Madison West, Class of 1954

West High School, Madison, WI, 1954

Class Gift
Forever Eighteen67 Year Reunion
65 Year Reunion
60 Year Reunion
55 Year Reunion
50 Year Reunion
Class Night
Classmate Contacts
Deceased Classmates
Deceased Teachers
High Times, Apr. 1, 1954
High Times, Dec. 17, 1953
High Times, June 10, 1954
High Time, May 6, 1954
High Times, Nov. 19, 1953
High Times, Oct. 15, 1953
High Times, Oct. 29, 1953
High Times Staff
Old Photos
Class News, 2005-06
Class News, 2007
Class News 2008
Class News 2009
Class News, 2010
Class News, 2011
Class News, 2012
Class News, 2013
Class News, 2014
Class News, 2015
Class News, 2016
Class News, 2017, 18
The Committee


Bruce Trenk, January, 2007

Bruce Trenk lives in Pagosa Springs, CO, and enjoys skiing at the local ski area.  He writes: Yes I still ski, but around here, (Wolf Creek Ski Area), 70 is not considered very old for skiing.  Some I ski with are in their 80s and one good skier is 92.  Included a pic of Nettie (Nettie Evans, class of ’56) cross country skiing, also one after dinner with some friends.

Here are some pictures:


Guess you can pick out Bruce. Looks like the guy we knew in '54.


Wolf Creek Ski Area.


How's that for form?  Looks like you have at least ten more years of skiing.


The cross country skier.  She takes after her dad, Orville Evans, our cross country running coach.

Joe Irwin and Mary Lee have a condo at Breckenridge, CO, and enjoy skiing there in the winter, and Joe does fly fishing in the summer.

Joe writes, January 2007:

We have a new address for the next 2 to 3 years in Pittsburgh: 83 Ruthfred Drive, Pittsburgh. PA. 15241. It's an attempt at downsizing though we still plan to make Pittsburgh our permanent home.

Mary Lee is also still skiing and in moguls on single black diamond slopes after two total knee replacements five years ago.

I was hoping to get a shot of M.L. and yours truly at the top of the highest lift in North America.There is a sign stating you are at 12,840 feet but Friday this snowsnake caused me to crash and I won't be going so high any time soon. A broken rib is no fun but I can think of a lot worse injuries. After 36 years of skiing I'm very lucky to have this as my first and hopefully only major injury.

Wonder what a snowsnake is?  Joe writes the following on Feb.  8:

I skied today and had a great time. Two weeks off is more than enough time.

SNOWSNAKE: A white snake that can grow very large, is non-poisonous, but is a menace to skiers and winter outdoor types alike. The snake delights in wrapping itself around the leg or ankle of an unsuspecting skier and causing a fall or crash, occasionally resulting in injury. Since the snake is well hidden and very white, avoidance is difficult. I doubt that any skiers have become good skiers without experiencing many many snowsnakes. Since the snakes are very difficult to detect, many excellent skiers do not realize when they have been attacked. Snowsnakes have a rigorous pecking order. Each fall or crash is graded and points awarded based on how spectacular the crash and the injuries. Most snakes goal in life is to collect enough points to receive the HEAD SNAKE award.

Still wondering what a snowsnake is?  From Google: The term "snow snake" has been used to refer to a stick or log covered with snow. From a distance these can look a little like a snake - especially if one has had a warming dram or two!

Here are some ski pictures:


Joe, taken just over the top of the peak to the left in the base 8 picture.   (below)


Joe in red, Mary Lee in yellow, daughter Molly and boyfriend Josh


Base of Peak 8 Elevation: 9,950' / 3,034 m


Ruth Rapoport Stotter, Feb. 11, 2007

I was driving in northern California, and stopped to see Ruth and husband Larry.  She’s had an interesting career as a story teller, and is still active as a reviewer of new story books for children.  See the earlier post for a description of her story telling career.  I’ve used “Smiles” and “The Golden Axe” with my grandson, and they were great.

Larry and Ruth met while students at Ohio State University.  They were married in Ruth’s junior year and Larry’s senior year of law school.  Larry had visited San Francisco as a merchant marine sailor, and announced early on that he intended to live in the Bay City.  So, right after graduation, they packed a U-Haul trailer and moved to San Francisco.  Eventually they bought a house in Tiburon, across the bay from San Francisco.  For many years, Larry was able to walk to the Tiburon waterfront, take a commuter boat to San Francisco, and walk to his law office.  How’s that for conserving energy?  Now, they are doing some international traveling, having recently been to Eastern Europe for six weeks.

