Garfield Class of ‘38: Friends for the Ages

In 1938, Joe Badillo strapped on his kangaroo leather sneakers, hit the dirt track and broke Garfield High School’s 880-yard record. But on Wednesday, one of the triumphs he remembered most vividly from his senior year was what he did next: take his date to the East Los Angeles school’s prom.

“I walked three miles to your house, picked you up, and walked three miles to Garfield,” Badillo reminded his date of that night 67 years ago, Augusta “Babe” Aune. “Then I walked you home three miles, and then I walked another three miles to my house. We walked 12 miles.”

Aune smiled at the memory.

On Wednesday, Badillo, 85, stood inside the Marie Callender’s restaurant in Monterey Park, still looking runner-slim if a bit stooped as he held a briefcase full of old pictures, programs and a list of classmates who have died.

Slowly over the minutes, familiar people walked into the restaurant, several leaning on canes.

Al Brown, 84, the popular student body president, using a walker and wearing a waffle-sized magnifying glass around his neck, was dapper in a coat.

Members of the Garfield High School Class of ’38 hugged and ambled into the restaurant’s meeting room.

“We asked for the Garden Room because you don’t have to climb any stairs,” Badillo said.

For more than two decades now, the classmates have gathered annually to renew friendships. They were children of the Great Depression, when being able to ride a bicycle to school was a luxury and physical labor was a way of life.

The humble economic backgrounds of most of the students made them a close bunch, despite the fact that Garfield High was a reflection of a neighborhood then a mosaic of cultures: Mexican, Croatian, Russian, Japanese, Armenian, Jewish and white.

Also unifying them was the fact that most of the boys ended up serving in World War II.

“We were economically in the same boat,” said Eldon Feezell, 85. “That helped make us very cohesive.”

Feezell’s wife, Ruth, 84, also graduated from Garfield High in 1938. The couple has been married 58 years.

Bob Jolley, 84, a retired teacher, recalled collective school experiences that cemented the cohesion, such as the time the Garfield Bulldogs defeated their bitter rivals from Roosevelt High School.

“It got so wild, we tore down our own goal posts,” he said. “The Roosevelt fans were sitting in our bleachers, crying.”

That obvious delight in a rival’s crushing defeat didn’t stop him from marrying a Roosevelt High graduate, Marguerite Jolley, 80.

About 30 people showed up for Wednesday’s reunion. The number of attendees has been declining over the years. Many have died, and some have had to cancel because of illness.

“We try to meet as often as possible,” Aune said. “But then we have other things to do, like seeing our doctors.”

Badillo added, “We reminisce a lot, like older people do. Everyone talks about how many pills they’re taking and what they’re for,” he said with a laugh.

Soon after the Class of ’38 graduated, a few students tried to keep the ties close. Brown, the former student body president, Dick Albright and another friend organized dances at the L.A. Breakfast Club in West L.A.

The war interrupted the dances.

“After the war, we three guys started our dances again,” Brown said. “That always seemed to bring people together.”

But the graduates eventually grew apart during the postwar years, getting together only sporadically and in small groups. Many gathered for the class’ 25th anniversary in 1963, but many then lost touch.

In the early 1980s, Aune retired from her job with an insurance company. Soon she became bored and set her sights on arranging a large class reunion.

She contacted Garfield High and got a list of the telephone numbers of a few students. Aune contacted them, who in turn contacted others.

The first reunion in 1982 brought together about 150 people. The gatherings have continued nearly every year since -- at a Holiday Inn, at Hometown Buffet, even for a four-day cruise to Mexico.

The largest reunion was in 1988 at the Pasadena Hilton, the 50th. More than 260 people showed up, Aune said.

That same year, the movie “Stand and Deliver,” which depicted the exploits of a Garfield High math instructor and his students, premiered. Several of the 1938 graduates were able to attend a special screening and meet the movie’s star, actor Edward James Olmos.

Over the years the reunions have raised several thousand dollars in scholarship money for Garfield High students.

On Wednesday, the old friends looked at a senior class log, which bore old pictures and other features. The yearbook-like tome listed members of organizations with such names as the Knights and the Maids.

“A swell Pal,” read one student’s greeting. “To my best beau, with all my love,” read another.

In a feature called “Who’s Who,” students with nicknames such as “Leaky,” “Cueball,” “Shanghai” and “Legs” listed, tongue in cheek, what they were planning to be in 30 years: comedian, torch singer, chorus girl, movie queen, mannequin, street cleaner, aviatrix, hobo, dictator.

Two female students wrote: “Not a spinster.”

When the group gathers, it’s hard not to compare their high school days with those of the students who now attend Garfield.

Back then, the East Los Angeles neighborhood was predominantly working-class and a diverse mix of immigrants from Europe and Mexico. Today, it’s predominantly working-class and Latino.

Brown said he visited the campus about five years ago and thought the school looked much improved from when he visited about 25 years ago.

“I went over there at that time and you could not believe how awful it looked. There was graffiti inside the school and in the hallways,” Brown said. “They got a new principal and he put a stop to that.”

Badillo said that in 1938, anyone who even dropped a paper in the school could expect swift punishment -- from his fellow students.

“We had a long stick with a nail at the end and a big bag. If you dropped a piece of paper, you would be sentenced to pick up papers on the school ground for a week,” Badillo said.

Toward the end of Wednesday’s gathering, Shirley Blackburn, 84, unveiled a surprise for her friends. The daughter of a friend went to Blackburn’s car to retrieve a slim, rust-colored sweater.

There were a few holes in the sweater, which bore the numbers “3” and “8,” with a torch in between. Climbing the torch like a snake was an “S,” for summer.

It was Blackburn’s graduation class sweater. The room filled with gasps and laughter as Badillo took it in his hands and held it up.

“You can fit into that sweater just fine still,” Aune told Blackburn.

“Well, I’m not going to try it in front of all these people,” she replied with a laugh.