow fell out of touch. Tim and his big green, “tuna-wagon” car. The car I spilled a bottle of peppermint schnapps in. “Do you think my dad will be able to smell it?” “No! It’s fine!” Sorry, Tim.
Dan, with his basement poker parlor that sometimes had enough guys for two tables going at once. I still haven’t decided if I’ve forgiven him for talking me into attempting football senior year. Jerry, who I’d known since friggin’ Saints Peter & Paul Grade School for cryin’ out loud ! How did we drift apart ? How does that happen? Was if my fault ? Didn’t I invest enough effort ? ….a little late for that self reflection, dumbass. Or, was it just ….“life”….and let’s leave it at that?
As I approached the clubhouse, the apprehension came. Would I recognize them? Could I pick them out of a line-up? Would they recognize me? What would I say? What would they say ? Where does one pick up a story that, once upon a time, had daily chapters, yet suddenly revealed only blank pages, as if abandoned by the author?
The moment happened suddenly, as if someone pushed you out onto the stage without the benefit of a single rehearsal. There they were, Tim, Dan and Jerry all together. It was THEM. No doubt. No number of years changes the light in the eye, the happiness of a smile from a friend that is genuinely delivered. Would I recognize them? Of course I would recognize them! It could have been 1974, but here it was, many, many years later. Timelessness, wrapping around us like a warm embrace -next to a practice putting green. A little corny ? Nah. It was cool, for me, anyway. The only difference from ’74 to now were the “bro-hugs,” the physical contact that certifies friendship greetings of today.
Conversation came easily. Like - shooting out of a cannon - easily. After 40+ years, you don’t catch up all at once. You don’t try. It would be easier to drink from a fire hose. A round of golf, and the moments around it, serve as a wonderful canvas on which to paint little images of your life here and there, to share as the hours pass. Often, you step away from the canvas to take in and appreciate what those guys have shared in turn. It was, and is, a “no judgement zone.”
You’re not measuring words or worrying about a first impression. Cracking jokes comes easily. Teasing, too. Laughter between us may as well be an involuntary physical function – like blinking.
Even though I haven’t been to a reunion since our 20th (my professional life has been spent on the road and in the air over North America) I might have been a little “nervous” about actually going to number 50 (“Good Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise”). But not anymore. So when it comes to seeing so many of you, my friends, acquaintances and classmates after all these years, I think I will be able to enjoy it, not get nervous about it.
And as much as I enjoyed that first day golfing with some of my long lost buddies, I have had a great time with each and every round that followed over the past few years. I already had a reunion. And I look forward to the next time I see Tim, Dan, and Jerry.
So it is now as it was then.
My friends.
--Bob Mizke
To a Big City And An Even Smaller World
By Rod Pilcher
Our family had moved from Casper to Ft. Morgan and I went to Kindergarten, 1st and 2nd grade there. My best friend moved away from Ft. Morgan at the end of 2nd grade, then in the summer of '64 we moved to Edgewater. At the beginning of 3rd grade I was understandably nervous about being at a new school and in a larger city.
To my surprise, as I walked into class that first day, who was standing there, but my best friend from Ft. Morgan! His name?
Barry Perizzolo! Talk about a small world. We moved 3 blocks from each other!
Barry and I went from K-12th grades together in a most unusual way!
I hope we can locate Barry to celebrate our 50th
by Dan Eulberg
Ski Club trip to Steamboat Springs my sophomore year
My sophomore year, when I heard about an overnight Ski Club trip to Steamboat Springs from Bob Strickland, I thought that sounds like a great thing to do. I didn’t even know there was a Ski Club at Jefferson. I went to the sponsor later that week and got signed up to go. I know I never attended a Ski Club meeting, so they must of needed extra bodies to fill the bus. I don’t remember much about the bus trip up. It could have been a school bus but more likely a nicer bus. The day of skiing was wonderful. Steamboat was a lot larger than Winter Park or Geneva Basin, which is where I was used to going to ski.
The following day I didn’t ski as Tom Cone , who was also on the trip asked if I wanted to go snowmobiling. I said I don’t think I can afford that. Tom told me he found some money the night before, so it was his treat. How could I say no to that? Off to snowmobile we went. The walk to get to the location wasn’t too far. We had an absolute blast for 2 hours racing around the large field area. Looking back, I guess if you had the money being 15 or 16 years old without your parent was not a problem. Boy things have sure changed.
