Three classmates now gone touched my life warmly and generously in many ways. Most significantly, these three classmates encouraged me to venture into strange lands of this world, which gave life a shape it would never otherwise have had.
Alex Smith took me hitchhiking for the first time, a short trip to his mother’s in Groton, and the beginning of years of wondrous serendipitous encounters with strangers all across the Americas.
Pat Pleskunas taught me my first phrase in Spanish as we walked in a New Haven neighborhood not far from the campus: “Estamos caminando en un barrio pobre” and shared fascinating tales of villagers he’d met as he traveled through rural Mexico. The next year began three winter seasons of wandering to and through Chiapas, learning for myself the truth of such tales.
Brad Bryant (who, as a five-year BA student began with our class) touched my life the most, in part for the longer years he dwelt among us. Brad planted the wanderlust seed in me upon his return in 1969 from that strange and wondrous land of the Thai. When I landed there in 1976 as a Peace Corps volunteer, I visited him each trip down to Bangkok and we shared adventures up country, visiting waterfalls and swimming holes and climbing Chiang Dao above the limestone hills of poppies. After we’d returned to the US—I working in DC and he near Charlottesville—we shared family weekends together.
In music, too, Brad stayed with me even during later years more distant from each other. He knew so well how to sing songs “in a strange land.” (I first heard Rivers of Babylon from Brad’s singing.) He first sang for me a Lao folk song about a cuckoo (นกกาเหว่า) calling. A few years later, after an afternoon cliff jumping with him and his first wife at an upstate reservoir for NYC, he sang Gospel Ship: “… I’m gonna shout and sing until heaven rings, when I bid this world goodbye.” Still later, after we’d returned from Thailand, one line from his song recounting myriad ways he’d passed the nights: “… I’ve slept on mats…”, recalled for me two years sleeping on a reed mat in Thailand (and how Brad showed me, snapping it like a whip, how to shake the dust off.)
In 2006, Brad wrote, “I’ve actually started on a novel set partly in Thailand up north in our old stomping grounds. It’s kind of a metaphysical mystery thriller complete with lost tribes, religion, group tensions, politics, religion and the quantum mechanics of meditation, alchemy, and the Theory of Everything. It may take me awhile…” What a delight the novel turned out to be—reading Indra’s Net was reliving the flavor (and humor) of Thailand, with the richness of Joseph Conrad and Isaac Asimov.
On one of my last visits, I wandered up to his little retreat cabin on a ridge above his place in Albemarle County, with its copy of the Satipatthana Sutta (verses that still guide my daily meditations). Little did I know then that we’d not see each other again. Shocked awake at the rush of time, now so very sorry for recent decades gone by with no more than a passing greeting now and again. As Brad said in one of his letters, “Precious moments shine particularly bright when a loved one travels on.”
When we were at Yale, I thought Tom did an excellent job of serving as a living paradigm of what Andover and Yale were intended to produce.
Tom and I had sporting collecting, me: huntin’. fishin’, and shootin’ and Tom: rowing, and following auction sales in common. We would often email links to one another of items we happened to see that pertained to each others’ collecting interests. Tom was loyal to his social class culture and he and I would jocularly argue politics a bit, and I would poke fun at his Unitarianism. Unfortunately, he and I had a long-time habit of living in the same neck of the woods at completely different times. I’ve always regretted missing the opportunity to take Tom out fly fishing or upland hunting. Despite our superficial ideological differences, Tom was at heart also a strong traditionalist. He loved venerable institutions like Yale, St. Anthony’s Hall, and the Leander Club. Tom used to tell me stories about his amusing airplane stewardesses by explaining the significance of the cerise-colored Leander Club socks and that club’s pink hippopotamus necktie. Tom was unquestionably one of the best-liked, most admired members of Berkeley’s Class of ’70 and his loss is keenly felt.
