St. Tim’s Half-Centurians

I’m not a “reunion” sort of guy. More of a that-was-then, this-is-not sort.

But then I get this letter in May from Marie Pellit Hebden informing me that the 8^th grade class of St. Timothy’s School was having a 50-year reunion. I felt emotionally blind-sided.

This meant a whole half century had passed since “Advise and Consent” was written, “La Dolce Vita” was filmed and “Mack The Knife” was recorded.  Back when the Philadelphia Flyers were still a decade away from inception.

Marie expressed it so well in one upper-case interjection. “YIKES!”

“Yikes,” indeed. From being children to having grandchildren.

Fast forward to Northeast Philadelphia. To a certain, recent October Friday night reception at the Sheraton Four Points and following Saturday at the Rosewood Caterers. Who will I know? Who that I would know will I recognize? Who will remember me?

As it turned out, there were plenty of us who remembered enough of us.

“Hey, isn’t that Jim Williams? I mean ‘Brother Jim.’ I mean ‘Toothpick.’” Oops. Is it a sacrilege or something to refer to an Oblate Brother as “Toothpick”? Same lanky build. Same warm, friendly manner. Probably the same jump shot too from his days as a sharp-shooting St. Tim’s forward and a former teammate. He asks about my brother Terry, who has known tough times. I appreciate it more than he knows.

“Joe, I had to come over and say ‘hi.’” It was Veronica “Ronnie” Stewart. Didn’t need to check her name tag. Still blond and cute. Still petite and sweet. Last time I saw her she was making out with Bobby Cirillo at a party.

Speaking of, Bobby C wasn’t here. Too bad. Every school should have its own Leo Gorcey.

“Yo, ‘Ski.” As in Kozakowski. As in Steve. A big time buddy. Classic crew cut. So easy going it was easy to forget Steve had a football game face. Made All Catholic at Father Judge and earned a scholarship to Colgate. We both played for St. Tim’s. We were also part of the Gang of Four that took the occasion of a St. Joseph’s Feast Day holiday to go to Bandstand under the high school radar. Along with George Shissler and the late Jimmy “Flash” Gordon, the only guy I knew to make a truly seamless transition from Jitterbug to the Mash Potatoes to the Twist.  

An added bonus: Steve’s wife Ann was with him. The personality still bubbly. The smile still a light-up-the-room beacon. She was the one spouse I figured to know. I remembered when she and Steve met in high school. They seemed the perfect couple from the get-go. E-Harmony couldn’t have done better.

And, sure enough, that was Maureen Nulty. Boy, could she throw a party. And what a singular venue. She was the daughter of an undertaker. The guys, to be sure, thought that was decidedly cool.

And could it be? The exotic-looking blonde was Eleanor Verdi. “What have you been up to the last half-century?” she deadpanned. Still quick with a quip, although that wasn’t her most notable trait back in the day. St. Tim’s only sultry Italian, if memory serves.

More familiar names to affix to updated personas and profiles. The flamboyant Dan McCutcheon, a fellow classmate at La Salle High. Mary Johnson, who was practically a girlfriend in 6^th grade. Skip Weinacht, who perfected the “Dirty Dig” only to see Father Bednar ban it at the St. Tim’s dance. Albert McGlynn, who was only the smartest kid in all three 8th grade classes.

Nice to see Dan Courtney, who didn’t seem to remember that fight we had. The one within a schoolyard circle surrounded by loud, blood-sport weenies. The one where we both kept looking for someone to break it up. Mayfair machismo.

More members of the St. Tim’s football team. Quarterback Bob Hojnacki, who still looks like the guy you’d want on third and short. And the sui generis Eddie McHugh at end. Eddie was always too cool for school, and still looks — the same. Like a Lord of Flatbush. And Bobby Campbell and Jack Haley who played bigger than their size on the football field.

Sitting across from me at the Reunion table was Dewey Tate, who is still quiet and pleasant and now goes by the name “Bud.” I would too. I appreciated the opportunity to do some major breeze-shooting with Jimmy McGowan, Joe Perrello and John Quigley.

And there are always those who you didn’t know – or didn’t know well enough. But after a reunion, you wished the intervening years had brought you in touch. Regina Price and Roberta Lyons and Mary McDonald and Marie Pellit and Nancy O’Donnell, whose mom was the iconic Levick Street crossing guard. Plus Carolyn Fegeley, whose mom knew my mom from the old neighborhood. What classy ladies all.

Yes, the years have not been equally kind to the members of the class of ‘59, and some, sadly, are no longer with us. But those of us who did gather to remember and to reflect and to cherry-pick Sr. Mary Immaculate war stories were transported to another time.

To be barely adolescent again. To experience that first crush. And that first spin of the bottle at a Maureen Nulty party. To practice dance moves in front of the TV when Bandstand was on. To begin to grow out of the May Procession’s lockstep pageantry. To be called a “bold article” by any number of nuns. To have no recourse about corporal punishment, because your parents approved. All too enthusiastically. To have somehow learned what needed to be learned despite outlandish teacher-to-student ratios.

And regardless of the divergent paths we have all taken since 1959, we have this uniquely formative St. Tim’s experience in common. Maybe the “welfare to Mayfair” adage, however unfair but self-deprecatingly funny, provided less-than-subtle motivation at home. Recall that trying hard and avoiding excuses was not an option; it was a mandate. And in our own ways, we’ve collectively carried this old-school ethic forward these last 50 years. And the challenge, we are constantly reminded, remains formidable.

But lest we get entirely too serious for a fun event, let’s also remember how applicable are the words of Prof. Irwin Cory. “Wherever you go, there you are.”

And there we were. You gotta love it.

 

                                                                                                Joe O’Neill

                                                                Tampa, Fla.