Class of ’58 – episode 3.1.19 – Turtle Bay

adventure, autobiography, FOOD

TURTLE BAY RESORT, HAWAII


GOOD MORNING BROTHER PREPSTERS

Two weeks ago, Elizabeth and I spent a couple of days up at an iconic luxury resort on the North Shore. It was one of our two go-to places for a quick getaway from the days we are supposed to be enjoying our golden years. Golden years my butt, it’s more like the gear-jamming years of our youth, except with grey hair and a different set of pressures.

After a busy morning, we left home about noon and headed up the Kam, (Kamehameha Highway) to Turtle Bay. Elizabeth insisted we stop for a fish taco at North Shore Taco. I favored a leisurely cruise up the palatial entrance road to the La`ie Mormon temple which I built several years ago.

The highlight of that project was having lunch with the Prophet and his wife after the groundbreaking. I can’t go on without making a couple of comments here. While waiting, I overheard one of the Samoan spectators tell her friend, “My husband, Fetu, and I saw him and his wife at the Pancake House this morning having breakfast. Boy, the two of them look frail, but they sure like pancakes. I had trouble visualizing the Prophet, the earthly leader of the Mormon Church scarfing down pancakes in a sleazy fast food restaurant. It made me smile.

Several minutes later, a pair of police motorcycles with sirens blaring escorted the Prophet’s entourage of four black SUV’s, two ambulances, and a long black limousine up to our tent. The SUVs disgorged a half dozen ferousous, heat-packing, Samoan bodyguards who split into three groups, one to stand guard, one to help the ninety-three-year-old Propet and his wife up to the ceremony site and the third to caution each one of individually that we were not to touch or speak to the Prophet, hand him a note, or engage him in way. Although I’d never met a prophet before, the whole sceme struck me as a little odd.

Today as we approached the resort, which was a favorite of the rich and famous, I egotistically took on the affectations of those I was about to mingle with. When I exited our SUV, The valet asked, Do you want valet parking? It’s twenty-bucks.” I snobbishly snared, “Of course, do we look like the Beverly Hillbillies?” I then ordered the bellhop to unload and send my things up to our room and be quick about it. (I had a six-pack of cold Bud in my backpack.)

When Elizabeth caught wind of what was going on, She said, “Jake, please! Young man, leave the bags on the curb, we will take care of them. Jake, you park the car and come back here and help me with the bags. So much for my grand entrance.

I was up with the sun the following morning, putting on my surfing duds and slipped out the door without waking Elizabeth. She would understand I was on the water. I stopped to enjoy a double espresso and pastry at the coffee bar while surveying the action at the neighboring surf spots. I rented a board from the hotel’s beach boy and went out to close-by Kuilima Point.
I waded into the seventy-eight-degree water, paddled out to the point and joined a dozen early bird surfers. This morning wasn’t about surfing, it was about figuring out what my next book would be about. However, I wasn’t about to pass up any decent waves.

Within five minutes, I spotted an easy four-footer coming around the point right for us. I spun my board around and waited for just the right moment to start paddling my brains out to match the speed of the oncoming wave. The face of the wave picked me up, crested and broke to the right. I rode it on my belly for a few moments before popping to my feet and riding it fifty-yards to the rocky shoals, where I dumped. A young surfer dude paddled past me on the way back out and shouted, “Nice ride, old man.”
I followed him back out and tucked myself out of the wind in the lee of the point to accommodate what I came out here to do.

When I recognized a surfer paddling out from the beach, I took a break. We had surfed together occasionally over the years and sometimes shared a beer afterward at one of the North Shore watering holes. He was a local guy in his late-forties, named Sonny something. Everybody seemed to know him. As we both raced to get in position for a hot wave, he grinned a toothy grin, gave the front of my board a mighty shove, pushing me out of position and took the wave from me. I gave him the finger and ducked back out of the wind to continue my deliberations.

I was a little pissed at my burly, uncouth friend, but then I realized I’d met a lot of folks way more bizarre than Sonny, and this rudeness was child’s play. That’s when it came to me, my next book would not be a novel. it would be a collection of short stories about nothing serious. Instead, it would present simple entertaining, short stories about some of the more remarkable, funny encounters I’ve stumbled into. I was pleased with what I came up with and turned to considering a possible title. As I thought about it, a remark made by a close friend whom I often had morning coffee with, came to the forefront. He said, “Jake, you have a million great stories, why don’t you write about them. You could call it ‘A Cup Of Joe.'” I thought, Not bad. It’s catchy and has a nice warm, comfortable ambivalence about it, not unlike a cup of Joe.