I was saddened to read of the passing of Tony Dolan, even though we hardly ever saw each other while at Yale. For eight years, Tony and I sat next to each other in primary school at Our Lady of Assumption School in Stratfield, Connecticut. We were taught by Dominican nuns, who wore full habits. We had excellent teachers. The nun who taught arithmetic was better than some of the math teachers I had at Yale, but that is another story. There was one in particular (whose name I will withheld), who made a deep impression on me, and no doubt on Tony as well. Like a lot of us at this age, my memory is weak, but I do recall vividly her relentless lectures on what she called “Godless Communism.” She didn’t use the term “evil empire” but there was no doubt about her view of the Soviet Union. In particular, she gave us a detailed account of the fate of Hungarian Cardinal József Mindszenty. I have to admit that I consulted Wikipedia for the details, but in short, after being freed from prison in 1956, he sought and was grated asylum by the United States and lived in the in the United States embassy embassy in Budapest for the next 15 years. Here we were, in 7th or eight grade, getting a graduate-level instruction on Cold War diplomacy. When, years later, I learned of President Reagan’s speech, I recognized the Dominican nun who was its source. Journalists and pundits have written volumes on the speech, and Tony’s role in writing it, but they never got the true story. Until now. RIP Tony.
Charlie Hickok: I first met Charlie at Yale – but not when we were students. Rather it was in 2010 at our 40th reunion, and I thought he was someone else with a very (very) similar name.
At the urging of Norm Zamcheck, I had been imploring a classmate and jazz musician – a “Charlie Hickox” who I’d never met – to attend and play at our Saturday reunion jam sessions. I arrived early in the Branford College courtyard – and lo, through an archway walks Charlie Hickok. I glimpsed his nametag and shouted out greeting, “Charlie, looking forward to hearing you play.”
He had no idea who I was or what I was talking about. I was embarrassed as hell, so thought of him as the “other” Charlie Hickox.
Eighteen months later, I ran into Charlie Hickok at a Yale Club luncheon in Harrisburg, my hometown. His family is old Harrisburg. During the ensuing decade plus, I enjoyed seeing Charlie at Yale events, and talking with him about Yale, his family, his family’s business, and his art. He spoke of his roommates, including Jim Rothman ’71, and all the roommates attending Jim’s acceptance of the Nobel in Stockholm.
Through Charlie, I met his wife Maaike, daughter Lauren ’03, and brother Peter ’73. At my urging, Charlie, Maaike, Lauren, and Peter hosted events for the local Yale Club, at Charlie’s home and elsewhere. All those gatherings were lovely and very much appreciated.
I last saw Charlie, unexpectedly, after the pandemic at a Yale Club event in Lancaster in December 2023. Unexpectedly, because it was about an hour’s drive from his home. His signature ear to ear smile, as always, lit up the room.
I now add Jerry LaSala’s remembrances of his roommate Charlie Hickock:
How does one encapsulate an almost 60 year friendship into a few paragraphs?
I first met Charlie on move-in day September 1966. We were assigned rooms across the hall from each other in Wright Hall on the Old Campus. We soon became close friends, despite our vastly different backgrounds (he a fourth-generation Yalie from the Philadelphia Main Line and I a second-generation Italian American from a small Catholic high school in the New Jersey suburbs).
Charlie and I shared a love of bridge, chess and any games that required strategy and analysis; playing them cemented our friendship. Indeed, sometimes we seemed to be majoring in games rather than our academic curriculum!
In addition, Charlie’s encyclopedic knowledge of (and strong opinions on) a wide range of subjects inspired many deep and enjoyable conversations, but it was probably his quick wit and sardonic observations about life, politics, Yale, and his “rich inner life” that especially made him well-liked.
Charlie had a green MG that he kept in a rented garage near campus since freshmen were not supposed to have cars; we would take rides out of town into the countryside just to get away from campus sometimes. Occasionally we’d drive or take the train to mixers at women’s colleges, in particular Manhattanville College where Charlie met his future wife Maaike.
In our junior year, Charlie, Fritz, and I moved into 812 Branford, where we held court as the founders of the “812 Club,” along with Fritz Sharninghausen, Larry Minch, Joel Neiditz, and Jim Rothman (71). Room 812 became the center of a salon-like gathering place, where friends would drop in for fun (including frisbee wars out the windows), relaxation, study and just friendship. We kept that room till graduation, sharing many games, deep conversations, lots and lots of laughs, visiting musicians, and impromptu meals cooked in the fireplace. The 812 Club still gathers every year in August at Jim’s home in The Hamptons where, thanks to the generosity of Jim and his wife Joy Hirsch, Charlie got to show off his maritime skills on Jim’s boat rides on Long Island Sound, and Charlie and I engaged in board games with a vengeance.