They are also serious croquet players, and played recently in a competitive tournament in Palm Springs.  Ruth compares backyard croquet to competitive croquet as checkers compares to chess.  Now that’s serious croquet!  Congratulations to Larry, who won his division!

Here are some pictures:


Ruth and Larry at the tournament.  Note the fancy mallets.


Our candidate for the West High Croquet team of 2007.


Ruth and Larry on their deck.


Harrington, Jacqueline Ann

STOUGHTON/JANESVILLE - Jacqueline Ann (nee Burch) Harrington died on Thursday, March 1, 2007. Jacqueline was born on July 22, 1936, in Jacksonville, Illinois to Charles and Ernestine (nee Schoedsack) Burch. Jacqueline's family moved to the Madison area in the late 1940s growing up with her siblings Charles and Leona and attending Madison West High School. Jacqueline married Donald Harrington on Dec. 8, 1956, and raised three children, Todd, Lori and Elizabeth. Jacqueline and Don just celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary in 2006. In Jacqueline's early adult life she studied law, then real estate and became a commercial real estate broker. Jacqueline was a legislative aid for the Wisconsin State Assembly and later for the Wisconsin State Senate. Jacqueline later retired from the State and returned to real estate as an assessor. Jacqueline found great joy in her dogs, spent time flower gardening, was an excellent cook and enjoyed traveling, especially to her ancestral Bavaria and inter-state motor home travel. Her true love and talent was in her art, a student of Rosemaling by Vi Thode and as her talent bloomed, she turned to Bavarian folk painting. Working closely with her husband Don's hand-made furniture, her detailed painting was so beautifully done they have become family heirlooms. Jacqueline's annual Stone Haus Christmas Art Show was not to be missed. All of Jacqueline's interests focused on her family, she loved her grandchildren to the very depth of her soul; Lindsey, Jamie, Nicholas, Cory, Alyssa, Danielle, Samantha, Andrew and Ryan. Jacqueline has one great-grandchild, Alex who she cared for several days a week and told her grandchildren that if she could live long enough she would lovingly take care of her great-great-grandchildren. Jacqueline and Don were long time members of St. Ann's Catholic Church of Stoughton and prior to her dear friend Sister Mary Ann Schroedl's retirement, Jacquie assisted her in serving shut-in communion. Surviving Jacqueline is her husband, Donald; two children, one son, Todd Harrington of Janesville and one daughter, Elizabeth (Randy) Wagner of Janesville; her brother, Charles II (Leslie) Burch of Brooklyn; and her sister, Leona (Paul) Lysne of Bailey's Harbor. Jacqueline was preceded in death by her parents; and one daughter, Lori Hillebrandt in 2004. A Mass of Christian Burial will be conducted on Tuesday, March 6, 2007, at 11 a.m. at ST. ANN'S CATHOLIC CHURCH, 323 N. Van Buren, Stoughton with the Monsignor Gerald Healy officiating. A luncheon will be served immediately after Mass with burial to follow in Graves Cemetery in the town of Rutland. Visitation will be on Monday, March 5, 2007, from 5 p.m. until 7 p.m. at the OLSON-HOLZHUTER-CRESS FUNERAL HOME, 206 W. Prospect Ave., Stoughton and from 10 a.m. until the time of Mass at the church on Tuesday.

Olson-Holzhuter-Cress Funeral and Cremation Service 206 W. Prospect Ave. Stoughton (608) 873-9244

Barbara Fromm Kuk died of breast cancer, March 8, 2007 in Elmhurst, IL. Source: her daughter Jessica Kuk to Sue Filek Henderson. I was unable to find an obituary.

From the Wisconsin State Journal, March 13, 2007:

Kennedy, Charles D. > MADISON - Charles D. "Chuck" Kennedy, age 71 of Madison, passed away on Saturday, March 10, 2007, at St. Mary's Hospital. Memorial services are pending. A full obituary will appear at a later date.  Source: Dick Fowler and Social Security Death Index..

I looked for a couple of weeks after Mar. 13, and there was no full obituary.