I was excited to return to the room, roust Elizabeth out of bed, buy her breakfast, and tell her my vision for “A Cup of Joe.” But before I paddled in, I silently slipped up behind Sonny, who was getting ready to catch a wave, grabbed the back of his board with both hands and with all my strength flipped the astonished Sonny into the bay and quickly retreated.

STEVE WINDELL’S AMAZING ADVENTURE

JAKE’S COMMENTS:

I’m not Steve’s PR guy, but I got to tell ya this book is something special. The concept of traveling two-thousand-four-hundred-miles in a small, open boat with your teenage son through sometimes terrifying seas into the bowels of Alaska’s wild coast to reach the last standing major American Glacier is certainly intriguing, sometimes scary, and peppered with surprises. There are a lot of sea stories out there, but this one, in addition to the adventure storyline, adds several unexpected funny, heartwarming glimpses of native life as the relationship of Father and Son develops before your eyes.

a I’m not going to steal the book’s thunder. Two comments and I’m through. first, Steve’s book will take you back to to the sixties when we struggled to leave the family behind and strike out on our own, then thrust you again into the early eighties when we as parents struggled, not always successfully, to grow our relationships with our teenage children which were often at odds with our demanding careers. Second, the title, Transcending the Gordian Knot, put me off. Its connotation was metaphysical or something strange, However, It’s merely a reference to Alexnder the Great’s determination to removing an impediment, a knot of rope, that stopped his army from storming a city’s walls, and doesn’t play a role in the story. I think he mentioned that he’s considering a title change and a second edition.

WHAT’S UP

I’ve heard from several of you characters recently, and I thank you for that. The highlights of those encounters are as follows:

  • Dinndorf, Bradley and another fellow e-mailed me that Steve Windell is organizing a gala Class of ’58 luncheon at Anthony’s on Edmond’s revitalized waterfront for March 7, 2019, and getting a lot of interest. They suggested that I come along if possible. I seldom miss a lunch invitation, but a five-thousand- mile ride to and from lunch would be tough to get passed my frugal, Canadian soulmate, Elizabeth, especially since her sister is arriving the day before for a week’s visit. Sorry, boys, but enjoy and hoist one for me.

Bryan Saario and I have been having fun sharing the trials and tribulations of writing. He’s preparing to re-release his book, SISUS a story about his determined Finnish father’s life, WW II experiences, and how it shaped his young son, Bryan, during the old man’s later years. I haven’t read it, Bryan told me to hold off for the new and improved version. Bryan writes with a remarkable intnsity.

Steve Windell commented that I seemed to enjoy my disguise as Jake Winston. It’s not a disguise, Steve, It’s merely a deterrent to any authorities that are intent on tracking me down. Most of my friends and acquaintances routinely interchange my pseudonym with my real name. It’s kind of a game that makes everybody chuckle knowingly.

Sean Malone dropped me a note that I found interesting. At Prep I remembered him as being a tough mug, football and all that. When I learned that his career included eight-years as a logger, the plaid shirt and logger suspenders he was wearing at the reunion made sense. I too slipped in and out of the logging and wood products business and admired him for being his own man and being proud of the image he portrayed. I was even more surprised when he sent me a link to the Vashon Loop, the local newspaper he edits for. Check it out, vashonloop.com. Go to issue February 7, 2019, columns, tales of the islands, UFO’s, which Sean wrote.

Bill Evans and I have been trading e-mails. He made my day when he told me that he now stocks my book, Jake he Prodigal Son, in his three stores which I think are like ‘Made in Washington’ boutiques. We’re planning on getting together this summer with the one-time Deputy Mayor of Tacoma.

Bill offhandedly mentioned that his time spent in Peru was clearly rewarding and he continues to enjoy corresponding with many of those he met and lived with. The editor’s attempt to enhance his experience with a frivolous comment [about savages, etc.] was misleading.

Paul Maffeo is happy with his purchase of a near-new Infinity Q50 SUV shortly after some idiot totaled his Landrover two weeks after the reunion. Paul is trying to bait me to create a story from one sentence he sent me about Firnstahl’s graduation party on Whidbey Island in 1958. I’m thinking about it. Something I didn’t know about him, although he contends that we shared the same barstool, he was an Army Intelligence Officer and served in Korea.