A few months after graduation, I was depressed after the breakup of a two year relationship. Charlie and Maaike offered the support and sympathy that helped me move beyond that sad time. Three years later, Charlie was an usher in my wedding (on his birthday!) to Sue, now my wife of 51 years.
Charlie and I kept in regular touch over all the intervening years, with phone calls and visits in both directions on a regular basis. Charlie’s invariable answer when I called him was “Hi Rock! I was just about to call you!” In 2011 he and I went together to the Spiel Essen, the gigantic game trade show in Essen, Germany, from which we each emerged with an extra suitcase filled with new games.
When Charlie was diagnosed with thyroid cancer, his stoic acceptance combined with his resolve to do whatever he could to maintain his quality of life for as long as possible was inspiring.
The 812 Club flew to visit Charlie and Maaike in his hometown of Harrisburg last August when he felt he could no longer travel to meet with us. We met them for lunch at the Café Bruges in Carlisle and spent hours there in happy and loving conversation, reminiscing about our many years of friendship and thinking wistfully of our years together and trying not to think too hard about the future. Charlie was truly thrilled and happy to be with us that day and we felt the same way. (This was all made possible by the generosity of Jim and Joy.)
Charlie survived years since his cancer diagnosis but finally succumbed on March 16th , 2025. It’s hard to believe that he’s gone. We miss him terribly.
Fair haired Charlie
Tall with a certain elegance
Mischievous temperament
With a smile to match
Tenderness never really masked by
Rapier wit and relentless razzing
Rich bass toned voice used generously
To share his deep and broad knowledge of history
As well as his personal interpretations of it
Explainer in chief and advisor to us about almost everything.
Passionate board game collector, player, and sometimes champion.
Steward of his land, sailor, sculptor, teacher of art
He held in high esteem those
Who like the workers on the factory floor of his family’s business,
Use their hands to make things of use and of value.
Thoroughly informed about the nature of his diagnosis
And fully aware of his options for treatments
He was a full partner, if not the leader, of the medical team helping him manage his illness.
A true conservative, a traditionalist
Believer in Excellence with a capital E
He held Excellence to be foundational
To every successful human endeavor
Without it he would assert
Civilizations falter and fade into oblivion.
Charlie, you were Excellent.
Our memories of you will never fade.
We miss you.
Our classmate Charlie Hickock died in March after a very long and well played chess match against thyroid cancer.
I’m sad to report the death of our classmate Charlie Hickock on March 16, reported to me by his Branford roommate Jerry LaSala. His obituary can be found at: https://obits.pennlive.com/us/obituaries/pennlive/name/charles-hickok-obituary?id=58127121 . Because the next class notes will be short and reunion-focused, I may not be able to include the warm memories contributed by Jerry. I will ask him if it’s okay to post them here.
I was saddened to read this weekend that Tony Dolan died on March 11. I didn’t know him well, but we had somewhat similar trajectories – journalism, speechwriting – and he certainly outshone me in both areas – winning a Pulitzer for exposing corruption in Stamford, CT, and coining some of Reagan’s most memorable and impactful lines. We crossed paths in 1987 when he was at the end of his time with Reagan and I was starting out with Bush. He was affable but didn’t give me a tutorial on my new responsibilities, and I was too vain to request one. But as much as we disagreed about the hawkish tone of his speeches, I admired his craft, and I was hoping to find him and get him back to our reunion in May. Thanks to Putin, that hawkish tone has aged well.
Just a note that several of our classmates who passed since our 2020 reunion are pictured on the home page of this reunion website. Tom Weil appears heading the “If not now … when” section. Tinker Sawyer (long a member of the Plastic Visitation) appears in the picture-in-picture heading for the “Socializing versus seminars?” section. And Mark Pines appears in the old “Zoom Songs and Stories”.
Three classmates now gone touched my life warmly and generously in many ways. Most significantly, these three classmates encouraged me to venture into strange lands of this world, which gave life a shape it would never otherwise have had.
Alex Smith took me hitchhiking for the first time, a short trip to his mother’s in Groton, and the beginning of years of wondrous serendipitous encounters with strangers all across the Americas.
Pat Pleskunas taught me my first phrase in Spanish as we walked in a New Haven neighborhood not far from the campus: “Estamos caminando en un barrio pobre” and shared fascinating tales of villagers he’d met as he traveled through rural Mexico. The next year began three winter seasons of wandering to and through Chiapas, learning for myself the truth of such tales.