Jack Allen

Jack (Tracy) Allen doesn’t show much interest in us, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t interested in him.  I usually get permission from someone to put information on the site, but he chose to ignore my e-mails for the 50th reunion, so I’m putting this on anyway.  I found it on the web, so I just pasted it into our web site.  It's public information.  Put 50 years onto the guy we knew in 1954, and this is what you get.  Enjoy.


Jim Demick and Tracy Allen present the 2004 Player-of-the-Year award to Rick Woulfe.


Tracy Allen presents Charlie Bedford with the LifetimeAchievement Award.


Tracy Allen presents Charlie Bedford with the LifetimeAchievement Award.

ALLEN ELECTED AS FSGA PRESIDENT. Tracy Allen will lead the FSGA beginning January 1, 2004 through 2005. Allen, 67, of Winter Park, was elected President at the FSGA’s Annual Meeting. He succeeds Mallory Privett, of Palm Beach Gardens, who served as President in 2002 and 2003. Allen will lead the volunteer Executive Committee in directing the Association’s professional staff and more than 350 volunteers who serve throughout the state. Allen has served on the Executive Committee since 1998, two years as a Director at Large, two years as Secretary-Treasurer and two years as Vice President. He has been a member of the Board of Directors since 1996. Allen has been a tournament volunteer for USGA and FSGA events and also plays in many of the FSGA events. At Interlachen CC, he served on the Board of Directors as the golf committee chairman and was once the Vice President of the club. Allen also is one of the 50 founders of Interlachen. As a member of the Southern Golf Association for many years, he was a Chairman of the Southern Amateur Golf Tournament at The Bay Hill Club. Professionally, Allen was a Senior Vice President for Paine Webber before retiring in 1991. He also was a co-owner of the arena football team, the Orlando Predators for four years. He has been a resident of Winter Park for forty years. Others elected to the Executive Committee include: Bonita Springs Mike Timbers as Vice President; Jacksonville’s Tom Dudley as Secretary-Treasurer; and Lady Lake’s Tom Keedy as Director-at-Large. Vero Beach’s Matt Avril and Sarasota’s Bill Western were also elected as Directors-at-Large.

Gilpin, David Lee
- MCFARLAND - David Lee Gilpin, age 70, passed away on Tuesday, April 3, 2007, at the Don and Marilyn Anderson Hospice Care Center, after a brief battle with cancer. He was born on July 28, 1936, in Indiana, the son of Charles and Evelyn (White) Gilpin. David graduated from Madison West High School. He served his country in the U.S. Air Force. David worked as a phone technician for 36 years at SBC, retiring in 1996. He enjoyed hunting, fishing, golfing and taking road trips. David especially enjoyed his weekly golf outings. Above all, he loved spending time with his family and friends. David is survived by his three children, Philip (Beth), Ann (Gretchen) and Deborah (Patrick); five grandchildren, Shannon (Todd) Westbury, Bryenne (Adam) Alesch, Lynn (Dan) Parks, Olivia and Andre Demers; three great-grandchildren, Ty Michael, Kiera Lee and Tanner Westbury; two brothers, Donald and C. Barclay Gilpin; very special friend, Rosalyn; and his best buddies, Terry, Joe and G.P. He was preceded in death by his parents. Funeral services will be held at GUNDERSON EAST FUNERAL HOME, 5203 Monona Drive, at 10 a.m., on Saturday, April 7, 2007, with the Rev. Terry Peterson presiding. Burial will be at Highland Memory Gardens. Visitation will be at the funeral home from 5 p.m. until 7 p.m., on Friday, April 6, 2007. In lieu of flowers, memorials may be made to Hospice Care Inc. Gunderson East Funeral and Cremation Centers 5203 Monona Drive (608) 221-5420.

June, 2007:

Sylvia Hasler Thatcher and husband Gil celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary in August, 2006 with a week at Trout Lake, near Boulder Junction, Wisconsin.  Trout Lake is a special place for Sylvia since her dad, Dr. Arthur Hasler, played the key role in setting up the Trout Lake Experiment Station.  If you want to read more about him, go to  Sylvia spent summer vacations at Trout Lake as a young girl, and she and Gil spent their honeymoon there 50 years ago.

They had quite a celebration, with all six children and spouses plus seventeen grandchildren.  How’s that for a group? 