Robert Lewis continues to struggle with the loss of his beloved wife of fifty-three-years, Gloria, two years ago. Please say a prayer for both of them.

I didn’t realize it, but Larry McHugh and Pat Bader have been close friends since fourth grade at St. Catherine’s.

Dave Waltier e-mailed me that not only did his five kids graduate from Blanchet, they knew my brother, Fr. Gordie, well. His son, Zack, is currently coaching Seattle Prep football.

Dave Boulanger sent me an e-mail to catch up on what he was doing these many past years. He settled into far away, Chicago after college where he taught at the prestigious University of Chicago, Illinois, (UCI), pursued fundraising and served in elective office. fifteen years ago He and Mena met and befriended a young lady who had just graduated from Prep. they continue the Seattle Prep brotherhood in Chicago. Small world, Huh?

Mike Garvey e-mailed me that they are expecting to see Dinndorf and his wife in April at their Scottsdale home.

Somebody told me that Jim Carrell, a mathematician, who lives in Vancouver BC, just published a new book, Groups, Matrices, and Vector Spaces. If you have an interest in mathematics and eighty bucks, enjoy.

Charlie Ralls and I reminisced over the phone for an hour about our Prep days and subsequent lives. I was a hoot, He’s got a hell of a memory. Sorry Dindorf, we both thought the reunion food sucked, but not your fault. I complained to Rall that I paid seventy-six buck for a plate lunch. He exclaimed, seventy-six bucks? I cost us two-hundred-twenty-five dollars and my wife doesn’t drink.

I asked, “Did you and Kelly play football for the U?” They did, Ralls was a short-lived frat-rat at Alpha Delta, and I was at Psi Upsilon less than three months before I broke ranks at paddling lineup, pulled up my britches, punched out the paddler and tossed his paddle through the stained glass window. Charlie added that he and Kelly were friends since the sixth grade.

We both commiserated over the fact that we entered Prep late, He as a sophomore, me as a senior. The downside to that was he got no respect until he was eligible to play football in his junior year and I felt shunned until my well-connected Holy Names girlfriend, Anne, broke the social ice for this frustrate ex-seminarian and fish out of the water.

Ralls blurted out, “Hey, Jake. I don’t know if many of the guys have read your book, Jake The Prodigal Son, but they should, they’d get a lot out of it. Oh, by the way, I just finished a book called, ‘The Boys in The Boat.” It’s about the UW crew, an eclectic collection of inexperienced, but driven students, loggers, ranchers and farmers who set out to win Gold in Hitler’s ’36 Olympics. Listening to Charlie, it evident that he’s still a jock. albeit a little older, a little slower in the body, but not in spirit. God bless ya, my friend.

Class of “58 – episode 3.1.19 r1

Uncategorized

TURTLE BAY RESORT, HAWAII


GOOD MORNING BROTHER PREPSTERS

Two weeks ago, Elizabeth and I spent a couple of days up at an iconic luxury resort on the North Shore. It was one of our two go-to places for a quick getaway from the days we are supposed to be enjoying our golden years. Golden years my butt, it’s more like the gear-jamming years of our youth, except with grey hair and a different set of pressures.

After a busy morning, we left home about noon and headed up the Kam, (Kamehameha Highway) to Turtle Bay. Elizabeth insisted we stop for a fish taco at North Shore Taco. I favored a leisurely cruise up the palatial entrance road to the La`ie Mormon temple which I built several years ago.

The highlight of that project was having lunch with the Prophet and his wife after the groundbreaking. I can’t go on without making a couple of comments here. While waiting, I overheard one of the Samoan spectators tell her friend, “My husband, Fetu, and I saw him and his wife at the Pancake House this morning having breakfast. Boy, the two of them look frail, but they sure like pancakes. I had trouble visualizing the Prophet, the earthly leader of the Mormon Church scarfing down pancakes in a sleazy fast food restaurant. It made me smile.

Several minutes later, a pair of police motorcycles with sirens blaring escorted the Prophet’s entourage of four black SUV’s, two ambulances, and a long black limousine up to our tent. The SUVs disgorged a half dozen ferousous, heat-packing, Samoan bodyguards who split into three groups, one to stand guard, one to help the ninety-three-year-old Propet and his wife up to the ceremony site and the third to caution each one of individually that we were not to touch or speak to the Prophet, hand him a note, or engage him in way. Although I’d never met a prophet before, the whole sceme struck me as a little odd.

