New Year’s Eve 2025: The MAS*H Family Reunites for One Final Toast

I. The Knock That Changed Everything

It was the final night of 2025, and New York’s winter pressed close against the windows of Alan Alda’s home. The city outside was alive with anticipation—cars honking, neighbors bustling, the promise of another year waiting just beyond midnight. Inside, Alan sat in his favorite armchair, the quiet hum of the heater and the gentle ticking of a clock keeping him company.

At exactly 6 p.m., a knock echoed through the apartment—a sound that, after all these years, still made Alan’s heart leap. He rose slowly, leaning on his cane, his movements careful but determined. At 89, Alan’s body had slowed, but his spirit remained undimmed. He opened the door, and the smile that spread across his face was one that could only be reserved for someone who had shared a lifetime of laughter and tears.

Standing in the hallway, bundled against the cold in a scarf and overcoat, was Jamie Farr. At 91, Jamie’s eyes still sparkled with mischief, the same glint that had defined his iconic portrayal of Max Klinger. For a moment, time seemed to fold in on itself—two old friends, reunited, their bond untouched by the years that had passed.

“ALAN!” Jamie called out, his voice echoing with warmth and excitement.

“Jamie,” Alan replied, chuckling as he embraced his friend. “Right on time.”

“Always,” Jamie said, stepping inside with that old spark still dancing in his step. “I don’t waste a single minute anymore—especially not on anyone but you.”

As the two men settled into the living room, the air was thick with nostalgia and anticipation. There was no script, no cameras, just the sacred space of friendship, and the knowledge that tonight would be something rare—and unforgettable.

II. Brothers Reunited

Minutes later, the doorbell rang again. Alan rose once more, this time with Jamie beside him. As they opened the door, two more familiar faces appeared on the stoop: Mike Farrell and Gary Burghoff. The years had added lines to their faces and silver to their hair, but their smiles were as genuine as ever.

Mike, at 86, and Gary, at 81, embraced halfway up the walk, arms wrapped around each other like brothers reunited after a long, silent war. Their laughter carried into the apartment, filling the space with warmth.

Inside, the four men stood together in one room—maybe for the last time. They looked at each other, taking in the moment, the weight of history between them.

“Three hundred and forty-seven years combined,” Gary joked, his voice light but tinged with meaning. “And still ticking.”

“Still standing,” Mike added, his eyes shining.

“Still family,” Alan whispered, and the words hung in the air like a benediction.

There was something sacred about this gathering. No cameras, no audience—just four old friends, united by a story that had shaped their lives and touched millions.

III. A Table Set for Memory

Dinner was simple. Four plates were filled, but six were left empty—deliberately, reverently. The empty seats spoke volumes, each one a silent tribute to the friends and castmates who had gone before.

“Loretta. Wayne. Harry. McLean. Bill. David,” Mike said, raising his glass. “They may be gone, but not from this table.”

“To them,” they echoed, voices steady but hearts aching.

“To MAS*H.
To love.
To what we shared.”

The meal was quiet, punctuated by stories and laughter. They remembered the long days on set, the practical jokes, the moments when fiction blurred with reality. They spoke of the impact MAS*H had made—not just on their own lives, but on the world. They talked about the letters they still received, the fans who saw themselves in Hawkeye, Klinger, B.J., and Radar.

There was no need to fill the silence; it was enough just to be together. Each man understood that this night was a gift—a chance to honor the past and cherish the present.

IV. The Power of Remembrance

After dinner, the four men moved to the living room, settling under blankets as the city’s lights flickered outside. Alan found the old DVD of the closing episode, Goodbye, Farewell and Amen, and slipped it into the player. The familiar theme music filled the room, and for a moment, time folded.

There they were again—young and fearless in uniform, making people laugh, cry, and heal. The lines they spoke on screen seemed to echo in the room, layered with new meaning now that so much life had passed.

Jamie watched, his eyes glistening. “I remember that last day on set,” he said softly. “We knew it was the end, but none of us wanted to say goodbye.”

Gary nodded. “It felt like we were leaving a part of ourselves behind.”

Mike smiled. “But we carried it with us. Every day.”

Alan looked at his friends, his voice breaking. “We’re still here. After everything, we’re still together.”

Outside, fireworks began to light up the New York sky. The sound was distant, but inside the apartment, the feeling was immediate—four hearts beating in sync, not as actors, but as brothers who had lived a story that never really ended.

V. The MAS*H Legacy

As midnight approached, the conversation turned to legacy. What did MAS*H mean, after all these years? Was it just a television show, or was it something more?

Alan spoke first, his words deliberate. “MAS*H was about people. About finding hope in the darkest places, about laughter as medicine, about family—chosen, not just given.”

Jamie agreed. “We were more than castmates. We were a unit. We leaned on each other, learned from each other. That’s what kept us going.”

