Virtual Memorial

In memory of John Peterson. To say I was overwhelmed by emotion as I read [about Ridge AMS] cannot describe what I was feeling. Forty years just melted away in the blink of an eye. Of course I knew Johnnie was popular and well liked by his classmates, but to know he had inspired in them such a heartfelt endeavor left me stunned.

For forty years it has saddened and angered me that such a vibrant spirit was snuffed out before he really had a chance to live ... so many talents he could never pursue or develop; so much love he couldn't share. I would sometimes watch him with the little kids at [Bonnie Brae] Farm as he tried to guide or help them ... kids who had no one to love or encourage them. I know he would be so honored and proud, as I am, that he helped inspire the feelings in others to create Ridge AMS. And, for the first time since Johnnie was killed, his death makes sense to me. For that, I thank [the founders of Ridge AMS] and your classmates from the bottom or my heart.

I am also deeply grateful that after all this time, you were kind enough to contact me and include me in your endeavor. Please know that ... I am with all of you in spirit. Johnnie will always live on in my heart, and to know that he lives on in the heart of others as well, has given meaning to his death.  All of us walk this earth, no matter how briefly, for a purpose. To touch the hearts of others is the greatest purpose of all. Thank you for what you have done. - Noreen Cerino, RHS Class of 1969.

Note: The preceding is the text of a letter from Noreen Cerino received by the the founders of Ridge AMS in 2007. Noreen was engaged to John Peterson at the time of his death.

In memory of Jane Zeile, RHS Class of 1969. Too young, and too bright a light to pass so soon. - Alan Brown, RHS Class of 1968. Note: Jane passed away on December 9, 2007. She taught at San Francisco State University. An article about her appeared in The San Francisco Chronicle.

In memory of wonderful friends and classmates who enriched my life for so many years. - Anonymous, RHS Class of 1967.

In memory of Guy Arno, RHS Class of 1969. In June 2006, the RHS Class of 1969 celebrated its 37th reunion. Unfortunately, two months later, our classmate, Guy Arno, passed away. He was a great wrestler and always fun to be with. You will be missed. - Robin Haycock Brennan, RHS Class of 1969.

In memory of all my fellow classmates who have left us, that through this scholarship new students may reach their goals. - Anonymous, RHS Class of 1967.

In memory of Johnnie Peterson, RHS Class of 1967. "Some people come into our lives and quickly go. Some stay for a while and leave footprints on our hearts." - Anon. Johnnie left footprints on our hearts that will last forever! - Jo Ellen Grauerholz, RHS Class of 1967.

In loving memory of our brother, Thomas Robert Ike, RHS Class of 1965. Born November 2, 1946. Died May 25, 1967, Quang Tri Province, Viet Nam. - Richard and Helen (Forbes) Ike, RHS Class of 1963 and 1967. Note: Marine Pfc Thomas Robert Ike is believed to have been the first fatality in the Vietnam War from the Bernards Township area. He can be found on the Vietnam War Memorial on panel 20E, line 104. There is an entry for him on The Wall-USA. Thomas Ike is buried in Holy Cross Cemetery in Basking Ridge.

It is a real pleasure to be able to honor good friends in this way. Thank you for the opportunity. - Charles M. "Chic" Day, RHS Class of 1967.

In memory of Johnnie Peterson and all of my departed fellow classmates of the Class of 1967. - Cheryl Howat Juliano, RHS Class of 1967.

I would like to add to the memories of Glenn Apgar, RHS Class of 1967. It was a delight to be reacquainted with him at our twentieth reunion, and it is a wonderful way to remember him, brimming with self-confidence, good-natured humor, and quiet pride in his accomplishments. - Jane Hancock, RHS Class of 1967.

My dear friend Glen Apgar, our childhood escapades as neighbors shaped our lives! You will always be fondly remembered. - Susan Allen, RHS Class of 1968.

To Johnnie Peterson, such a sweet flirt and my hero in uniform, your courage and bravery will forever remain in my heart. - Susan Allen, RHS Class of 1967.

I remember the warmth in each smile, the kindness in each heart: gifts that time cannot change. - Anonymous, RHS Class of 1967.

I will forever cherish the friendship of my best friend, Janice Hotaling Wilker. - Sue Meehan Hackett, RHS Class of 1967.

Remembering old friends who live on in each of us. - Carol Mason Schoenig, RHS Class of 1967.

To the Class of 1967. - Carol Kaempfer Boyer, RHS Class of 1967.

"Never give up, never give up, never give up!" Jim Valvano. - Mark Saalfield, RHS Class of 1967.