Today as we approached the resort, which was a favorite of the rich and famous, I egotistically took on the affectations of those I was about to mingle with. When I exited our SUV, The valet asked, Do you want valet parking? It’s twenty-bucks.” I snobbishly snared, “Of course, do we look like the Beverly Hillbillies?” I then ordered the bellhop to unload and send my things up to our room and be quick about it. (I had a six-pack of cold Bud in my backpack.)

When Elizabeth caught wind of what was going on, She said, “Jake, please! Young man, leave the bags on the curb, we will take care of them. Jake, you park the car and come back here and help me with the bags. So much for my grand entrance.

I was up with the sun the following morning, putting on my surfing duds and slipped out the door without waking Elizabeth. She would understand I was on the water. I stopped to enjoy a double espresso and pastry at the coffee bar while surveying the action at the neighboring surf spots. I rented a board from the hotel’s beach boy and went out to close-by Kuilima Point.
I waded into the seventy-eight-degree water, paddled out to the point and joined a dozen early bird surfers. This morning wasn’t about surfing, it was about figuring out what my next book would be about. However, I wasn’t about to pass up any decent waves.

Within five minutes, I spotted an easy four-footer coming around the point right for us. I spun my board around and waited for just the right moment to start paddling my brains out to match the speed of the oncoming wave. The face of the wave picked me up, crested and broke to the right. I rode it on my belly for a few moments before popping to my feet and riding it fifty-yards to the rocky shoals, where I dumped. A young surfer dude paddled past me on the way back out and shouted, “Nice ride, old man.”
I followed him back out and tucked myself out of the wind in the lee of the point to accommodate what I came out here to do.

When I recognized a surfer paddling out from the beach, I took a break. We had surfed together occasionally over the years and sometimes shared a beer afterward at one of the North Shore watering holes. He was a local guy in his late-forties, named Sonny something. Everybody seemed to know him. As we both raced to get in position for a hot wave, he grinned a toothy grin, gave the front of my board a mighty shove, pushing me out of position and took the wave from me. I gave him the finger and ducked back out of the wind to continue my deliberations.

I was a little pissed at my burly, uncouth friend, but then I realized I’d met a lot of folks way more bizarre than Sonny, and this rudeness was child’s play. That’s when it came to me, my next book would not be a novel. it would be a collection of short stories about nothing serious. Instead, it would present simple entertaining, short stories about some of the more remarkable, funny encounters I’ve stumbled into. I was pleased with what I came up with and turned to considering a possible title. As I thought about it, a remark made by a close friend whom I often had morning coffee with, came to the forefront. He said, “Jake, you have a million great stories, why don’t you write about them. You could call it ‘A Cup Of Joe.’” I thought, Not bad. It’s catchy and has a nice warm, comfortable ambivalence about it, not unlike a cup of Joe.

I was excited to return to the room, roust Elizabeth out of bed, buy her breakfast, and tell her my vision for “A Cup of Joe.” But before I paddled in, I silently slipped up behind Sonny, who was getting ready to catch a wave, grabbed the back of his board with both hands and with all my strength flipped the astonished Sonny into the bay and quickly retreated.STEVE WIND

Class of ’58 -Episode 3.1.19 Turtle Bay

adventure, food & drink, Humor

TURTLE BAY RESORT, HAWAII


GOOD MORNING BROTHER PREPSTERS

Two weeks ago, Elizabeth and I spent a couple of days up at an iconic luxury resort on the North Shore. It was one of our two go-to places for a quick getaway from the days we are supposed to be enjoying our golden years. Golden years my butt, it’s more like the gear-jamming years of our youth, except with grey hair and a different set of pressures.

After a busy morning, we left home about noon and headed up the Kam, (Kamehameha Highway) to Turtle Bay. Elizabeth insisted we stop for a fish taco at North Shore Taco. I favored a leisurely cruise up  to the La`ie Mormon temple to enjoy the palatial entrance and road which I built several years ago.

I can’t go on without making a couple of comments here. The highlight of that project was meeting the Prophet and his wife at the groundbreaking ceremony. While waiting for the Prophet to arrive, I overheard one of the Samoan spectators tell her friend, “My husband, Fetu, and I saw the Prophet and his wife at the Pancake House this morning having breakfast. The two of them look frail, but they sure like pancakes.” I had trouble visualizing the Prophet, the earthly leader of the Mormon Church, scarfing down pancakes in a sleazy fast food restaurant. It made me smile.