Brad Bryant (who, as a five-year BA student began with our class) touched my life the most, in part for the longer years he dwelt among us. Brad planted the wanderlust seed in me upon his return in 1969 from that strange and wondrous land of the Thai. When I landed there in 1976 as a Peace Corps volunteer, I visited him each trip down to Bangkok and we shared adventures up country, visiting waterfalls and swimming holes and climbing Chiang Dao above the limestone hills of poppies. After we’d returned to the US—I working in DC and he near Charlottesville—we shared family weekends together.
In music, too, Brad stayed with me even during later years more distant from each other. He knew so well how to sing songs “in a strange land.” (I first heard Rivers of Babylon from Brad’s singing.) He first sang for me a Lao folk song about a cuckoo (นกกาเหว่า) calling. A few years later, after an afternoon cliff jumping with him and his first wife at an upstate reservoir for NYC, he sang Gospel Ship: “… I’m gonna shout and sing until heaven rings, when I bid this world goodbye.” Still later, after we’d returned from Thailand, one line from his song recounting myriad ways he’d passed the nights: “… I’ve slept on mats…”, recalled for me two years sleeping on a reed mat in Thailand (and how Brad showed me, snapping it like a whip, how to shake the dust off.)
In 2006, Brad wrote, “I’ve actually started on a novel set partly in Thailand up north in our old stomping grounds. It’s kind of a metaphysical mystery thriller complete with lost tribes, religion, group tensions, politics, religion and the quantum mechanics of meditation, alchemy, and the Theory of Everything. It may take me awhile…” What a delight the novel turned out to be—reading Indra’s Net was reliving the flavor (and humor) of Thailand, with the richness of Joseph Conrad and Isaac Asimov.
On one of my last visits, I wandered up to his little retreat cabin on a ridge above his place in Albemarle County, with its copy of the Satipatthana Sutta (verses that still guide my daily meditations). Little did I know then that we’d not see each other again. Shocked awake at the rush of time, now so very sorry for recent decades gone by with no more than a passing greeting now and again. As Brad said in one of his letters, “Precious moments shine particularly bright when a loved one travels on.”
Hear the Boat Sing did a lot more justice to Tom Weil over time. Lots of tributes and photos.
https://heartheboatsing.com/tag/rip-tom-weil/
When we were at Yale, I thought Tom did an excellent job of serving as a living paradigm of what Andover and Yale were intended to produce.
Tom and I had sporting collecting, me: huntin’. fishin’, and shootin’ and Tom: rowing, and following auction sales in common. We would often email links to one another of items we happened to see that pertained to each others’ collecting interests. Tom was loyal to his social class culture and he and I would jocularly argue politics a bit, and I would poke fun at his Unitarianism. Unfortunately, he and I had a long-time habit of living in the same neck of the woods at completely different times. I’ve always regretted missing the opportunity to take Tom out fly fishing or upland hunting. Despite our superficial ideological differences, Tom was at heart also a strong traditionalist. He loved venerable institutions like Yale, St. Anthony’s Hall, and the Leander Club. Tom used to tell me stories about his amusing airplane stewardesses by explaining the significance of the cerise-colored Leander Club socks and that club’s pink hippopotamus necktie. Tom was unquestionably one of the best-liked, most admired members of Berkeley’s Class of ’70 and his loss is keenly felt.
I was saddened to read of the passing of Tony Dolan, even though we hardly ever saw each other while at Yale. For eight years, Tony and I sat next to each other in primary school at Our Lady of Assumption School in Stratfield, Connecticut. We were taught by Dominican nuns, who wore full habits. We had excellent teachers. The nun who taught arithmetic was better than some of the math teachers I had at Yale, but that is another story. There was one in particular (whose name I will withheld), who made a deep impression on me, and no doubt on Tony as well. Like a lot of us at this age, my memory is weak, but I do recall vividly her relentless lectures on what she called “Godless Communism.” She didn’t use the term “evil empire” but there was no doubt about her view of the Soviet Union. In particular, she gave us a detailed account of the fate of Hungarian Cardinal József Mindszenty. I have to admit that I consulted Wikipedia for the details, but in short, after being freed from prison in 1956, he sought and was grated asylum by the United States and lived in the in the United States embassy embassy in Budapest for the next 15 years. Here we were, in 7th or eight grade, getting a graduate-level instruction on Cold War diplomacy. When, years later, I learned of President Reagan’s speech, I recognized the Dominican nun who was its source. Journalists and pundits have written volumes on the speech, and Tony’s role in writing it, but they never got the true story. Until now. RIP Tony.