That's the girl we remember from 1954


Can you spot Sylvia and Gil in the center?


The Limnology Laboratory on Lake Mendota


Dick Hodel died July 7, 2007, source: Dick Fowler and Social Security Death Index.  Here's  his obituary from

Hodel, Richard "Digger" ADAMS/ MADISON - Richard "Digger" Hodel, age 71, of Adams, formerly of Madison, died Sunday, July 15, 2007, at Meriter Park Hospital in Madison. Richard was born Jan. 5, 1936, in Madison to Ernest and Anna Hodel. He married Priscilla "Pat" Elliott on Sept. 14, 1965, in Freeport, Ill. Survivors include wife, Priscilla Hodel of Adams; daughter, Elizabeth (Kevin) Allen of Adams; son, Robert (Victoria) Hodel of Adams; sister, Ernestine (David) Beyer of Germantown; and many nieces and nephews. Predeceased by parents, Ernest and Anna Hodel; and sister, Mary Schleuter. Visitation will be on Thursday, July 19, 2007, at the ROSEBERRY'S FUNERAL HOME in Friendship from 4 p.m. - 7p.m. Roseberry's Funeral Home is assisting the family. Visit for online condolences and further information.

Thanks to Dick Fowler for passing this information on to us.


Here's an interesting book (I recommend it, purchased on Amazon for $3.00) with a Madison connection: "Coach", edited by Andrew Blauner.  It's a collection of 25 stories written by professional writers who were inspired by their coaches. Many of them were not particularly good athletes, but they were inspired by the teaching experience with the coach.  Some of the coaches were not coaches in the usual sense of the word, but were gym teachers, camp counselors etc.  The one about Madison was written by David Maraniss, who is now a Pulitzer Prize winner and an associate editor of the Washington Post, but who grew up in Madison.  Below the image are some excerpts from his story:

For those of us who played ball in the Madison recreational league, this should bring back memories.  I played on a team sponsored Midwestern Fertilizer Company, and managed by Eddie Aebischer, our flashy shortstop.  Others on that team that I remember, were pitchers Dave Lewis and Don Aitkin, Dick Woodring, Toby Hammill, Dick Hartwig, Dave Johnson, Dick Amelong and many others.  If any of you former team members read this, drop me a line I'll mention you too.  Your chance to be recognized for your baseball prowess in yesteryear!



When my dad moved our family to Madison in the summer of 1957, the sweet‑sweat aroma of baseball scented my life. The Milwaukee Braves of Aaron, Adcock, Bruton, Burdette, Crandall, Covington, Logan, Matthews, and Spahn were resplendent, on their way to winning the National League pennant and conquering the evil Yankee empire in the World Series. In my mind's eye, those pros pose forever in freeze‑frame positions: hammering, toting lumber, bunting, squatting, scooping, high­kicking, flinging, all framed in dark green; not the verdant field of County Stadium, but the painted background green that signified you got a beloved Brave during that first heart‑thumping thumb through a pack of baseball cards. 

I was eight years old that summer, a bony, bucktoothed, asthmatic shortstop whose black high‑top gym shoes were perpetually untied. It was my inaugural season, the first of many, in what was the Madison recreation department's equivalent of organized baseball. It was organized only to the degree that our teams had names, our games had an umpire, our leagues had standings, and we wore uniforms‑two‑toned pullover jerseys with zippered fronts and the lettering of a local sponsor on the back: K & N Water Softener, Bowman's All‑Star Dairy, Kippert Construction, Pertzborn Plumbing, Southside Optimists, Karstens, the Hub, Octopus Car Wash, Iowa National, Coca­Cola, Padgham Paint, Findorff Construction, Klein‑Dickert, Frautschi's, H & R Variety (inevitably, we called it Hock and Run). Sometimes a boy had a father who worked at the sponsoring business, but more often there was absolutely no connection, and we never heard from them, win or lose.

In our childhood idyll, there were two home fields, one at Vilas Park, the other at Wingra Park. From our homes in the old University Heights neighborhood near Camp Randall Stadium, we rode to the games like a posse on our bikes, one speed, fat tires, gloves flapping on the handlebars. I can't remember a sin­gle time that I or any of my teammates got a ride to a game from our parents. This was before the era of minivans and SUVs, but it was also before the era of soccer moms and dads. (Soccer! We never played soccer, barely even beard of it. On the cement playground of Randall School, we did play soccer kickball, which seems to be making a coed young‑adult comeback now, four decades after its heyday, and which is really more like baseball, only played with a large boingy rubber ball that you kick instead of a hardball that you bat.)