Mike reflected on the impact the show had on viewers. “People wrote to us, telling us MAS*H helped them through war, loss, illness. It gave them permission to feel, to grieve, to heal.”

Gary added, “And it gave us the same. I don’t think any of us left MAS*H unchanged.”

They talked about the cast members who were no longer with them. Each name was spoken with reverence, each memory cherished. The empty plates at the table were a reminder that family endures—even when some seats remain unfilled.

VI. The Final Toast

As the clock struck midnight, Alan raised his glass. The others followed suit, their hands trembling slightly.

“To MAS*H,” Alan said, his voice steady. “To love. To what we shared.”

“To them,” Jamie echoed, his eyes shining.

“To us,” Mike added.

“To the story that never ends,” Gary finished.

They drank together, the taste bittersweet—a mixture of joy and sorrow, gratitude and longing. The room was quiet, but the feeling was immense.

Outside, the city celebrated. Inside, four men marked the passage of time with a ritual older than memory—a final toast, a promise to remember.

VII. Reflections in the Quiet
After the final toast, the conversation drifted into quieter territory. The four men settled deeper into their chairs, the glow of the fireplace painting their faces in soft amber. Outside, the city’s celebrations faded into distant echoes, leaving the apartment wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and memory.

Alan Alda gazed at the flickering flames, his mind wandering back to the days when he first stepped onto the set of MAS*H. He remembered the nervous excitement, the pressure to live up to the legacy of the original film, and the uncertainty of whether the show would ever find its footing. “I never imagined we’d touch so many lives,” he said quietly. “Back then, it was just a job—a good one, yes, but who could have guessed?”

Jamie Farr smiled, recalling the countless hours spent in costume, the laughter that erupted between takes, and the moments when the absurdity of Klinger’s antics masked a deeper truth. “I was the comic relief, but sometimes, I think Klinger understood the pain of war better than anyone,” Jamie reflected. “He was always trying to escape, but in the end, he stayed. Because that’s what family does.”

Mike Farrell leaned forward, his eyes thoughtful. “BJ taught me about compassion. About the importance of listening, of being present. After the show, I tried to carry that with me, in my work, in my activism. MAS*H gave me a platform, but more than that, it gave me a purpose.”

Gary Burghoff, ever the quiet observer, nodded. “Radar was my heart. He was vulnerable, sensitive, always looking out for others. I see a lot of him in myself, even now. Sometimes, I wonder if I was playing Radar, or if Radar was playing me.”

The room was silent for a moment, each man lost in his own thoughts. The years since MAS*H had brought triumphs and challenges, joys and sorrows. But through it all, the lessons they learned on set—about resilience, empathy, and the power of laughter—remained.

VIII. Life After MAS*H
The conversation turned to life beyond the show, the paths each man had traveled since the final episode aired. Alan spoke of his continued work in the arts, his passion for writing, directing, and advocating for science communication. “I’ve always believed in curiosity,” he said. “MAS*H taught me to ask questions, to seek understanding. That’s something I’ve tried to carry into everything I do.”

Jamie recounted his time on stage and screen, his adventures in comedy, and his commitment to supporting veterans. “Klinger was a tribute to the real soldiers—the ones who found ways to survive, to laugh, to keep going. I never forgot that.”

Mike described his work as an activist, his efforts to promote peace and justice, and his dedication to humanitarian causes. “BJ was a healer, and I wanted to be one too. Not with medicine, maybe, but with action. With words.”

Gary shared his journey as a musician and painter, his love for the natural world, and his desire to live quietly, away from the spotlight. “Radar needed the animals, the peace and quiet. So did I. Fame is wonderful, but solitude is a gift.”

They spoke of marriages and children, of losses and regrets, of the ways in which MAS*H had shaped their identities. Each man had found his own path, but the roads all led back to the same crossroads—the place where they had become a family.

IX. The Enduring Impact
As the night wore on, the four friends reflected on the impact MAS*H had made—not just on themselves, but on the world. They remembered the letters from fans, the stories of soldiers who found comfort in the show, the doctors and nurses who saw their own struggles mirrored on screen.

Alan recalled a letter from a Vietnam veteran, who wrote to thank the cast for helping him find laughter in the midst of pain. “He said we made him feel less alone,” Alan shared. “That’s the greatest gift any actor could hope for.”

Jamie spoke of the fans who saw themselves in Klinger—outsiders, dreamers, survivors. “People told me Klinger gave them hope. That he showed them it was okay to be different.”

Mike remembered the impact of the show’s social commentary—the episodes that tackled racism, sexism, and the horrors of war. “We didn’t shy away from the truth. Sometimes, we made people uncomfortable. But we always tried to make them think.”

Gary smiled, recalling the children who wrote to Radar, asking for advice, sharing their worries. “He was their friend. Their confidant. I tried to answer every letter.”

The room was filled with gratitude, a sense of accomplishment that transcended fame or fortune. They knew MAS*H was more than entertainment—it was a lifeline, a mirror, a beacon of hope.

