Dik's Ravings

Dik Saalfeld '80
Washington correspondent
Fall 2008

Brother Joe Quade MBA '49, mentioned elsewhere in this rag, recorded reminiscences for an oral history project at Rutgers a few years ago. A transcript is available on the Internet at http://oralhistory.rutgers.edu/Interviews/quade_joseph.html , and I encourage you to read it. It's long, so do it in a few sessions. You will not regret it; his is a life lived large, through the most turbulent events of the 20th century. For example, Mr. Quade trained as a paratrooper during the war and jumped in to fight the Germans: "We hit the ground and, during that one day, March 24th, over 300 fellows were killed from our division." The parts before and after the war are compelling, as well, from the Depression through his travels after retirement. Having come of age and gone to college in the 1970s, I benefited from the devotion to duty of guys like Joe Quade and my dad, and I'm grateful.

Mr. Quade did his undergraduate work at Rutgers, went into the service, then got an MBA at Cornell on the GI Bill. He calls Cornell a "party school," which is how I remember it, too, so we have that in common, although I never floated through the sky dodging machine gun fire. I did dodge Funnelator shots from Lamb Chops during the Great Water Balloon Wars, but it's not the same.

I met Brian Pickerall '82 and Tom Berg '80 for drinks a couple of months ago, then had them over for eats with their respective better halves. Brian divorced his second wife and is running around with a Cornell Alpha Phi alumnus from back in the day. All of his women have had similar names, and it's creeping me out. My wife said I should find out what his mother's name is, but the very notion gives me the fantods. It would be like that scene in "The Shining" where Jack Nicholson... no, no! Get it out of my head!

Tom and Val Berg are starting the task of becoming empty nesters, although Tia "Surprise!" Berg still has a few years to give Tom more gray hairs. Dreamgirl Valerie still looks like a model, and Tom looks like he's raised three daughters - he's probably tired of folks at restaurants assuming he's a sugar daddy.

Rick Ross '82 did a gig with Jackson Browne, who is an admirer of Rick's sax work. Rick, a successful self-employed musician in San Diego, is living the life you dreamed of before reality beat it out of you: sleep 'til noon, play a gig, party all night. He does the sexy stuff, namely saxophones and pianos, no tubas or glockenspiels. You could give him a call, but he's waaaaay too cool for the likes of you. Plus, he still owes you ten bucks, and he's got caller ID. Envy him from afar, and eat your heart out.

Speaking of heart, Jeff "Zulu" Rosenberg '86 has plenty, but his liver's not doing so good. Following a diagnosis of liver cancer he started aggressive treatment, which he is trying not to let get in the way of raising three wee ones with his wife, Coleen. Visit http://www.caringbridge.org/cb/visit/jeffrosenberg  and keep track of the fight. You'll get updates, and you can leave messages. I met Zulu at a hockey game in, I believe, 1982, and heard him bellow the Song of the Zulu Warrior in his deep, booming voice, which took about 20 minutes to echo its way out of the cavernous Lynah Rink. Sources report that at this year's Homecoming, Zulu reprised his famous Gibber impression, which is more Gibber-like than even Gibber could do it. If you got the two of them going at the same time they could shake loose your fillings and disturb the fabric of the space-time continuum.

Gibber used to carry a couple of extra Genny Cream longnecks for sustenance on the long hike upstairs to wake the boys on the third floor. On particularly hung-over mornings, he would bring one for me, which I would use to wash down about a trillion aspirin. If I could steal some of the codeine ones from Donzo I could be ripped through Art History and most of Psych 101. Art History was stressful, as the prof was not kind to those who dozed off, yet he insisted on turning off the lights and showing slides of poppy fields and other such twaddle. Psych 101 was a gas - sorry for the '70s lingo, kids! - because the prof was a lecher and surrounded himself with busty coeds. They were plenty easy on the eyes, hangover or not.

All hail the Zulu Warrior!