Parents, in any case, were not part of our summer world. I have a shadowy recollection of an early evening game in the season after seventh grade when our third baseman, Mike O'Meara, raised his glove to cover his mouth, the way big leaguers do when they are telling each other what the next pitch is going to be, and calling out to me at shortstop, "Hey, Dave, is that your dad standing over there behind that tree?"

That scene just about said it all. A parent sighting was so out­landish that it would be called out, and so out of the ordinary that it required a hiding place. I was very close to my dad, and one of the enduring threads of our relationship was baseball. I could listen forever to his story about the time he took my older brother and sister to Briggs Stadium in Detroit and they sat out in the centerfield bleachers, and the Tigers were beating the Red Sox by three runs with the bases loaded and Ted Williams at the plate, and my dad was yelling, "Walk him! Walk himl" and the words were barely out his mouth when the ball rock­eted off that distant bat in a monstrous mortar arc and clanged off the seats a few rows away. I also loved nothing more than spending a few hours with my dad on a summer's night listening to a Braves game on the transistor radio. Dad would be down to his boxer shorts and T‑shirt, managing the game from our side porch. Yet all of that was apart from my own young sporting life, which I never wanted him to watch, never expected him to watch. 

There was an official Little League on the far west side of town, a distant universe, with its modern split‑level homes and newly planted greenery in clean boulevard strips. Once, in the summer after sixth grade, a few of us went out to watch a game, and we viewed it with equal parts envy and horror. They had full cloth uniforms, not our synthetic pullover jerseys, and bright white bases, and dugouts, and outfield fences—wow!. But they also had adult coaches ordering the boys around and a group of loudmouthed parents in the stands, including one particularly obnoxious mother who was merciless with the umpires. We saw an adult‑run system out there that seemed important and alluring, yet also frightening and repellent. The ambiva­lence I took away from that experience was one that would stay with me for many years.

In the city league, we held our own tryouts and practices, we decided on our own batteries and lineups. Our boys' subculture was certainly haphazard, and not entirely democratic. There were no votes to determine the player‑coaches. When we ap­proached adolescence and the brave new world of sex, there was a period when there seemed to be a direct correlation between puberty and influence. But with us it wasn't really a macho thing. It was just that the early developers tended to have deeper voices and more adolescent confidence. At that age, it even had to do with birth dates. I was born in August, and the kids born in February and May seemed so much more worldly.

One might assume that a team run by and for kids would be lax in fundamentals, but that is not how I remember it. Our teams enjoyed taking infield as much as playing the games themselves. Taking infield, to us, was an art form, and we prac­ticed it hour upon hour, day after day. A residual thrill still runs through my body when I think about a perfectly executed in­field practice play: a sharp grounder is hit to me at short, I pick it cleanly and rifle a throw to first, then bound over to the sec­ond base bag as the first baseman, Dave Foster, heaves one home to the catcher, Steve Marvin, who turns and flings it back to me, my glove slapping the bag as I take his perfect peg. We couldn't hit that well, especially when we faced Iowa National and Dave Jevne's overhand curveball, but no one could beat us at infield practice.

In retrospect, I think here is a place where an adult coach could have made a difference. We couldn't hit that well becau­se had no one to teach us technique. At the big league level pure hitters are born, not made, but in the earlier years that isn'­t so much the case. I've seen entire teams of teenage players who've learned essentially the same method, using their legs to time and control the swing, and at that level, against most pitch­ing, the rote hitting technique learned through repetition can be amazingly effective. We were completely on our own, each of us with our own peculiar stance and swing, which tended to grow more exaggerated year by year. I had a habit of opening up too soon and pulling everything foul. It was just my signature hit, a hard grounder left of third, and no one ever helped me get over it.

Great coaches, of course, do more than teach technique; they impart on their young charges invaluable lessons of life. Or so it is said. I can speak to that only indirectly because I never had a great athletic coach.

