The Wheatley School Alumni Association Newsletter # 169

Three in Two Days? Whatever Happened to Once a Month?

Welcome to The Wheatley School Alumni Association Newsletter # 169.

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In its first 24 hours of existence, Newsletter # 167 was viewed 3,153 times, was liked 11 times, and was commented on four times. In all, 4,730 email addresses received Newsletter # 167.

In its first 24 hours of existence, Newsletter # 168 was viewed 2,877 times and was liked 3 times. In all, 4,730 email addresses also received Newsletter # 168.

The Usual Words of Wisdom

Thanks to our fabulous Webmaster, Keith Aufhauser (Class of 1963), you can regale yourself with the first 168 Wheatley School Alumni Association Newsletters (and much other Wheatley data and arcana) at

The Wheatley School Alumni Association Website

Also thanks to Keith is our search engine, prominently displayed on our home page: type in a word or phrase and, wow!, you’ll find every place it exists in all previous Newsletters and other on-site material.

I edit all submissions, even material in quotes, for clarity and concision, without any indication thereof.  I cannot and do not vouch for the accuracy of what people tell me, as TWSAA does not have a fact-checking department.

We welcome any and all text and photos relevant to The Wheatley School, 11 Bacon Road, Old Westbury, NY 11568, and the people who administered, taught, worked, and/or studied there. Art Engoron, Class of 1967

John Fitzgerald Kennedy - November 22, 1963

Witnesses to history

Four teenagers drive all night to reach Washington, D.C., in time to see the late President Kennedy laid to rest.

• By Steve Lewis

Reprinted from the November 23, 2007, Christian Science Monitor

If memory serves me correctly, Mrs. Gaynor packed enough apple juice, roast beef and turkey sandwiches, pears and apples, Oreo cookies, and, of course, paper napkins to sustain the entire Wheatley School Basketball Team. But this was no bus trip to a game, and there were just four of us teenagers — Richard Gaynor, Jonathan Kotcher, Marshall Diamond, and myself (all 1964) — heading to Washington, D.C. to attend President Kennedy's funeral.

I seem to recall that Mr. Gaynor gathered us around the oval pine table in his family's dining room and gave us turn-by-turn directions to the nation's capital, although it was clear that the other dads – Mr. Kotcher, Mr. Diamond, and my father – would have loved to have unfolded their own Rand McNally Eastern United States road maps and showed us the way, inch by inch: the Long Island Expressway to the potholed Brooklyn-Queens Expressway to the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge all the way across Staten Island to the Goethals Bridge, and then the long New Jersey Turnpike.

Aside from an unscheduled stop at the Joyce Kilmer Rest Area (so that Jon, the most mechanical of this most unmechanical crew, could jury-rig the hanging muffler), we headed straight down I-95, rumbling through darkly industrial Baltimore at 3 a.m., and arriving in Washington an hour later.

The melancholy line of mourners under hazy streetlamps leading to the Capitol Rotunda was miles long. A kindly cop on horseback shook his head and said we'd never make it in time. Pointing behind him, he suggested that we drive to Arlington National Cemetery.

Somehow – to this day I don't know how – we found our way out there before dawn, shivering as we dropped down onto the dewy lawn, no more than 10 feet from the spot where groundskeepers would soon come to blow away the leaves and place a carpet of fake grass around the dark rectangular hole.

We were there before the Secret Service men in dark suits staked out their posts. Before the spit-and-polish soldier with ‘scrambled eggs’ on his hat politely kicked us out of the low branches of a tree. Before the crowds, mostly adults looking as though they were going to a fall picnic, elbowed their way in front of us.

From there, I remember almost everything that passed before my watery eyes that chilly morning. The caissons, Indian Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru, Ethiopian leader Haile Selassie, and French head of state Charles de Gaulle, with his hat high above the other heads in the cold crowd.

