CLASS of 1930
Your Secretary has been expecting you guys to go into a slump for some time now, and for a while recently it began to appear that it had come. But all of a sudden the lads began rousing out of their summer lassitude, so that at this point there are, as usual, items with which to fill the 1930 columns practically up to their customary brimming limits. So here (until our typewriting finger gets tired) they are.
There was the Holy Cross game, for instance, this past Saturday. We sat in the stands, looking about and thinking how many 1930 names we would be writing into our little black notebook if we had one. We can't possibly remember them. There was Galbraith. And there was Wasmer, whom we very nearly collided with at a street corner in Hartford, Conn., yesterday—traffic prohibiting anything beyond a little casual shouting. Oh, yes, and that old boat-builder, Haffenreffer. He raised the very devil with your Secretary, and, we feel sure, with practically no justification. We wish we had several million dollars so we could go in a pout to some non-Haffenreffer boatyard and buy a yacht. Unless we were having hallucinations on Main St. Saturday night, Bill Smith was also here. There were echoes, but no tangible evidence, of Norm McGrath. And God knows how many more. It should be remarked that practically none of these guys gave us the break of a visit, a phone call, or even a shout across the stands.
But there have been callers. Joe Golan trotted over from Rochester and Herm Schneebeli and Jim Dunlap came up from Pennsylvania, and these, being jointly met on the street, were coaxed down to the South Main St. headquarters. Herm and Jim were nourishing the nucleus of the Theta Delt delegation. Joe was up taking movies, with which he was going to sell Dartmouth to his boss' son. He left the Eastman Kodak plant in Rochester, where he is assistant superintendent and we suspect—although he wouldn't admit it—something of a big shot, carrying on as best it could without him. With that Golan drive, he is also doing some studying and helping coach a pro football team in Rochester. Herm has by this time enrolled with the Gulf Refining Company in Pittsburgh, in close proximity to the Mellon millions, and right hand man to a mogul of some magnitude. We expect to be having a report from him almost any day now about the new job and life in general under the Pittsburgh smoke screen.
It should certainly be mentioned in connection with the Holy Cross game that Tony Colucci was here—and (as the vernacular has it) how! He was beyond doubt the most prominent Thirtyman in Hanover .on that date, a hawk-like end on the Holy Cross line smearing Dartmouth plays whenever he got half a chance and giving little if any evidence of mellow remembrances of his own sojourn under the Hanover elms. We understand that he has some of these, however.
Bill Jessup, astute auditor of the New York Telephone Company, spent some time with us early in October. Harry Casler was definitely announced as about to arrive, but never came within lamping distance of ourself. We have marked him down as a default. Ed Brazil waved a languid arm from his sedan in leaving town after one week-end in such a hurry that we suspected the cops were after him. Bobby Burns was another member of the tongue-tied, throat-paralyzed Dartmouth cheering section at the Holy Cross game. In the midst of the milling mobs at the gates we got a chance to exchange a hello with him.
Bill Lucas came in the office one day in our absence and left a note, which after some deliberation we would tentatively decipher as follows: "Just dropped in to say hello. Have been in Europe all summer and am back at H. B. S. now. Saw Fran Horn in Harry's New York Bar one night, wearing a very luxurious moustache. Came back across with Rusty Morrill, who reports the latest Odyssey as being a huge success.—Bill Lucas."
It is time, we are convinced, for Fran to come home. What with frequenting the bars and growing Oriental beards, we are sure there must be a harem back in Cairo, and heaven knows what the boy has come to. We are organizing the Thirtyteer Expeditionary Force for the Rescue and Regeneration of Francis Horn.
We had a rapid-fire conversation on the street one day with Rusty, during which we asked a lot of questions and got a lot of information, none of which we remember now. We are practically certain, however, that he is back at the Harvard Business School (which is the H. B. S. that Bill Lucas referred to).
It was pleasant to see Rhoda and John French here just before they went down to Cambridge to join the Harvard Law School. They have an apartment at 983 Memorial Drive, and have extended invitation to Thirtymen in Cambridge to drop in and see them.
The Thirtyteer delegation in Cambridge has thinned out considerably. This contribution from Al Smith comes close to accounting for it all: Dear Al:
Having spent an afternoon practicing my broad "A's," or learning the language, something had to pop. This is it.
After spending last year learning how to make money, at Tuck, this year the effort is upon losing it, at the Harvard Law School. Your guess concerning J. French, editor-inchief. was correct, and I've seen him lugging a little bag of books around the campus here. Professor Wiggin is also in the first-year class at the law school, as is Earl Seldon, who spent last year at the Babson Institute at or near Wellesley, and is now recuperating, though I can't say much for this as a place for one convalescent.
Of the Thirtymen who entered here last year, I've seen only Scribner, McFarland and Rodi. Fred, I understand, blew the place wide open, made some tremendously good average in his first-year work, and was given the signal (!) honor of being elected, selected, or pushed, on the Law Review.
Relative to some few other "old familiars," Ed Frost is still swinging along in that soft spot in Nashville, and Russ Gray was still with the telephone people, at last reports.
Came across Frank Gulden, the ex-, in the midst of a crowd of brawny sailormen, this past summer. He was just cruising for pleasure, had brought a bicycle along on his boat, and all was well. There is something different about that boat-bicycle racket, isn't there?
The only other note of interest was a loud hail from Al Marsters, couple of weeks ago. He's looking pretty fit, for an old fellow . . . Forgot to mention that Bob Kohn is still hanging on down here, which same, pending notice to the contrary, is quite a feat in itself.