Our baseball coach at Madison West High, Russ Paugh, the father of one of my close friends, Jim Paugh, had been a great player himself in his day, but that was long before he reached us. He was a grandfather by then, in the final years of his career. His southern Indiana drawl sounded alien in Madison, and his outdated vocabulary overflowed with cliches that seem endearing now, when I look back on it, but at the time served only as material for behind‑the‑back mocking, supercilious wise guys that we could be. "Jeeeem," he would say exasperatedly to his son, a pitcher and left fielder, who was no more adaptable to adult coaching than the rest of us, "show a little gumption, Jeeem!" As Coach Paugh led us through calisthenics every day, including jumping jacks, we could be sure to hear him urge us on with the words "No pain, no gain." He was just the wrong coach in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Our final semester in high school, and our last baseball season, came in the spring of 1967. The Summer of Love was approaching, the world was clanging and changing around us. Our natural inclination toward independence, now combined with our earliest tastes of the free‑spirited sixties counterculture, created a combustible mix. Perhaps no coach could have controlled us that season. We lived on the edge of the University of Wisconsin, and although much that was going on there was beyond our imaginations, we could not help but notice the more exotic public events. Along with various sit‑ins and protests against the war in Vietnam, there was also a "Be‑In" that spring, held out on Picnic Point, featuring the poet Allen Ginsberg and various campus hippies and activists, chanting, dancing, reciting poetry, smoking dope, and doing whatever else they felt like doing. There was a buzz on our yellow school bus the following Monday afternoon as we headed from West High out to Franklin Field for the next practice. As I recall it, Lee Higbie, a utility outfielder, who had already established his unconventional credentials by driving a beat‑up old red‑and‑white hearse, concocted the idea of staging our own varsity baseball "Be‑In." 

While Coach Paugh was on the mound, tossing batting practice the rest of the team sprinted out to center field and congregated around Higbie, who was leading us in a rendition of Martha and the Vandellas' "Dancing in the Streets"… Philadelphia, Pee‑A. Don't forget the Motor City ... On cue we fell onto our backs and started doing the bicycle, pumping our legs in the air, then jumped to our feet and began dancing and jumping jacks and pretending we were airplanes and shouting and laughing that we were part of a happening. At some point, the batter broke up and pointed out to the field.  Coach Paugh spun around and gazed toward center, a blank look coming out of his mouth, then turned back and resumed pitching. Soon enough we ran out of gas and went back to our positions.  Maybe he understood us after all. With all that, West had a pretty fair baseball team that year, led by Bobby Freed, my childhood chum, and Tom Seybold, a southpaw who was recruited to pitch at Florida, a college baseball powerhouse.  We won our division and lost in the tournament to Janesville Craig.


I’m sure a lot of members of our class have gardens, but Phil Henderson has a truly exceptional garden.  Phil says he enjoys being outside and enjoys the satisfaction of seeing the flowers grow and display their color.  He’d rather be playing golf, but from the score of his game, he says there’s more satisfaction in gardening.  (I think he’s just being modest here.)  The perennials of course require weeding and watering, but he really concentrates on annuals.  He has some 25 pots of annuals each year.  Watering is a challenge during a drought year such as this, and his and Sue’s travel schedules make it even more challenging.  Well, good work Phil, and we’ll enjoy the flowers from a distance through these pictures.

phil's_flowers_1 phil's_flowers_2
phil's_flowers_3 phil's_flwers_4

Mrs. Trewartha

I spent the last weekend in September in Madison and stayed with my aunt in Attic Angels Place, where Mrs. Trewartha lives.  She's 100 years old and very, very sharp.  She remembered the names of many of our classmates and their parents names and what the did for a living.  WOW!  How's that for 100 years old?  Here's a picture:


Carol Schumpert Sudduth, Dottie Jones King, October, 2007

Dottie Jones King and her husband Bob stopped at Carol Schumpert Sudduth’s camp in Denmark, ME on their way back to Menlo Park, CA.  Dottie says she had a lovely day with Carol, including a round of golf.  Remembering these two girls in High School, I imagine they are plenty good golfers.  Here are some pictures:


Nice looking lunch, and there's room for one more.  I suppose Bob got that one.


Classmates united for a day

Carol’s camp must be a beautiful place, and she should be mighty proud of it.  Here are some pictures from the web site:


The waterfront.


The dining hall.


A cabin.