Almost 52 years later, Tom, “where did you find that money?”
Study Hall in the Jefferson cafeteria
Playing nickel, dime, quarter poker was a favorite past time activity for several Saints even back in Jr. High. Bob Sack, Jerry Nealon and I were together in 3rd period Study Hall in the cafeteria. There were probably 25-30 students in there for this Study Hall. I don’t remember who was the teacher supervising the cafeteria, but we asked if we brought a deck of cards could we play poker? They quickly responded not for money, but otherwise it was okay. There were at least five of us playing poker several days a week in Study Hall with colored toothpicks. Playing for toothpicks we told the supervisor. Little did they know that the toothpicks color related to a denomination of a nickel, dime and quarter. It might have looked cool to chew on a toothpick in 1972, but not when it meant money. On a ledger sheet I kept track of what you started with and what you had at the end. Everyone squared up at the end of each week.
Gambling in school? Of course there was.
History with Mr. Heath
As I prepared to enter 10th grade at Jefferson, my brother Doug who just graduated, told about a History Teacher that demonstrated “Bull Rappelling” in the classroom. He said it was done by people facing a charging bull, they grabbed on to the horns and flipped themselves over the bulls head and landed on the bulls back and then jumped off the back end of the bull. His teacher, Mr. Health described and demonstrated this technique by putting his hands on the top edge of the side of his desk and then flipped over and landed flat on his back on his desk and then popped right up and bound off the other side of his desk to his feet. Wow! A real live reincarnated bull rappeller! As a student in Mr. Heath’s class I did not witness this amazing feat, but he did talk to us about what it was and how it was done. Maybe those old solid wood desks were not a very soft landing to repeat this task several times a year for students.
I was very fortunate to have Mr. Heath for several History classes. I don’t remember exactly how we chose our classes at Jefferson, but as far as I was concerned, if Mr. Heath was teaching it I was going to take it. Notable remembrances other than talking about the World Series games going on in the fall, were the “Vomit-torium” in the Greek and Roman time, how Constantinople became Istanbul, double feature slide projector lectures and the rare triple feature slide projector lecture. Boy, he was certainly a pioneer in the philosophy of “making learning fun” for the students.
Wheatridge Jr. High School 7th Grade getting “Scheduled up”
Having a “modular scheduling” system at WRJH it seemed I had several free periods in the course of a week. You could go to any number of classrooms to do things you wanted to do. (talk, games, art, music, etc...)
During one of my regular class periods in Mrs. Harlan’s room, we must have been having free time as she was talking with different students at her desk while the rest of us just sat or wandered around the room talking. I think it was Mike Moline that said “Let’s sneak out and get a drink.” There was enough moving around the room that it seemed very doable. Out we went to the hall and around by the small gym and got a drink. In less than three minutes, we returned to Mrs. Harlan’s room, snuck back in the door and continued to mingle around until the end of the period. We thought were so cool that we had pulled it off. That was until the next morning announcements when our names were called to report to Mr. Wanser’s office. Mrs. Harlan saw us leave and return, but she didn’t say anything. So, you know all those free periods I used to have where you could go to several classrooms to do different things, Mr. Wanser put an end to those. Getting s “scheduled up” meant that you were assigned to the Study Hall room for all of your free periods. You now had the dreaded yellow schedule. In Study Hall, you had to sit quietly and work on something. What a drag. I don’t think the drink of water was worth one month of being scheduled up.
Baca’s backyard summer slumber party
The summer between 8th and 9th grade Tim and Tom Baca had a backyard slumber party. What a great time and temperature to be sneaking out of the back yard about midnight. There might have been at least six of us. Ed Espinosa and some others that I don’t remember were also there. We walked with our flashlights to the west of their street where we then went through the 4 foot culvert that ran what seemed like a log way under Wadsworth and came up close to the gas station at 32nd and Wadsworth. We also brought some paper cups and a bottle opener. I was unaware of their use at the time. When we arrived at the gas station, Tom and Tim said this was to use at the outside pop machine. Since the gas station was closed for the night we were the only ones there. You needed to open the small door to get at the bottles of pop which were lying horizontal to be pulled out through a latch when you put in your money. Without putting in money, the bottles would move out an inch or two beyond the release latch, so a person could use the bottle opener to pop the cap and allow about half or more of the pop to flow into a paper cup. I held the cup and enjoyed a refreshing midnight treat. I would suspect I am as guilty as the one that popped the cap off. Oops. We returned the way we came. In the morning we woke up with our blankets at the bottom of the Baca’s backyard hill. Gravity got the best of all of us.