For all those - from every class who never had the chance to reach their dreams, seize opportunities and fulfill their promise. Peace Always. - Joseph R. Brennan, RHS Class of 1967.

In memory of Janice Hotaling Wilker. Childhood sweetheart, mother to our children, Stephanie and Stacy, grandmother to Palmer and Theodore. You will never be forgotten by your family and Ridge High friends. - Jeffrey Wilker, RHS Class of 1965.

In Loving Memory, a gift from Gale. - Pete Baglio, RHS Class of 1967.

In memory of John and all the members of the Class of 1967 who have left us too soon. - Molly Direnga Adsit, RHS Class of 1967.

In tribute to John Peterson and all my classmates who have left us. I am thankful to them all for the wonderful memories of my high school years. - Roberta Fishbein (Fisher), RHS Class of 1967.

In memory of Glenn Apgar, Eric Birnbaum & David Earp. Three distinct, unique, precious personalities from The Class of 1967. - Eileen Wall Mundorff, RHS Class of 1967.

John Peterson, Class of 1967. I sat across a table from John in a cafeteria study hall one year, and we would nod hello to one another when we sat down, but we were not supposed to talk and we always had homework to do, so we mostly just toiled away on our assignments and occasionally expressed our overall feeling about all the work we had to do. One day John and I shared a giggle or two in astonishment and perverse admiration when another student at our table showed up with a report card that came close - remarkably close - to the holy grail of bad report cards: E I E I 0. - Anonymous.

Glen Apgar, Class of 1967. Glenn joined my class at Liberty Corner Elementary School when I was in third grade, and we quickly became best friends. We spent much of our time at recess planning tree houses and forts—at least one of which actually got built (mainly by his father) in a large tree behind his house. Sadly, Glenn’s life included a number of major difficulties. He spent all of eighth grade at home in bed with rheumatoid arthritis. I had the dubious honor of carrying “Glenn,” a bulky speaker/microphone box that could be plugged into specially installed phone jacks, around to our classrooms so he could listen in from home (one can only imagine how much listening he really did). His health in high school improved and he even joined several of us for a 50-mile, 6-day trek on the Appalachian Trail just before our senior year. But rheumatoid arthritis is a chronic disease, and he had recurring problems the rest of his life. Then a serious car accident in the early 1980s, when, ironically, he was back to visit his mother in the hospital, nearly took his life. The biggest challenge for Glenn, though, was that he was gay—at a time when no one (especially in conservative towns like ours) admitted such things. In retrospect, he must have lived with denial, doubts, and emotional turmoil until he escaped from Basking Ridge, but if he did, he never let it show and none of us knew until years later. He went on to a successful career in architecture and interior design in San Francisco, and I managed to see him a few times on trips there. By the time of the 1987 reunion, his last trip back East, he announced to a few of us that he had HIV, the closest he ever came to discussing his sexual orientation with his friends from childhood. Weakened already by the long term consequences of his rheumatoid arthritis, HIV/AIDs felled him in 1991. That he died young from a terrible disease was a great tragedy. That he grew up at a time when he could not be open with his friends about being gay was an equal tragedy. - Ed Lincoln, RHS Class of 1967.

Eric Birnbaum, Class of 1967. Let’s face it: Eric could be a pain in the neck. At Band Camp he was assigned to my cabin, and had great trouble settling down to sleep before about two in the morning, which drove the rest of nuts. Just imagine trying to sleep when the kid in the next bunk pesters you with endless questions like, “Hey Eddie, do know where Flatbush Avenue is?” (I did not, and in my geographical ignorance I actually thought he had dreamed up an imaginary name). But there was not a mean bone in his body; his annoying exuberance had an innocence and enthusiasm that still brings a smile to my face. Eric also had a wonderful, rare gift: a combination of musical talent and the ability to channel his boundless energy into long hours practicing his French horn. When I was in eighth grade, Eric invited me (clarinet) to join a woodwind quintet that he was forming, when other kids our age were creating rock bands. We were joined by Caroline Latta (flute), Roy Snable (bassoon), and Glenn Apgar (oboe), probably because all four of us were taking music lessons from his father at the time. We played for a couple of years, including some public performances (guest appearances at a piano teacher’s recital for her students is a public appearance and once or twice at Ridge band concerts). This was the first time I had ever played classical music in the original rather than in simplified band arrangements. Heady stuff, but Eric was more dedicated to this endeavor than the rest of us and we eventually broke up. Just how dedicated was amply demonstrated by his adult career in the army band and then with an orchestra in South Africa. Believe me, getting a job with any symphony orchestra as a brass player is very, very difficult. Single job openings often attract well over 500 applicants. I am in awe that Eric managed to do this—the kid most people considered to be an immature pain ends up accomplishing something none of the rest of us playing instruments in high school could do. That his life was cut short in a tragic crime is a great shame, but at least he got to live his dream. How many people get to do that? - Ed Lincoln, RHS Class of 1967.