Fellow Saybrugian, first made his mark in McClelland Hall freshman year!
Thomas Slick Obituary (1949 – 2025) – Atlanta, TX – San Antonio Express-News
Source: Legacy.com
Charlie Hickok: I first met Charlie at Yale – but not when we were students. Rather it was in 2010 at our 40th reunion, and I thought he was someone else with a very (very) similar name.
At the urging of Norm Zamcheck, I had been imploring a classmate and jazz musician – a “Charlie Hickox” who I’d never met – to attend and play at our Saturday reunion jam sessions. I arrived early in the Branford College courtyard – and lo, through an archway walks Charlie Hickok. I glimpsed his nametag and shouted out greeting, “Charlie, looking forward to hearing you play.”
He had no idea who I was or what I was talking about. I was embarrassed as hell, so thought of him as the “other” Charlie Hickox.
Eighteen months later, I ran into Charlie Hickok at a Yale Club luncheon in Harrisburg, my hometown. His family is old Harrisburg. During the ensuing decade plus, I enjoyed seeing Charlie at Yale events, and talking with him about Yale, his family, his family’s business, and his art. He spoke of his roommates, including Jim Rothman ’71, and all the roommates attending Jim’s acceptance of the Nobel in Stockholm.
Through Charlie, I met his wife Maaike, daughter Lauren ’03, and brother Peter ’73. At my urging, Charlie, Maaike, Lauren, and Peter hosted events for the local Yale Club, at Charlie’s home and elsewhere. All those gatherings were lovely and very much appreciated.
I last saw Charlie, unexpectedly, after the pandemic at a Yale Club event in Lancaster in December 2023. Unexpectedly, because it was about an hour’s drive from his home. His signature ear to ear smile, as always, lit up the room.
Richard B. Hays, January 3, 2025 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_B._Hays
https://www.nytimes.com/2025/01/12/us/richard-hays-dead.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share&referringSource=articleShare&fbclid=IwY2xjawI3CKJleHRuA2FlbQIxMQABHXO-PbyMAp6d0li3DM87Y6VuO47osy-iKVgChT_PJEcw9W0Pcr9xd8oVEw_aem_6xffkEb9w9goo0-SjPC-3g
I now add Jerry LaSala’s remembrances of his roommate Charlie Hickock:
How does one encapsulate an almost 60 year friendship into a few paragraphs?
I first met Charlie on move-in day September 1966. We were assigned rooms across the hall from each other in Wright Hall on the Old Campus. We soon became close friends, despite our vastly different backgrounds (he a fourth-generation Yalie from the Philadelphia Main Line and I a second-generation Italian American from a small Catholic high school in the New Jersey suburbs).
Charlie and I shared a love of bridge, chess and any games that required strategy and analysis; playing them cemented our friendship. Indeed, sometimes we seemed to be majoring in games rather than our academic curriculum!
In addition, Charlie’s encyclopedic knowledge of (and strong opinions on) a wide range of subjects inspired many deep and enjoyable conversations, but it was probably his quick wit and sardonic observations about life, politics, Yale, and his “rich inner life” that especially made him well-liked.
Charlie had a green MG that he kept in a rented garage near campus since freshmen were not supposed to have cars; we would take rides out of town into the countryside just to get away from campus sometimes. Occasionally we’d drive or take the train to mixers at women’s colleges, in particular Manhattanville College where Charlie met his future wife Maaike.
In our junior year, Charlie, Fritz, and I moved into 812 Branford, where we held court as the founders of the “812 Club,” along with Fritz Sharninghausen, Larry Minch, Joel Neiditz, and Jim Rothman (71). Room 812 became the center of a salon-like gathering place, where friends would drop in for fun (including frisbee wars out the windows), relaxation, study and just friendship. We kept that room till graduation, sharing many games, deep conversations, lots and lots of laughs, visiting musicians, and impromptu meals cooked in the fireplace. The 812 Club still gathers every year in August at Jim’s home in The Hamptons where, thanks to the generosity of Jim and his wife Joy Hirsch, Charlie got to show off his maritime skills on Jim’s boat rides on Long Island Sound, and Charlie and I engaged in board games with a vengeance.