Sharing Mayo Clinic: Finding blessings in my battle with Leukemia
My medical care
Mayo Clinic's reputation for being the best in the world, for focusing on the patient and providing comprehensive care, is deserved. I was so blessed by a rock star team of hematologists, compassionate nurses and accommodating, kind, staff members.
I met my primary hematologist, Dr. Jeanne Palmer, on Feb. 22, 2016. She wrote on the white board in my room the details of my induction and consolidation therapies in which chemotherapy would be used to kill every leukemia cell in my blood and bone marrow. I looked at that board a dozen or more times a day, trying to reassure myself about what was to come.
Dr. Palmer informed us that the best chance for my recovery was to have a stem cell transplant, and we didn't second guess her. There would be more on that later, Dr. Palmer said. But for now, it was one day at a time. My first chemotherapy treatment began at 5:15 p.m. on Wednesday, Feb. 24.
When side effects from the chemotherapy struck, whether skin rashes or mouth sores or stomach pain, Mayo physicians arrived immediately to diagnose and treat. A Mayo ophthalmologist visited me in my hospital room on a Friday night to test my eyesight. An added bonus: he prayed for me after asking my permission. The nurses demonstrated their dedication every day. There are really too many examples to include here, but a few stand out.
"I was so blessed by a rock star team of hematologists, compassionate nurses and accommodating, kind, staff members." — Janie Magruder
My first room had a small window with just a sliver view of a concrete courtyard below. When one of my nurses learned my initial stay would be for more than 30 days, she asked if I would like a room with a better view. I jumped at the chance. The next morning, the nurse manager wheeled me into a room with a window pointed at the McDowell Mountains. I sat in front of that window for hours, watching the birds in the mornings, the clouds roll in in the afternoons, and the headlights of cars on the freeway at night.
My nurses cheerfully cleaned me up when I got sick, or when I was too weak to take a shower or get to the toilet. They were attentive to my IV, and ultra-careful with my infusions and medication needs. Several noticed posters on my wall that were created by colleagues at Grand Canyon University. They shared stories of being a graduate of, or enrolled at, GCU's fine nursing school. Some prayed over me, which meant everything.
When my long red hair began falling out on my pillow, a nurse gave me a buzz cut by the mirror in my room so that I could get used to my baldness gradually. They came when I called, and let me be when I needed it. They were attentive to Jack and our sons, offering warm blankets, crackers and juice, not just to me, but for them, too.
I can't say enough about the staff at Mayo. The chaplain's office offered spiritual guidance and blessed my transplant procedure. The young men who piloted me in my wheelchair to various procedures and tests were kind and funny. The people who cleaned my room were respectful and sweet. The business office patiently helped with insurance, and the bone marrow transplant office gave us a thorough tutorial on how they would find me a donor.
After I was released from the hospital, on June 2, 2016, the nurses and staff in the hospital's infusion center treated me and my family with compassion, as have the doctors, nurse practitioners, phlebotomists, nurses and staff in the Cancer Center.
My donor
Mayo Clinic worked to find the best possible peripheral stem cells donor for me, first ruling out family members and then accessing Be the Match, the national bone marrow registry. By early spring, we found a donor candidate. His selection was based on HLA, human leukocyte antigens, that are markers on most cells in a person's body. The immune system uses them to determine which cells belong in the body and which do not. My potential donor was a perfect match based on 10 HLA markers.
Following a series of tests that confirmed he was healthy enough, my donor received injections to increase his blood-forming cells. He later went to a hospital to have blood removed from one arm. The blood then passed through a machine that separated out those blood-forming cells. The remaining blood was returned to him through the other arm.
His bag of cells was transported to Phoenix, and, following a blessing ceremony by the chaplain, the contents were infused into the central line in my chest. About 100 days later, a blood test revealed that my donor's cells were thriving in my body.