Yet, all these years later, one thing stands out above all else: I remain mystified that our typically overprotective suburban parents had actually allowed us to leave our safe homes at all that evening – at 11 p.m. no less – for such a long trip. Four coddled boys piling into my Ford Fairlane (nicknamed the Green Weenie), heading out for a rendezvous with history.

Certainly each of us must have tried the old dodge about how all the other mothers had already said “yes.…..even Mrs. Gaynor." But I can't imagine why it would have worked. It never had before.

Nevertheless, my mother – who was a cum laude graduate of the "I don't care if the president of the United States allows his children to...." school of parenting – must have been mightily impressed by something.

Or maybe she and the others just knew that this was something not to be missed, something their sons would never forget.

And I have not forgotten.

Even so, from this vantage point as the father of seven grown children, I have to admit that I wouldn't have allowed any of my teenagers to leave the house in the middle of the night and drive five hours for anyone's funeral, no matter how historic. ‘Go tomorrow morning, if you must,’ I would have said.

But, of course, for us on the evening of Nov. 24, 1963, that would have been too late. For some things – births, weddings, and state funerals – you just have to be there on time, or you'll miss everything.

Looking back, I'm almost certain that the four of us lacked the humility and the perspective to properly thank our parents for allowing us to be part of this indelible moment in history.

So, this Thanksgiving, in addition to expressing my gratitude for the grace I have found in my life, I also quietly thanked – although it's 44 years too late – Lillian and Samuel Lewis of Roslyn Heights, N.Y.; Betty and George Gaynor of Albertson, N.Y.; Zeke and Helen Kotcher of Old Westbury, N.Y.; and, wherever they are, Saul and Bea Diamond of Roslyn Heights, for their uncharacteristic indulgence and for their remarkable courage and foresight. Thanks for the memories.”

Larry Rosenthal (1965) Writes - “Here’s how I remember that day. The speaker at the assembly was a retired judge who looked every bit the part… tall, fit, distinguished. I also found him more than a little pompous. At the time, we all knew the President had been shot but had no idea how seriously he had been wounded, The speaker began by sternly admonishing us to follow the old military dictum: You just do your job, and everything will turn out okay. He then turned to his subject for the day, starting ‘You hear a lot of talk these days about hawks and doves, but I want to talk to you about another bird: the American Eagle.’ He launched into a speech about the necessity of the nascent Vietnam War, saying at one point ‘If you pay attention, you will hear that we will be “expanding our defensive perimeters,” which is a way of saying we will be sending a great deal more troops. The number I hear is 100,000.” By April 1969, the United States had 543,000 soldiers in Vietnam.

I, too, remember Doctor Wells's sober announcement. But the scene I recall most vividly occurred shortly earlier. I had turned around in response to the sound of faculty members entering the back of the auditorium, and I saw gym teacher Bill Lawson run his forefinger across his throat, signaling to the speaker that Kennedy was dead…the most chilling moment of a sad, sad day.”

The Sports Section

Paula Panzeca Foresto (1969) Writes - “I’d like to comment on Newsletter # 167 after viewing the videos of Wheatley Football Games in the fall of 1966.  Although a bit fuzzy and difficult to make out, I watched them over and over again hoping for a glimpse of Wheatley Wildcat # 19, my husband, Dominick Foresto, (the same guy that scored the notorious lone touchdown of the fall 1965 football season!) Low and behold, there he was in the video, down on one knee on the sideline. I’m sure I was at that game cheering Dom and the team on. Watching the familiar faces of the Wheatley Cheerleaders brought back so many wonderful memories.”

'Hood Restaurant History

Steve Rushmore (1963) Writes - “Some additional memorable restaurants:

Roslyn Café - Roslyn Road- ate there once a week - amazing garlic sticks.

Roma’s Café - Willis Ave - had the best pizza in the world.

I played Little League for Rudy’s Delicatessen, and when we won, we got ice pops. However, I always envied the Hildebrandt’s team, because when they won, they got ice cream sodas.