And that's about all. Have one of those in-a-door beds in this joint, and you have to be a licensed pilot to get the doggone thing out so you can get to bed. That is the moot daily problem.
That last paragraph isn't part of the invitation, but point is, if you're down this way, —and you should be, on November 7 at least, drop in for a bit of this and that.
Sincerely,
AL SMITH
Al seems to have summed up about all we know concerning the Cambridge Thirtymen. Hank Gilbert is back at the Business School. We have a new address for Hub Christman at Vanderbilt Hall, Longwood Ave., Boston which gives us a suspicion that Hub is at the Harvard Medical School.
Among the miscellaneous items, mention should certainly be made of the cheery visit of Crane and Raube to Hanover sometime or other in the early autumn. This was quite, quite miscellaneous .They each bought a week's membership in the Hanover Country Club and got their money's worth, rain or shine. This accounted for their days. Need we go on?
We note on a memorandum here that the Crane is with the American Colortype Company, New York.
If we may believe a letterhead which recently came into the office, Don Cole, sugar broker of Lanborn and Company, is now in the New Orleans office of that firm.
In an extremely formal communication addressed to the ALUMNI MAGAZINE we learn from Frank Fowler this: "You may also be interested in knowing that on May 2, 1931, I was married to Betty Mitchell, of Forest Hills Gardens, L. I., at the Church in the Gardens, and Berkeley Dowell and Eddie Shuster were among the ushers."To you and Betty our felicitations, Frank.
Among the Hanover Thirtymen are: George Lord, who lives at our menage and does right by the Medical School; Clarence Benson, accountant; Dick Squire, inveterate Hanoverian, who was at Thayer School last year and is back here at Tuck this year; Don Hight, Medic; Bill Putnam, Medic; Charlie Widmayer, who is half gentleman-ofleisure recuperating from a none too healthy summer and half high mogul of receipts at the Gitsis Personality Palace; and Hal Booma, who personally helped to supervise the first rosy flush of Dawn Lit Cigarettes on the pale smoky horizon of this Old Golded, Chesterfielded, Camel-ridden, and Lucky Struck world. Hal is letting his Auroran smokes come along as best they may while he develops flashy ends to knock the light of day out of Harvard, Yale, Cornell, and Stanford. He, in other words, is end coach.
Underneath the letterhead of Richmond-Mayer of Chicago, Ltd., we learn that the body of Larry Richmond has been transplanted in toto and set down in Chicago, where it lives, breathes, and writes us a letter. It refers directly or indirectly to Len Schmitz, Mickey Emrich, Johnny Hahn, Paul Thompson, George Wright, and Bill Fieldcamp. It was in Larry, the Music Man, that we put our hope for the rescue of the world from the Maine Stein Song, and it looks as if he did it.
A letter from the United States Naval Air Station at Pensacola penned by Hammie South, airman, tells us about himself and Hank Salisbury. Hammie progressed from airplane manufacture, and Hank from airplane design, to the steering and manipulation of same. "The life is clean and fast," says Hammie, "and as you may well guess, one of ups and downs, but we love it just the same."
In a late issue of the MAGAZINE, we did as we confessed at the time—a little judicious editing of a letter from Dick Zeigler in order to separate the part that should be printed from the part that might be considered, shall we say, irrelevant. It was still, even in its abridged state, a good letter, and we said as much at the time. But Dick is quite brief in his latest communication, telling us little more than the bare facts that after a month or so of fishing and hunting in dear old Indiana (the affectionate adjectives are his, not ours), he went to become auditor at the Fountain Square Hotel in Cincinnati, where he now is.
Now before we turn off the radio and put out the cat, we will pass along a few items from our large collection of miscellaneous data, if you wish. For that matter, we will do it anyhow. We find Dave Rubin, for example, a field worker of the Jewish Board of Guardians, of New York, with Cambridge, Mass., remaining as his residence address. Carroll Mavis is an insurance man (Security General Agency Corporation) in Milwaukee. George Wright is chief clerk of the purchasing department of the Illinois Power and Light Corporation, Granite City, Ill. Merle Kimball is in that old Saturday night haven, Claremont, in the high school. Griff Roberts is computer and draughtsman for the Taconic State Park Commission, with his business address in Poughkeepsie and his residence across the river in Highland. Bymie Palmer is banking in Broad St., Gotham. Bill Moore is back among the beautiful women of Dallas, representing Congoleum-Nairn, the firm whose main plant and offices respectively in Kearny, N. J., and New York city he has recently left. ("Good evening, Mrs. Astor how are you fixed for rubber floors?") Alfie McGrath has returned to Wall St. and the National City Bank, after a cheery semester in Hanover. Art Shurts is assistant examiner for the Fireman's Fund Insurance Company, Boston. (No mention is made of firemen's bands.) Ted Seidman mystifies us with an "October to June" address in Rochester, N. Y. George Tunnicliff does the same with his "Aluminum Club, New Kensington, Pa." Frank Leahy is engaged in "distribution allotment" in the Control Division of the General Products Department of the United States Rubber Company of Naugatuck, Conn., selah! Two hundred and twenty Norwood Avenue, Buffalo, N. Y., accounts for John God-Rest-His-Soul Cheney. Bob Kimball, who has been practically the whole works down at Woodstock Academy, has moved to Monson Academy. Fred Jaspersen, whose marriage we recently reported, has settled down in Lansdowne, Pa.
We sure do feel sorry for the guys who didn't send in their two bucks and won't get this.
Secretary, Administration Bldg., Hanover, N. H.
