On New Year’s Eve 2025, the M*A*S*H Boys Came Home One Last Time — Their Midnight Toast Says It All 
It was 6 p.m. on New Year’s Eve, 2025, when the doorbell rang at Alan Alda’s house in New York.
Alan—89 years old, moving a little slower, leaning on his cane—went to the door.
On the other side stood Jamie Farr.
Ninety-one. Scarf around his neck. Eyes still shining like Klinger just pulled off one more crazy scheme.
“ALAN!” Jamie yelled, arms open wide.
“ HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
Alan burst out laughing and pulled him into a long, shaking hug.
“Jamie,” he said, voice thick. “You’re on time. Like always.”
Jamie stepped inside, careful with his balance, but his SPIRIT still walked in like it owned the room.
“Hey, when you’re 91,” he joked, “every minute counts. I’m not wasting one on anyone but you.”
Alan smiled and lifted his trembling hand.
“My hands shake,” he said softly, “but my heart doesn’t. Not tonight.”
At 6:15, two cars pulled up at the same time.
Out stepped Mike Farrell and Gary Burghoff.
“GARY!” Mike called.
“MIKE!” Gary shouted back.
They met halfway up the walk and just hugged in the cold New York air—two old soldiers from a war that was never real, but a friendship that absolutely was.
Inside the doorway, Alan and Jamie waited.
And then, for the first time in a very long time, the four of them stood together in one place:
Alan Alda – 89
Mike Farrell – 86
Jamie Farr – 91
Gary Burghoff – 81
Gary did a little math in his head and shook it off with a grin.
“Three hundred forty-seven years,” he said. “Total mileage.”
Jamie threw his hands up.
“And we’re STILL here!”
“Still standing,” Mike added.
“Still loving,” Alan finished.
They wrapped each other in a four-way hug in the doorway—
Laughing. Crying. Hanging on just a little longer than they used to.
Neighbors walked by, seeing nothing but four old men in each other’s arms…
Not knowing they were watching the 4077th checking in one more time.
“Come in,” Alan finally said, wiping his eyes.
“It’s freezing. Family belongs inside.”
Dinner wasn’t fancy.
But it felt like a feast.
Jamie brought Lebanese kibbeh, the way his mother used to make in Toledo.
Arlene had made salad and warm bread.
The table was set for ten.
Only four chairs were filled.
Six plates were left empty — on purpose.
Mike stood first, glass in hand.
“New Year’s Eve, 2025,” he began. “Four of us still here.”
“Fifty-three years ago, we met on a show we didn’t really understand yet. We were just kids. We didn’t know what M*A*S*H would become… or what we would become to each other.”
He looked at Alan. At Jamie. At Gary.
“Now we’re old,” he said, smiling gently. “And somehow… we’re still together.”
He pointed to the empty plates.
“Six of us have gone ahead,” he said quietly.
“Loretta. Harry. Wayne. McLean. Bill. David.
But they’re still with us.
On this table.
In this room.
In here.”
He touched his chest.
Mike raised his glass.
“To the ones still here,” he said. “And to the ones waiting for us.”
“To M*A*S*H.
To family.
To love.”
Four glasses clinked.
Tears fell.
Smiles stayed.
At 11:30 p.m., they moved to the living room.
Blankets over their knees. Old hands a little shaky. Hearts very, very full.
“Let’s do it,” Gary said. “One more time.”
Alan picked up the remote.
On the screen, the opening credits rolled:
“Goodbye, Farewell and Amen.”
February 28, 1983.
There they were again—
Young. Fast. Sharp.
Hawkeye and B.J. at the 4077th.
Klinger in something ridiculous.
Radar’s soft eyes.
Margaret fierce and broken-hearted.
Potter steady.
Mulcahy kind.
“Look at us,” Gary whispered. “We were just kids playing dress-up. And somehow… it turned into people’s lives.”
They watched their younger selves say goodbye 42 years earlier—
While they sat shoulder to shoulder in Alan’s living room, waiting now for a new year instead of a final episode.
Back then, they cried because the show was ending.
Tonight, they cried because something never did.
At 11:59 p.m., New York’s countdown began on TV.
10… 9… 8…
Alan reached for their hands.
“We’re still here,” he said, voice breaking.
“Forty-two years later. We’re still together. Still loving each other.”
7… 6… 5…
Jamie squeezed his hand.
“Klinger made it, boys,” he said. “All the way to 91.”
4… 3… 2…
Mike laughed through his tears.
“B.J. kept the promise,” he said. “He came back.”
1…
Gary took a deep breath.
“Radar’s still on duty,” he whispered. “For as long as they need him.”
HAPPY NEW YEAR! 
The city exploded in fireworks.
Four old men leaned in and hugged again, right there on the couch.
No cameras. No scripts. No laugh track.
Just four hearts that had been through fame, illness, grief, and time…
and somehow still found their way back to each other.
Because as long as even a few of them can still make that last trip, still ring that doorbell, still shout:
“I’M STILL ALIVE!”
…the 4077th isn’t just a show you once watched.
It’s a family that never really said goodbye.