The Snow White Bakery, near Andel’s, had amazing French Crullers.

A little further away - Lauraine Murphy in Manhasset - great popovers - My grandparents ate there once a week.

Patricia Murphy's Candlelight Restaurant - known for its honey buns.

Milleridge Inn - Hicksville - was originally my grandmother’s home - the Seaman family.

The two Murphy Restaurants and the Milleridge Inn were owned by the Murphy family - their son was Robert Murphy, Wheatley ’63.

The Swan Club - for special occasions.

Jahn’s Ice Cream Parlor - the place to go for birthday parties and order the Kitchen Sink - a huge silver bowl of about 100 scoops of every flavor ice cream and all the toppings.

Jolly Fisherman - Roslyn Village.

Manero's Restaurant Steakhouse - Roslyn - the best steakhouse, gorgonzola salad and garlic toast.

Village Bath House - Sunday brunch.

Jade King- Roslyn Heights - great Chinese takeout - shrimp and lobster sauce.

Peter Luger Steak House - Great Neck

Graduates

1963 + 1964 - Peter Wilner and Ted Rothstein - Magicians

Writes Louise Kurshan (1968) - “Hi Arthur, The previous Newsletter mentioned The Wilner-Rothstein Magic Duo, so I dug up these photos taken by my father, Norman Kurshan. The setting was my birthday party around 1962, and my cousin Peter Wilner (1963) and his friend Ted Rothstein (1964) entertained the kids with their magic show.

L-R - Ted Rothstein (1964), Peter Wilner (1963)

L-R - Peter Wilner (1963), Ted Rothstein (1964)

1964 + 1967 + 1970 + 1973 - The Engoron Boys, Approximately 2003 - Upstate NY

L-R - Gerry (1973), Danny (1973), Frank (1970), Art (1967) and Malcolm (1964) Engoron

1965 - Roger Morris Asks - “Was Jerry Mintz my Elmer? Well, yes and no.” 

“There is a long-standing tradition in Ham Radio that the person who not only introduces you to this life-long hobby but also shepherds you through the purchase of equipment and future licensing, Novice, Technician, and General Class exams, which grant an increasingly wider range of frequencies and privileges on the Amateur Radio spectrum, is called your ‘Elmer,’ and Jerry Mintz (1961) was mine in and around 1960, even though the sobriquet did not appear until 1971, which is why that likely never crossed his mind.

As the 1960s began, radio and television already fascinated me. When I was five, my dad brought home a crystal radio kit, and not much later a two-tube radio that could be assembled in a cardboard box. He had a gentle though powerful way of catapulting me out of the mess of my polio years, elementary school, not unlike Roddy Nierenberg (1965), who had the first color TV I had ever seen, leading to a few years of watching The Three Stooges after school in his parent's bedroom, taking apart older electronics in the guise of inventing something new, like an electric heater, always in the planning stage and never actually accomplished, but riveting at the time. 

And Seymour Spielberger, father of Alane (1967), Marilyn (1969) and Suzie (1972), who, living across a hedge marking the boundary of two adjoining backyards, became longtime casual friends of my family, Seymour showing me how to put together a photoelectric switch in a cigar box.

Later, with ham radio equipment installed lacking only an antenna, using a music stand instead, but now securing a four element beam along with a forty-foot tower, Seymour spots me and a few friends struggling but not succeeding to shove it upright on a hinge, jogs over to lend a grownup shove, saving us from the impossible situation of straining to hold the steel monster halfway up, moving it forward a few inches, and then losing precious ground as it became heavier and heavier. 

When finally erected, it had sustained a slight but visible bow that we sought to steady with guy wires. I climbed that tower many times, tweaking the beam antenna and rotor on the top, gently swaying back and forth, unaware of the danger of falling that never materialized but disappeared the day I came home from college and discovered it all gone, my dad having sold it all to the Police Athletic League to purchase a stereo, and one day was told a large number of policemen came and extracted the antenna and existing ham radio station in what I came to realize was a brilliant solution to an impending catastrophe. 