A recreation hall, known as a "wiggie"

Here’s a description of the camp from Wikepedia.:

Wyonegonic Camps for Girls, the oldest girls' camp in the United States, is located in Denmark, Maine, noted for its non-competitive atmosphere.


Wyonegonic was founded by organized camping pioneer Charles E. Cobb in 1902. Cobb had previously started a camp in nearby Parsonsfield, Maine in 1892, but wanted to start a retreat in the Maine woods for young women. Starting from those first few summers of wool swim suits and bloomers, Cobb’s Wyonegonic expanded due to his entrepreneurial nature with land acquisitions that then supported a "Club Wyonegonic" on Moose Pond in Denmark, remote sites for older girls (the present day location of the camp), a hotel on the summit of Pleasant Mountain, an inn for parents in Denmark village, a working farm for dairy and vegetables, a tea room and a boys camp, Camp Winona

The camp ownership transferred to Cobb's son Roland Cobb in 1930 who at age 35 had spent each summer of his life at camp. The camp expanded into three separate camps for girls so that each age group could experience a small sized camp setting rolled into a larger overall administration system. Roland actively owned and directed the camp into the 1960s while also serving as the State Fish & Game Warden for decades.

In 1969, after five years of tutelage from the retiring Cobbs, George and Carol Sudduth purchased Wyonegonic. The Sudduth family has continued to run Wyonegonic since that time. George Sudduth passed away in August of 1991. George and Carol's son, Steve, returned to camp in 1993 on a part-time basis and then in 1995, started to work year round. Today, Wyonegonic is run by the co-Directorship of Carol and Steve Sudduth.


Wyonegonic offers 3½ and 7 week programs for girls between 8 and 18 years old. Its waterfront offers swimming, diving, canoeing, rowing, sailing, sail boarding, and water skiing. Other activities include horseback riding, tennis, archery, land sports, pottery, arts & crafts, theater, music and dance, wilderness camping on Moose Pond, single and multi-day hiking, backpacking, canoeing and sea kayaking. There are five daily instructional periods, and time for informal play.

Wyonegonic places emphasis on outdoor living skills and ecology in an out of camp trip program in which all campers participate. Leave No Trace principles are taught.


Wyonegonic's brother camp, Camp Winona was established in 1908, also by the Cobb family on Moose Pond in Bridgton, ME. Wyonegonic maintains a strong affiliation with Winona that has existed for over a century.

Great camp, Carol, and good luck with it in the future.

Alice Ragatz White went to Romania with Global Volunteers in August, 2007, to work in a children’s clinic there.  She writes:

Here are a few pictures taken in Romania where I was this past August working in a children’s clinic in Tutova.  Three of us from Oakville, Ontario flew to Bucharest and joined the other members of the Global Volunteer team, all of whom were from the U.S.  There were fifteen women, although men have been on previous teams.  We met our leader in Bucharest and from there traveled the four hour bus trip to Birlad, a town of about 80,000.  We stayed there in a simple hotel for the duration of our two week volunteer work.

 This children’s hospital is called “a failure to thrive” clinic.  The kids are admitted because of low birth weight.  They need several feedings during the day and most of their parents can not provide this, mainly due to their low income.  There are five permanent staff members.  Global Volunteers sends in people every two weeks to help feed, diaper, and play with the infants and toddlers.  There is a limit of thirty children and the capacity is always full.  I worked with the immobile ones, that is the youngest ones who had not learned to crawl.  Many of these children had special needs, such as cleft pallet, autism, Downs Syndrome, and clubfeet.

We “bonded” well with the rest of the team.  The clinic staff said they liked us the best of all the teams!  It was gratifying work and it is always nice to be appreciated.

In between the two weeks of clinic work we took a tour of two castles in the Transylvania region, one of which was Dracula’s castle – he wasn’t home at the time we were there!

 Nice going Alice.  It sounds like fun, and you must have learned some new geography.   I’m sure you made a difference!.

Here are the pictures:


Alice working with a staff member of the Tutova Clinic, folding diapers, a daily chore


Alice feeding Stefan Ariton in the playroom at the Tutova clinic.


Alice with the other volunteers from Oakville, Marilyn McClure and Mary Jane Howie, at Peles Castle, Sinaia, Romania


Alice has also taken up fencing to go along with her dancing.  She writes:

When I learned that Mississauga Parks and Recreation offered a course in fencing as part of their program, I decided to give it a try.  An added incentive was that they provided all the necessary equipment.  In addition, I discovered there are two handsome instructors, in their mid thirties, both of whom have a great sense of humor!  How could I loose!