It wasn’t long before a pair of police motorcycles, with sirens blaring, escorted the Prophet’s entourage of four black SUV’s, two ambulances, and a long black limousine up to our tent. The SUVs disgorged a half dozen ferousous, heat-packing, Samoan bodyguards, who split into three groups, one to stand guard, one to help the ninety-three-year-old Propet and his wife up to the ceremony site, and the third to caution each one of us local dignataries that we were not to look at, touch or speak to the Prophet, hand him a note, or engage him in way. Although I’d never met a Prophet before, the whole scene struck me as a little odd.

We approached the resort, a favorite of the rich and famous, I egotistically took on the affectations of those I was about to mingle with. When I exited our SUV, The valet asked, “Do you want valet parking? It’s twenty-bucks.” I snobbishly snarled, “Of course, do we look like the Beverly Hillbillies?” I gruffly instructed  the bellhop to unload and send my things up to our room and be quick about it. (I had a six-pack of cold Bud in my backpack.)

When Elizabeth caught wind of what was going on, She said, “Jake, please. Young man, leave the bags on the curb, we will take care of them ourselves. Jake, you park the car and come back here and help me with the bags.”

So much for my grand entrance.

I was up with the sun the following morning,and slipped out the door without waking Elizabeth. She would know I was on the water. I stopped to enjoy a double espresso and pastry at the coffee bar while surveying the action at the neighboring surf spots. I rented a board from the hotel’s beach boy and went out to close-by Kuilima Point.

I waded into the seventy-eight-degree water, paddled out to the point and joined a dozen early bird surfers. This morning wasn’t about surfing, but about figuring out what the subject of my next book would be. However, It wasn’t going to deter me from catching any decent waves.

Within five minutes, I spotted an easy four-footer coming around the point right for us. I spun my board around and waited for just the right moment to start paddling my brains out to match the speed of the oncoming wave. The face of the wave picked me up, crested and broke to the right. I rode it on my belly for a few moments before popping to my feet and riding fifty-yards to the rocky shoals, where I dumped. A young surfer dude paddled past me on the way back out and shouted, “Nice ride, old man.”
I followed him back out and tucked myself in the lee of the point to accomplish what I went out to do.

I caught sight of a surfer buddy paddling out from the beach and waved. We had surfed together occasionally over the years and sometimes shared a beer afterward at one of the North Shore watering holes. He was a local guy in his late-forties, named Sonny something. Everybody seemed to know him. As we both raced to get in position for a hot wave, he grinned a toothy grin, gave the front of my board a mighty shove, pushing me out of position and took the wave from me. I gave him the finger and ducked back out of the wind to continue my deliberations.

I was a little pissed at my burly, uncouth friend, but then I realized I’d met a lot of folks way more bizarre than Sonny, and this rudeness was child’s play. That’s when it came to me, my next book would not be a novel. it would be a collection of short stories about nothing serious. Instead, it would present simple entertaining, short stories about some of the more remarkable, funny encounters I’ve stumbled upon. I was pleased with what I came up with and turned to considering a possible title. A remark made by a close friend whom I often had morning coffee with, came to the forefront. He said, “Jake, you have a million great stories, why don’t you write about them. You could call it ‘A Cup Of Joe.'” I thought, Not bad. It’s catchy and has a nice warm, comfortable ambivalence about it, not unlike a cup of Joe.

 

MARCH’S FEATURED ARTICLE

STEVE WINDELL’S AMAZING ADVENTURE

 

 

JAKE’S COMMENTS:

I’m not Steve’s PR guy, but I got to tell ya this book is something special. The concept of traveling two-thousand-four-hundred-miles in a small, open boat with your teenage son through sometimes terrifying seas into the bowels of Alaska’s wild coast to reach the last standing major American Glacier is certainly intriguing, sometimes scary, and peppered with surprises. There are a lot of sea stories out there, but this one, in addition to the adventure storyline, adds several unexpected funny, heartwarming glimpses of native life as the relationship of Father and Son develops before your eyes.

I’m not going to steal the book’s thunder. Two comments and I’m through. First, Steve’s book will take you back to to the sixties when we, as teenagers, struggled to leave the family behind and strike out on our own. Then it will thrust you again into the early eighties when we, as parents, struggled to grow and balance our relationships with our teenage children which were often  at odds with our demanding careers.

