I’ve autographed many artifacts over the years, but none has affected me as deeply as copies of the 1975 Marvel Con program books which arrived yesterday from a collector. One of the highlights of that program were eight pages of photos of the Bullpen as it existed 35 years ago. (You can see those photos on display over at Diversions of the Groovy Kind.)

This fan wanted to get as many of those photos signed as was still possible, but before I signed my name, I looked through those pictures of old friends, many with autographs from those who were no longer with us to autograph anything ever again, and I found myself getting choked up and near tears.

I had to set aside the books for signing until today, when was I better prepared to look through those pages without weeping.

There was Irene, looking as I’d first met her. (And there we both are below, as I’ve already shared with you.)

There was Marie Severin, whom I love, and whom I’ve told you about before. There was George Tuska, who drew one of my issues of Captain Marvel, and Herb Trimpe, who drew a backup story I wrote about The Vision. There’s Dave Cockrum, who designed one of my Captain Marvel villains, Bob McLeod, who inked one of my House of Mystery stories, old bosses Len Wein and Marv Wolfman … and those are just the highlights of the photos that were signed.

But unsigned (and never to be signed) are John Verpoorten, the production manager able to loom over even me, Tony Cerniglia, who ran the mailroom and was the one who turned me on to Rice Krispie treats, Danny Crespi, perhaps too nice for his own good, Mike Esposito, who sometimes fed the Bullpen with his racetrack winnings, Frank Giacioa, whom I saw every day when I’d ask him to correct Namor’s belt buckle or fix the webbing under Spider-Man’s armpits, poor Duffy Vohland, taken too soon, without whom I’d likely never have gotten into comics as a professional in the first place … gone. All gone.

I have memories to go with every face, stories to go with every name. These were my first family after my real family. And seeing them gathered all in one place like that, a reunion with faces that never age, frozen in 1975, watching me from yesterday, calling me back to 575 Madison Avenue, is so poignant it hurts.

And I know that, with each subsequent year, looking back will hurt more. But I won’t be able to stop doing so.

Because that’s what bittersweet is all about, right?

UPDATE: I have been informed that Mike Esposito is still very much alive. Sorry, Mike!