1972

June, the bridal month, and me without a thine to wear and no chance to get my hair done! By the time you read this column, our reunion will be history, and we'll be carrying a lot of memories around with us for a while. Nostalgia is a strange thing, since none of us want to pull a Jethro Tull and go "living in the past," but the past is undeniably a significant part of us all (that'll be trite enough to have been said 30 or 40 times during reunion weekend).

There's not much news around this month, and I've just about run out of things that are fit to print. I realize that problem has never stopped me in the past, but five years in this office have started to mellow me. I do have a communication from Fabian Ropogol, who with his wife, the former Wilma Fingerdoo, has settled in the Lesser Antilles, where he has taken up raising sheep. The joke around the Ropogol farm is "you can't pull the wool over our eyes," which is indicative of the fact that his sense of humor, lost when he married Wilma, has yet to return. His short stint as a Viking was memorable only for his participation in a raid which raped, ravaged and pillaged the Ponderosa. Little Joe was heard to say, "Pa, we better head for the hills! Anybody who walks around in hats like that have gotta be tough!"

Over the last five years I have attempted to present our class news in a different way. I have held very little sacred, and have poked fun at a lot of you in an attempt to make the column entertaining without sacrificing its informative purpose. Some months Fabian, Wilma, Guy Dwyer and the boys succeeded better than they did at others.

You, as a class, have been cooperative and have provided me with info for the column. In addition, you bozos were weird enough to provide much of the humor yourselves, and it is unfortunate that some provided that humor unwittingly. Some of you have praised my efforts, and to you I say "thank you, oh critical geniuses." Some have put up with the column, and to them I say "thank you for your tolerance." Some have bitched and moaned, and to them I say "May a small kangaroo mistake your navel for a pouch and kick your intestines black and blue."

Seriously, Ghort, Frodo and I have enjoyed the past five years. The work involved with the job was overshadowed by the contact I have kept with you by virtue of the office. Later, bozos. . .

Secretary, Box 372 Castleton, Vt. 05735

Head Agent, 1379 North Carolina Ave. NE Washington, D.C. 20002