Second, the title,”Transcending the Gordian Knot,” put me off. Its connotation seemed metaphysical or something strange, However, it’s merely a reference to Alexnder the Great’s determination to remove an impediment, a knot of rope, which stopped his army from storming a city’s walls, It doesn’t play a role in the story. I think Steve mentioned  he’s considering a title change and a second edition.

 

WHAT ARE THE BOYS UP TO?

I’ve heard from several of you characters recently, and I thank you for that. The highlights of these encounters are as follows:

Dinndorf, Bradley and Maffeo e-mailed me that Steve Windell is organizing a gala Class of ’58 luncheon at Anthony’s on Edmond’s revitalized waterfront, for March 7, 2019, and getting a lot of interest. They suggested that I come along if possible. I seldom miss a lunch invitation, but a five-thousand-mile ride to and from lunch would be tough to get passed my frugal, soulmate, especially since her sister is arriving the day before, for a week’s visit. Sorry boys, enjoy each other and hoist one for me.

Bryan Saario and I have been having fun sharing the trials and tribulations of writing. He’s preparing to re-release his book, SISUS, Which I believe is a story about his determined Finnish father’s life, including his WW II experiences, and how it shaped his young son, Bryan, during the old man’s later years. I haven’t read it, Bryan told me to hold off for the new and improved version. Bryan writes with  remarkable intensity.

Steve Windell commented that I seemed to enjoy my disguise as Jake Winston. It’s not a disguise, Steve, It’s merely a deterrent to any authorities that are intent on tracking me down. It also keeps the mobs of my teenybopper admirers at bay. Most of my friends and acquaintances routinely interchange my pseudonym with my real name. It’s kind of a game that makes everybody chuckle knowingly.

Sean Malone dropped me a note that I found interesting. At Prep I remembered him as being a tough mug, football and all that. When I learned that his career included eight-years as a logger, the plaid shirt and hidden logger suspenders he was wearing at the reunion made sense. I too did some logging back in the day, and admired him for being his own man and proud of the image he portrayed.

I  was even more surprised when he sent me a link to the Vashon Loop, the local newspaper he edits. Check it out, vashonloop.com. Go to issue February 7, 2019, columns, tales of the islands, UFO’s, which Sean wrote.

Bill Evans and I have been trading e-mails. He made my day when he told me that he now stocks my book, Jake he Prodigal Son, in his three stores, “Pacific Northwest Shop” I’m planning on getting together this summer with Bill, the one-time Deputy Mayor of Tacoma.

Bill offhandedly mentioned that his time spent in Peru and the many endearing folks he met and lived with continue to be a part of his life.  He felt duty bound to point out the editorial comment [about savages, etc.] in the Prep Directory De Biographies was misleading.

Paul Maffeo is happy with his purchase of a near-new Infinity Q50 SUV shortly after some idiot totaled his Land Rover two weeks after the reunion. I’ve always enjoyed Paul, and he contends that we “shared the same barstool.” He may appear a little quirky from time to time, but don’t we all? Paul has a brilliant mind and a quick wit. I lost track of him during college and was surprised to learn he was an Army Intelligence Officer and served in Korea.

Robert Lewis continues to grieve for the loss of his beloved wife, Gloria, two years ago. They were together for fifty-three-years. Please say a prayer for both of them.

Paul tried to bait me to create a story from a one sentence description he sent me about Firnstahl’s graduation party on Whidbey Island in 1958. I wasn’t there, and I don’t want to embarrass anybody, but I said I would concock a story or sorts out of what he sent. So, here goes.

Three carloads of Prepsters arrived at the Firnstahl’s summer cabin on the shores of Mutiny Bay in June of ’58. They spent the day exploring the woods and beachcombing.

 

Somebody who was thinking ahead, I can’t image who that would be, had brought the fixing for burgers and dogs. That evening the boys sat on a half-circle of logs in front of a bonfire of epic proportions bullshiting, joking, talking story and roasting marsmellows. About ten o’clock the party moved inside and started an all-nighter poker game. As the game progressed an unending supply of beer, whiskey, and nuts was ferried in from the trunks of the cars.

About four a.m., the game petered out and the cabin went silent and dark.