 I had long admired the sport for its tradition, grace and rapid action.  The fencer’s uniform is beautiful with its snug fitting form and mandarin collared jacket, the gauntlet glove, the face mask which disguises the combatant’s features and the 18th century trousers, which today are optional.  We substitute black track pants for weekly practice.

The sport has a proud history going back to at least the 13th century, if not earlier.  Every country had its dueling tradition in order to settle disputes and uphold one’s honor.  After the introduction of gunpowder, dueling became a form of recreation for upper class gentlemen.  More and more noblemen wanted to learn the technique so that they could have fun with an opponent and not become injured.  Fencing instructors were very much in demand, traveling from castle to castle giving instructions.  I might add, too, that the fencing teacher doubled sometimes as the dancing instructor, since young men also wanted to show off their prowess on the dance floor. 

While performing, a fencer must stay within a line and face the opponent at a 45 degree angle so that he or she does not become a prime target for a touch.  So, we move back and forth on this line in a crouched position.  This challenges ones sense of balance for sure.  We are to bend at the knees, not at the waist, as, unfortunately, you se me doing in these photos! 

High standards and good sportsmanship are stressed at all times.  We salute our partner to begin the bout, then salute again and shake ands at the end.  After fencing someone, you always have a feeling that you have gotten to know the opponent in a non verbal way and that you have made a friend.  We have developed good feelings about our teammates; there is always warm fellowship and comradery among us.


Notice where the foil is. She's scoring a point!


Alice and Arvand, a man from Persia.

Joan Dornfeld died November 29, 2007, in Cooperstown, NY. Here's her obituary from The Daily Star, the newspaper for the heartland of New York.

COOPERSTOWN _ Joan J. Porter, 71, a resident of Cooperstown for the past 29 years, died Thursday morning, Nov. 29, 2007, at Otsego Manor.
She was born Aug. 6, 1936, in Madison, Wis., the second of three children of Elmer ("Al") and Gertrude (Heyde) Dornfeld. A graduate of West High School in Madison, she later attended the University of Wisconsin.
On Nov. 22, 1958, Joan married Daniel R. Porter in Madison, Wis.
For a time she served as a dental hygienist and assistant to dentists in York, Pa., and Columbus, Ohio, but devoted much of her life to being a homemaker with a flair for interior decorating. In later years, Joan was employed at Mary Imogene Bassett Hospital in Cooperstown as a receptionist in the Emergency Room.
During her years in Cooperstown, she was an active communicant of St. Mary's "Our Lady of the Lake" Roman Catholic Church, and for over a decade volunteered at the Cooperstown Food Bank.
Joan is survived by a daughter, Leslie, and her husband, Edward Easton III, of Coudersport, Pa., ("God's Country); a son, Andrew ("Drew") Porter and his wife, Amy of Cooperstown; four grandchildren, Erika, Caitlin, and Allison Easton and Reed Porter; a sister, Judith, and her husband, Vincent Danca of Rockford, Ill.; six nieces, two nephews, and several grand nieces and nephews.
She was predeceased by her husband, Daniel R. Porter, who died Nov. 21, 2006; a brother, William Dornfeld, and her dog, Duffy.
A funeral service will be offered at 2 p.m. on Monday, Dec. 3, 2007, at the Connell, Dow & Deysenroth Funeral Home in Cooperstown, with Fr. John P. Rosson, pastor of St. Mary's "Our Lady of the Lake" Roman Catholic Church in Cooperstown, officiating.
The Service of Committal and Burial will follow in St. Mary's Cemetery in Index.
Friends may call at the funeral home on Monday from 1 p.m. until service time.
In lieu of flowers, expressions of sympathy in the form of memorial gifts may be made to Friends of Bassett to benefit the Regional Cancer Program's Mobile Coach, 1 Atwell Road, Cooperstown, NY 13326 or the Cooperstown Food Bank, 25 Church Street, Cooperstown, NY 13326.
Funeral arrangements are under the care and direction of the Connell, Dow & Deysenroth Funeral Home in Cooperstown. Published in The Daily Star on 12/1/2007