For more than a year, I knew very little about the young man who helped save my life because of Be the Match privacy requirements that protect the patient and the donor. But last July, he consented to sharing information, and that same month, we spoke on the phone. I didn't know what to say, which doesn't happen often.
Jack Milligan, now 21, is a senior at Texas A&M University in College Station, where he will graduate with a degree in economics this spring. He signed up with Be the Match in the fall of 2014 because it was the charitable cause of Delta Tau Delta, the fraternity for which he was pledging.
"As I approach the 18-month anniversary of my second chance at life, I am so grateful to God, my family and friends, my donor and Mayo Clinic. Every day being cancer-free is a gift." — Janie Magruder
Jack, now president of Delta Tau Delta at A&M, told me recently that six other young men in the chapter have donated bone marrow to save people's lives, and dozens more Aggie Delts have added their names to Be the Match. The fraternity's commitment to saving lives is so extraordinary that Be the Match is planning to erect a billboard in honor of Jack and his brothers later this year in College Station.
"We are blessed. We are lucky," Jack said about his fraternity. "This definitely feels like there's some kind of magic to it."
Jack said he was moved to donate his cells because of his mother.
"My mom is the most compassionate person I've ever met, and I've learned how to be more compassionate from her," he says. "If this was to happen to my mom, I'd be devastated.
But I'd want to know that someone was there who was willing and able to save her life. Why would you not do that if you could?"
As I approach the 18-month anniversary of my second chance at life, I am so grateful to God, my family and friends, my donor and Mayo Clinic. Every day being cancer-free is a gift.
Written by Janie Magruder
I must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights.
"You're going to be fine," whispered my nurse after getting me settled in my hospital room at Mayo Clinic in Phoenix, Arizona, on Feb. 20, 2016.
"This is a marathon — an ultra-marathon — but it is curable," reassured one of my doctors.
"We're going to get you through this."
"This" was acute myelogenous leukemia, a blood cancer that I knew little about, and that, as risk factors go, I wasn't likely to get. I wasn't old enough. (Most patients are at least 65.) I was the wrong gender. (Men are more likely to be diagnosed with AML.) I had no other blood disorders. I'd never been treated for previous cancer with radiation or chemotherapy. I hadn't been around benzene or other dangerous chemicals, and there was no exposure to a nuclear reactor incident in my past. In fact, I'd been so healthy all my life, I could count on one hand the times I'd been hospitalized.
My husband, Jack, and I were shocked and terrified at the news. But it turned out I was very blessed. Here's how …
My faith
My parents raised me to believe in God, and I've never lost that faith. I believed, too, that he had a plan for my life, that he was the ultimate healer, and that he would never leave my side. Many nights in my hospital room, I clutched my late mother's "Jesus rock," as she called it. It just fit in the palm of my hand, as it had in hers. I prayed a lot, and I had a team of prayer warriors in my family, my church and around the country who were praying for me, too. I clung to my faith.
My family and friends
Nobody diagnosed with cancer knows how to deal with it, nor do their family members or friends. There's no training for such devastating news. What do you do, say, think? What should you read and what should be avoided?
That said, you would not have known that my husband, Jack, was not schooled in cancer-patient caregiving. From the first, Jack didn't let on how scared he was. He simply bravely carried on. He kept working. He kept caring for our home, our youngest son, and our two dogs. Jack kept showing up. I don't know how he did it.
"Nobody diagnosed with cancer knows how to deal with it, nor do their family members or friends. There's no training for such devastating news." — Janie Magruder
He and I agreed we would take everything one day — sometimes one hour — at a time. He visited me every day, sometimes twice a day, and kept in touch with our family members and friends. We promised we would try to maintain a positive outlook about my treatment and recovery, not just to convince ourselves that things were going to be OK, but also for our children.
Our three sons bolstered us with funny texts and snippets of news from their busy lives. For my birthday, which fell after three rounds of chemotherapy, they gathered at our home in Tempe. I was home from the hospital, and we played board games. I was struggling with pleurisy at the time and had to stand up most of the time to make the laughing at their jokes less painful. My guys colored pages in coloring books with me — something none had embraced much when they were young — and I hung the resulting art in my hospital room when I had to go back.