I remember Mark Bagdon's (1965) father patiently sitting with Mark and I, teaching us Ohm's Law, the very linchpin of early radio, always on license exams and curiously figuring now into my dotage running a Deep Brain Stimulation support group for patients and families undergoing the surgical procedure for movement disorders like Parkinson's Disease. Along with the compelling difference in the meandering of electricity through a living organism from its lawful journey through an electrical circuit. 

 It did not escape me that in my latter years, I've been walking around with two ‘radio stations’ implanted in my head that I fondly refer to as WDBS on the east side and KDBS on the west, which by some miracle, each subdues a bilateral tremor. 

There has always been a graciousness about the Ham Radio operators in our community and elsewhere as I was growing up. Walking around, I could see the occasional strange looking antennas on the roofs of a few of the houses, aware that I could knock on a door of an unacquainted family, identify my call letters, and be welcomed for a tour of the resident ham's radio shack, and treated to the occasional story of a warm humid evening when ball lightning came through their front door, took a brief look around, and exited through the back door, never giving much thought to whether this was true or made up.

A handful of high school friends shared this ‘obsession.’ David Golub (1965) regularly chatted with Jean Shepherd after his 11 pm radio show on WOR, where he'd tell hilarious stories about his Uncle Carl floating down the Fox River in an inner tube on Prohibition Era needled beer, and like the time his house in New Jersey was struck by lightning, splitting the roof in half amid cries from his parents, "Jeanie, what did you do with your radio??" 

Alan Shapiro (1965) put together a Johnson Viking Valiant Transmitter from a kit, a considerable and risky project for all the soldering necessary and heartache should only one of them fail. Think yanking a wire out of the back of a television set and the odds against improving the picture or sound. 

And one day my dad drove Lanny Schiller (1965) and I to NYC to pass our general class ham radio license exams, the theory giving me no trouble but the dreaded and expected failure of shaky hands tapping out Morse Code on an ancient telegraph key anchored to an examination desk at the FCC building, which for me was a tremulous rite of passage monitored by none other than Charlie Finkleman, legendary Senior FCC License Examiner, after a bunch of years somehow completed and saving me from a familiar embarrassment. 

 In college I joined WHRW as a newscaster, later to become the general manager for a spell during the Civil Rights, Vietnam War years, where after the tragic shooting at Kent State University, we set up a ham radio link to pass along to other schools across the country first-hand knowledge of the aftermath. 

 So through all of these years of intending to thank Jerry for being an Elmer and setting me on the path of a long lived hobby, I get to give him a shout out across decades from the current license holder WA2MDZ. Not my only interest, but it occurs to me to want to let Jerry know a significant part of my life plays forward the solid he did me 64 years ago.”

1966 - Amy Gruskin Gerstein - Firefighters Park - Great Neck - July 29, 2024

L-R - Oh, you know.

L-R - Richard Gerstein (Bayside High School), Amy Gruskin Gerstein, Art

Art wearing his honorary “Mayor of Wheatley” sweatshirt

1969 - Paula Panzeca Foresto - “I’d like to express my condolences to the families of my 1969 classmates Richard Frankfort and Chris Srinivasan.  May they R.I.P. ❤️❤️”

1972 - Jo Ann Bregman Miles Writes to Michael Silverstein (1969):

Re: Ethel Gunderson - Willets Road Grade 2

Our desks were moved to create a large space, off came our socks, and Mrs. G. would put on the music of ‘the great composers,’ as she liked to call them. To Tchaikovsky, Mozart and Prokofiev, we twirled, leaped, skipped, hopped, glided, and soared; an exhilarating sense of freedom!

Our arts education included learning about great artists and identifying their works: Cezanne's Still Life with Apples, Monet's Water Lilies, and Van Gogh's Starry Night, to name a few.