At sunrise a few souls stirred, two guys got up, put on coffee. They sat silently at the cluttered table staring into space and  chugging a cold Raineer out of a cooler. Suddenly, one kid said to the other, “Where’s Jack? He was sleeping over there in the corner when I crashed.” They jumped up, searchd the cabin, ran outside circled the property, and checked the beach. He was nowhere to be found.

They woke their buddies who sleeply joined the search. When someone suggest he may have been eaten by a bear, the search got serious and Firnstahl called the sheriff who responded and eventually located him asleep in one of the cars. When the cop roused him, a belligerent, very drunk, Jack took a swng at the cop, breaking his glasses and giving him a bloody nose. That misstep got Jack handcuffed, locked in the back of the patrol car, and about to be hauled off to the can. The officer entered the cabin, and sureyed the mess. With a look of disgust, he gathered the partygoers around him and asked, “Who’s cabin is this? Are any of you twenty-one? Firnstahl spoke for the group, apoligize and meekiy said. “This will never happen again, sir.” The officers said, “I know your old man, son. I’m going to forget what I saw here this morning, but somebody needs to make bail for your friend out there.

I didn’t realize it, but Larry McHugh and Pat Bader have been close friends since fourth grade at St. Catherine’s. I met Pat four years later.

Dave Waltier e-mailed me that not only did his five kids graduate from Blanchet, they knew an enjoyed my brother, Fr. Gordie, the chaplen. Dave’s son, Zack, is currently coaching Seattle Prep football.

Dave Boulanger sent me an e-mail to catch up on what he was doing these many past years. He settled into far away, Chicago after college where he taught at the prestigious University of Chicago, Illinois, (UCI), pursued fundraising and served in elective office. I was surprised when he mentioned that fifteen years ago He and Mena met and befriended, a young lady who they continue to see regularily in their neighborhood. She was a Seattle Prep Graduate. Small world, Huh?

Mike Garvey e-mailed they are expecting to see Dinndorf and his wife in April at their Scottsdale home.

Somebody told me that Jim Carrell, a mathematician, who lives in Vancouver BC, just published a new book, “Groups, Matrices, and Vector Spaces.” Congradulation on a huge accomplishment. If you Prepsters have an interest in mathematics and eighty bucks in your pocket, enjoy.

F. Michael Fischer finally sent me an e-mail two days ago. I was getting concerned that perhaps we had lost him. He uged me to continue the blogs since they seemed to be well recieved, at least by some, and they keep us all abreast of what each other were up to without having to pick up the phone.

Charlie Ralls and I reminisced over the phone for an hour about our Prep days and subsequent lives. It was a hoot, He’s got a hell of a memory. Sorry Dindorf, we both thought the reunion food sucked, but it’s not your fault. I complained to Rall that I paid seventy-six buck for a plate lunch. He exclaimed, seventy-six bucks? I cost us two-hundred-twenty-five dollars and my wife doesn’t drink.

I asked, “Did you and Kelly play football for the U?” They did, Ralls was a short-lived frat-rat at Alpha Delta, and I was at Psi Upsilon less than three months. I broke ranks at a house paddling lineup, pulled up my britches, punched out the paddler and tossed his paddle through the stained glass window. Charlie added that he and Kelly were friends since the sixth grade, and he was lookin forward to his visit in a few weeks.

We both commiserated over the fact that we entered Prep late, he as a sophomore, me as a senior. The downside to that was he got no respect until he was eligible to play football in his junior year and I felt shunned until my well-connected Holy Names girlfriend, Anne, broke the social ice for this frustrated ex-seminarian and fish out of water.

Ralls blurted out, “Hey, Jake. I don’t know if many of the guys have read your book, Jake The Prodigal Son, but they should, they’d get a lot out of it.

Oh, by the way, I just finished a book called, ‘The Boys in The Boat.” It’s about the UW crew, an eclectic collection of inexperienced, but driven students, loggers, ranchers and farmers, who set out to win Gold in Hitler’s ’36 Olympics. Listening to Charlie, it evident that he’s still a jock. albeit a little older, a little slower in the body, but not in spirit. God bless ya, my friend.

ClASS of ’58 – episode 2.15.19

BOOK WORTHY TALES, Gifted People I've known, Humor, reunions

What is this blog about?

Don;t know if this facade is still there.

This blog is about staying in touch. I spent my senior year in Seattle Prep and my freshman year at Seattle U before moving on to U Dub where I slowly lost track of most of you characters. Many years of running construction projects, and later construction firms, took me all over the United States and into several countries without spending much time back in Seattle.