A few months after graduation, I was depressed after the breakup of a two year relationship. Charlie and Maaike offered the support and sympathy that helped me move beyond that sad time. Three years later, Charlie was an usher in my wedding (on his birthday!) to Sue, now my wife of 51 years.
Charlie and I kept in regular touch over all the intervening years, with phone calls and visits in both directions on a regular basis. Charlie’s invariable answer when I called him was “Hi Rock! I was just about to call you!” In 2011 he and I went together to the Spiel Essen, the gigantic game trade show in Essen, Germany, from which we each emerged with an extra suitcase filled with new games.
When Charlie was diagnosed with thyroid cancer, his stoic acceptance combined with his resolve to do whatever he could to maintain his quality of life for as long as possible was inspiring.
The 812 Club flew to visit Charlie and Maaike in his hometown of Harrisburg last August when he felt he could no longer travel to meet with us. We met them for lunch at the Café Bruges in Carlisle and spent hours there in happy and loving conversation, reminiscing about our many years of friendship and thinking wistfully of our years together and trying not to think too hard about the future. Charlie was truly thrilled and happy to be with us that day and we felt the same way. (This was all made possible by the generosity of Jim and Joy.)
Charlie survived years since his cancer diagnosis but finally succumbed on March 16th , 2025. It’s hard to believe that he’s gone. We miss him terribly.
Eulogy for Charlie Hickok
Fair haired Charlie
Tall with a certain elegance
Mischievous temperament
With a smile to match
Tenderness never really masked by
Rapier wit and relentless razzing
Rich bass toned voice used generously
To share his deep and broad knowledge of history
As well as his personal interpretations of it
Explainer in chief and advisor to us about almost everything.
Passionate board game collector, player, and sometimes champion.
Steward of his land, sailor, sculptor, teacher of art
He held in high esteem those
Who like the workers on the factory floor of his family’s business,
Use their hands to make things of use and of value.
Thoroughly informed about the nature of his diagnosis
And fully aware of his options for treatments
He was a full partner, if not the leader, of the medical team helping him manage his illness.
A true conservative, a traditionalist
Believer in Excellence with a capital E
He held Excellence to be foundational
To every successful human endeavor
Without it he would assert
Civilizations falter and fade into oblivion.
Charlie, you were Excellent.
Our memories of you will never fade.
We miss you.
Our classmate Charlie Hickock died in March after a very long and well played chess match against thyroid cancer.
I’m sad to report the death of our classmate Charlie Hickock on March 16, reported to me by his Branford roommate Jerry LaSala. His obituary can be found at: https://obits.pennlive.com/us/obituaries/pennlive/name/charles-hickok-obituary?id=58127121 . Because the next class notes will be short and reunion-focused, I may not be able to include the warm memories contributed by Jerry. I will ask him if it’s okay to post them here.
I was saddened to read this weekend that Tony Dolan died on March 11. I didn’t know him well, but we had somewhat similar trajectories – journalism, speechwriting – and he certainly outshone me in both areas – winning a Pulitzer for exposing corruption in Stamford, CT, and coining some of Reagan’s most memorable and impactful lines. We crossed paths in 1987 when he was at the end of his time with Reagan and I was starting out with Bush. He was affable but didn’t give me a tutorial on my new responsibilities, and I was too vain to request one. But as much as we disagreed about the hawkish tone of his speeches, I admired his craft, and I was hoping to find him and get him back to our reunion in May. Thanks to Putin, that hawkish tone has aged well.
Here’s the obit from The Washington Post:
https://www.washingtonpost.com/obituaries/2025/03/20/anthony-dolan-reagan-speechwriter-dead/
And from The New York Times:
https://www.nytimes.com/2025/03/18/us/politics/anthony-dolan-dead.html
Just a note that several of our classmates who passed since our 2020 reunion are pictured on the home page of this reunion website. Tom Weil appears heading the “If not now … when” section. Tinker Sawyer (long a member of the Plastic Visitation) appears in the picture-in-picture heading for the “Socializing versus seminars?” section. And Mark Pines appears in the old “Zoom Songs and Stories”.
SEP 2, 2024
R.I.P. Thomas E. Weil, 1948-2024
https://heartheboatsing.com/2024/09/02/r-i-p-thomas-e-weil-1948-2024/