How fantastic and inspiring are those educators who make an indelible impression on us and make lasting memories?

Thank you Mrs. Gunderson!

Jo Ann Bregman Miles (1972)

Former Ballet and Modern dancer, choreographer, teacher

Alpha Omega Studio, Manhattan, NY

Jan Martin Dance, Woodbury, Greenlawn and Huntington, NY

Long Island Academy of Dance, Miller Place, NY

Long Island University, CW Post Campus, Brookville, NY - Poetry and Dance

Port Washington Schools, Port Washington, NY - Artist in Residence - Dance and Literature, Schreiber High School,

Director, Port Washington Folkloric Dance Troupe, Port Washington Teacher Center - Using Dance in the Mainstream Classroom, Using Movement to teach Second Language Learners

1972 - Linda Kaufman Schroeder - Piano Lessons with Ouida Mintz

Linda Writes to Jerry Mintz (1961) - “Over the years I have read ‘My Friend Lenny’ (‘Lenny’ as in ‘Bernstein’), written by your mom, Ouida Mintz, mother also of William (1964) and Lisa (1968) Mintz, many times. Seeing my name mentioned in the book as one (of many) of Ouida’s favorite students was nice. I vividly remember many years of coming to your home to take piano lessons and the annual piano recitals (I still get a bit anxious today remembering the nerves I had at those concerts!). Another memory I have is the premature death of your brother William in a boating accident.…..so very sorry about that loss.

Ouida had shared some of the songs that she and Paul Simon worked on (“Momma, Dear, I Got Married,” for example). Reading your Wheatley passage was great.”

Fan Mail

Faculty (Georgette Macrina) - “Great work as always! Do you think there would be any interest in adding faculty to the email directory?” [[[Sure! - Art]]]

1962 (Karen Strumpfler Tucker) - ❤️

1963 (Marcia Friedman Mayer) - ❤️

1963 (Donna Kenton) - “Thank you again, Art.  What a gift you give us all.”

1963 (Steve Rushmore) - “I love the Newsletters.”

1966 (Amy Gruskin Gerstein) - “I enjoyed ## 167 and 168.”

1966 (Claude Levy) - “Not only did I love the photograph of you and your interns and thought it cool that one of them was a Wheatleyite, I couldn’t help noticing the display of wine bottles in the background. Frenchmen will remain Frenchmen…❤️”

1968 (Lois Hegyi Goldstein - “I love reading all the comments from the Wheatley community . Makes me feel young again. I want to say ‘Hi’ to all my former classmates from the Class of 1968!”

1968 (Louise Kurshan) - “Thanks for doing this wonderful newsletter.”

1969 (Paula Panzeca Foresto) - “Thanks again, Art.”

1971 (Carolyn “Cakky” Braun-Evans) - Art, Keith & to all who contributed, Thanks and praise for another stellar Newsletter! While I didn’t know a soul (except Ouida Mintz) mentioned, the trip down Memory Lane (from 7 Dwarfs Bakery, Mr. Ellman’s swift room departure lesson, Dead Heads, etc., and those heartfelt dearly departed sentiments) created a more than memorable newsletter. Special kudos to the Kool Kids pedaling 100 miles for www.helpamericahear.org/bike-100 and providing all of us the opportunity to do our part to make a difference! Class of & Nearly 71, and Always Having Great & Meaningful Philly Phun”

1971 (Merrie Sesskin) - “Art, I always enjoy these Newsletters. They are getting better each time.” ❤️❤️

Closing

That’s it for The Wheatley School Alumni Association Newsletter # 169.  Please send me your autobiography before someone else sends me your obituary.

Art

Arthur Fredericks Engoron, Class of 1967

WHEATLEYALUMNI@AOL.COM

ARTENGORON@GMAIL.COM

WWW.WHEATLEYALUMNI.ORG

646-872-4833