UW Library & Commons

I enjoyed my work and the extensive travel, but I regretted a lifetime of not having hobnobbed with my fellow Prepsters, friends, and family. Late at night, I often wondered, What would it have been like if I had chosen to stay closer to home as my family and many friends did? Would I have been as happy as I am now? I don’t know the answer to that, but that’s the price I paid for my career choice.

Why am I telling you this? Simple because I wrote a few blogs after the reunion that addressed the time we shared at the reunion, as well as adventures we shared together during our Prep and SU days. Many of you graciously responded to those blogs in an encouraging manner which leads me to believe you actually read them since about half of you guys responded with multiple e-mails, asking that I continue to “keep us in the loop.”

The reunion at Chateau Ste Michelle

I’m not sure what that means. I could mean several things like you’re interested in more Prep stories, or you’re interested in keeping up with the activities, health, and whereabouts of our brother Prepsters. Perhaps you’re sitting around the house with nothing better to do, waiting for Ponderosa to come on. Sorry, it’s been off the air since 2002 and Little Joe is dead, or God bless you, you’re actually interested in my tales of times past. In any event, I’m pleased you haven’t responded with, “That’s enough already. Stop, please stop! Well, I’m here to tell you, I’m no “one trick pony,” but I’m having to reach deeper and deeper into my aging physic to come up with new Prep material that won’t get any of us thrown in jail. Give me a break, guys. That was sixty years ago. Do you remember what you had for breakfast? I don’t.

Perhaps you have a story or a photo you want to share with us about what you’ve been up to, or whatever strikes you of our mutual interest. Send me whatever you have, and I’ll fluff it up, make your story come alive, and make you look like Hemingway himself.

Come on, man. You’re Prepsters, you got to have a million adventures, funny stories, jokes, and awesome photos you have been dying to share with us, your Prep brothers. Charlie Ralls called me this evening, and we talked, told each other lies, and laughed for an hour. Dan Regis emailed me recounting the long weekend he, Pat Bader and I spent shipwrecked in the San Juan’s. Sid Flor and Dinndorf reminded me about a few funny houseboat stories, including taking on water during a keg party. Sean Malone sent me an interesting story about a UFO he encountered as a youth and wrote about in the Vashon Loop Newspaper. Pat Bader recounted how much fun he had at the reunion and filled me in on what he’s up to. Joe Thibodeau and I discovered we had a mutual friend, Judge Harry Allen Follman. Joe was a superior court judge in Snohomish County and Harry was a superior court judge for Skagit County at the same time and knew each other. Maffeo and I shared several e-mails, not sure what that was about, but fun to connect. My apologies to Maffeo and Dinndorf, I just realized that Jerry was right, our ’39 Plymouth Coups were, in fact, ’49s.

You too can contribute. Dig out and send me whatever you have. You have my e-mail, If you can’t find my address or phone number on Dinndorf’s roster, e-mail me and I’ll send it to you. I can’t publish it here, I’m one of The Donalds’s double agents, and I’m in hiding from Hillary’s and Nancy Pelosi’s lynch mobs. I don’t share private, personal comments I receive. So, Sid, Guido, and Bryan rest easy, you’re safe. I only write about stuff that is of general interest to my readers, not the authorities.

If you’re wondering, Why is this guy offering to do this? Is he some kind of nut job trying to recapture his youth or gain fame and fortune at our expense?  

“No. that ship has sailed, I have no interest in reliving my youth, and I’ve experienced my fifteen minutes of fame, thank you. The answer is that several of you have encouraged me to continue to provide this blog as a venue for the class of “58 to simply stay in touch. After all, many of us shared a remarkable bond of comradery albeit driven by our efforts to nimbly avoid dealing with Mr. Brands acidic barbs, Mr. Nelson’s bullying, as well as to avoid unwarranted trips to the boiler room with Fr. Weisenberg, as well as avoiding the wrath of Coach Goodman when on the warpath.

After guzzling beer with an un-named Prepster recently, I went home, thought it over, and decided that with a little help from my friends we could, and should, give a shot to continuing the Class of ’58 Blogs. So, you folks need to get off your asses and send me some worthy fuel to feed the hungry panther.

your Prepster brother,

Jake Winston

ps: I bypassed my editor with this blog. the grammar errors on on me.