John Peterson, Class of 1967. I did not know John very well, and I will leave it to others to provide stories of him in high school. He was not in any of my classes, except perhaps gym or study hall. But we talked from time to time, and I liked him. When we graduated, I am positive that he received an award from the teachers for something like most improved student, although his name does not appear on the printed program for the awards ceremony that I still have stuffed away in a box. I felt very happy that he received this award, and thought he was well on the way to starting a productive adult life—a kid with a troubled background of some sort who would make good. At the time, I thought his intention of going into the military was a good, patriotic place for him to make that start. Two years later my mother mailed me a clipping from the Bernardsville News with John’s obituary. I felt as though I had been kicked in the stomach, especially since by then I felt that the war in Vietnam was a horrible mistake. Ever since, I have had a gnawing feeling of guilt and anger over his tragic death. Even today I cannot talk about him without choking up. After our 35th reunion, I began bugging Carol about the idea of doing something in his memory, and she wisely hooked me up with Jane Cullinan, Stu Rickerson, and Chris Sullivan. With their strong leadership, my vague initial plea blossomed into the Ridge AMS. Nothing can bring John back to life or erase the tragedy of his young death, but I think extending a helping hand through this scholarship to kids who exemplify John’s personal qualities is exactly the right thing to do. - Ed Lincoln, RHS Class of 1967.

John Peterson, Class of 1967. The Bonnie Brae Alumni are pleased that one of our own, John Peterson, was chosen for this worthy honor. We wish you enduring success in this enterprise.-  George Seymour, Bonnie Brae Alumni Association.

David Earp, Class of 1967. A good bass player in our garage band, David was always softspoken, decent, tolerant of others, and a loyal friend. - Anonymous.

Glen Apgar, Class of 1967. You and I took piano lessons one right after another for years, and we never stopped rolling our eyes as you went in and I came out, as if to say, 'What could we possibly have done to deserve this?' Yet, we loved it. I imagine that you were a top notch architect, and I am sorry your life was cut short. - Anonymous.

Norris Birnbaum, RHS Teacher. You had the most influence on me of any faculty member at Ridge, and I appreciate your endless patience with my mediocre musicianship. To this day, whenever I find myself in a position where I might be passing some germs on to someone else, I always chirp, as you would, that my case of trench mouth is starting to improve. Boris was always a term of respect and endearment. - Anonymous.

John Gambrill, 1948-1994. Giant of a guy, giant of a brain, and still your heart was oversized. You were an extraordinary friend. John, I miss you. — Jane Cullinan, RHS Class of 1967.

Vicki Leigh Welch, RHS Class of 1966. I like to think you still sparkle, now from the heavens for all to see. - Anonymous.

Eric Birnbaum, RHS Class of 1967. Eric Birnbaum was always my friend. Whenever people speak of the concept of multiple intelligences, I always think of him. Eric was the kid who couldn't seem to do anything right, uncoordinated, behavior disorders, no attention span, socially clumsy, not very bright, couldn't even figure out how to step off on his right foot and march in a straight line. He had a lot of trouble holding down a job as an adult.  Even his death was an awkward mishap. Yet, all that stands in marked contrast to what happened whenever Eric picked up his French Horn. Suddenly, everything would change for him at that instant. As long as he was making music, Eric was in his element, graceful and at peace with the world.  He even sat up straight when he played. I am just glad Eric found his one thing that he could do. So many people stumble through life without ever finding their one special talent, their true calling. Eric was one of the lucky ones. - Anonymous.

John Gambrill, RHS Class of 1967. A cool guy, too smart to study. The two things he cared about were his friends and the truth. Ten years ago, I found some old letters from John and discovered that his insights in 1967 were profoundly right. It took 30 years to understand what he was saying, and by then it was too late to thank him for his wisdom. His life was too short, but he lived it passionately, using his gifts for language and honesty to build both a career and a family. John lived the way he thought - always - and that is a real achievement. - Joanne Gelling Bauer, RHS 1967.

John Peterson, 1948-1969. We will never forget your promise or your sacrifice. - RHS Class of 1967.