X. Remembering Those Who Are Gone
The empty plates on the dinner table cast long shadows as midnight passed. The names of absent friends lingered in the air: Loretta Swit, Wayne Rogers, Harry Morgan, McLean Stevenson, Bill Christopher, David Ogden Stiers. Each had left an indelible mark on the show, and on the lives of those gathered.

Mike raised his glass once more, his voice soft but resolute. “To those we’ve lost. To the memories we carry. To the love that never dies.”

The others echoed the sentiment, their eyes damp with emotion. They shared stories of the cast members who had gone before—of Wayne’s wit, Harry’s wisdom, McLean’s warmth. They spoke of the laughter, the tears, the moments that defined their time together.

For a while, the room was silent, filled only with the crackling of the fire and the distant sounds of celebration outside. It was a silence born of respect, of longing, of gratitude.

XI. A Family Beyond Blood
As the reunion drew to a close, Alan looked around the room, his heart full. “We’re not just colleagues,” he said. “We’re family. Not by blood, but by choice. By the stories we’ve shared, the battles we’ve fought, the love we’ve given.”

Jamie nodded, his eyes shining. “Family isn’t just about who you’re born to. It’s about who you choose to stand beside.”

Mike smiled. “And who you never let go of, no matter how many years pass.”

Gary squeezed Alan’s hand. “We’re still here. Still together.”

The four men sat quietly, the weight of the moment settling around them. Outside, the world moved on. Inside, time stood still.

XII. Legacy: What Remains

The fire burned low, casting gentle shadows across the faces of four men who had once been young together in a world that existed between reality and fiction. Alan, Jamie, Mike, and Gary sat quietly, each feeling the weight of years and the lightness of shared memories.

Alan broke the silence. “I used to wonder what legacy really meant. Was it the awards? The ratings? The interviews?” He shook his head, voice soft. “Now I think it’s the lives we touched. The laughter we shared. The comfort we gave—sometimes without even knowing it.”

Jamie smiled, remembering letters from fans who found hope in Klinger’s resilience. “Legacy is what people carry with them after we’re gone. A joke, a lesson, a feeling that they weren’t alone.”

Mike added, “We didn’t just act. We listened. We learned. We tried to make the world a little kinder, even if only for half an hour each week.”

Gary nodded, voice trembling. “MAS*H was a place where broken people could heal. On screen, and off.”

They spoke of the countless lives MAS*H had touched: veterans who found solace, families who found laughter amidst pain, doctors and nurses who saw their daily struggles reflected. The show had become a tapestry woven from the threads of humanity—messy, colorful, and enduring.

XIII. The Future: Passing the Flame

As the night wore on, the conversation shifted to the future. What would happen when they were gone? Would MAS*H fade, or would its message survive?

Alan believed in the power of story. “As long as people need hope, MAS*H will matter. It’s not about us. It’s about what we stood for—compassion, humor, resilience.”

Jamie agreed. “We pass the flame. Maybe our grandchildren will watch someday. Maybe someone, somewhere, will see themselves in Klinger, or Hawkeye, or Radar. That’s enough.”

Mike spoke of the next generation—actors, writers, dreamers—who might draw inspiration from their journey. “Our job was never to be perfect. It was to be honest. To care.”

Gary, ever the gentle soul, said, “If one person feels less alone because of what we did, then we did enough.”

Their words hung in the air, a promise and a prayer.

XIV. The Last Embrace

As midnight crept past, the four men stood, moving slowly but with purpose. They embraced, arms wrapped tight, holding onto the moment as if it could last forever.

Alan whispered, “We’re still here. Still together.”

Jamie replied, “Always.”

Mike added, “Brothers.”

Gary finished, “Family.”

They lingered in the doorway, reluctant to let go. Outside, the city was quiet, the fireworks long faded. Inside, the heartbeat of MAS*H pulsed strong—a rhythm of love, loss, and hope.

XV. Epilogue: The Story That Never Ends

Later that night, Alan sat alone by the window, watching the first snowflakes of the new year drift down. He thought of the friends who were gone, of the years that had passed, of the story that had begun so long ago in a makeshift tent on a Hollywood lot.

He knew that MAS*H was more than a show. It was a family—imperfect, resilient, bound by something deeper than fame or fortune. It was a story that lived in laughter and tears, in memories and dreams, in every heart that found comfort in its warmth.

As dawn approached, Alan penned a note—a message for anyone who might need it:

“If you’re reading this, know that you’re part of our family. MAS*H was never just about us. It was about you. About finding hope in hard times, about laughing through the pain, about holding on to the people who matter. The story isn’t over. It never will be. As long as you remember, we’re still here. Together.”

The adventure continues. The family endures.

And somewhere, in the quiet of a New York morning, four old friends greet a new year—not as actors, but as brothers, as storytellers, as the heartbeat of a story that never really ended.