CLASS OF 1925
This has been a lean month. We happen to be referring to the news items that have come to our attention, although the statement might go as a blanket admission.
Received a surprise letter the other day from Jack Packard, announcing his engagement to Miss Ruth M. Tupper of Worcester, Mass. Miss Tupper is a graduate of Middlebury College, class of 1927, which explains many things, since Jack has been located in Middlebury for some time, having established himself as resident manager of the Middlebury Inn. This hotel is one of L. G. Treadway's chain of "Real New England Inns," be it known, and incidentally Mr. Treadway is also "of the faith"—meaning Dartmouth 'OB to be exact.
Space must be made just here for the tidings that Steve Ryan is acknowledged to be the best bowler of the University Club (Boston). Rumor also has it that Steve is about to walk the plank, having gone and went and gotten himself engaged. Details are not immediately forthcoming, but our trusty sleuths are hot on the trail of more definite information, and we hope to have a scoop in time for our next issue.
Dick Holden is sharing quarters with Nate Bugbee out in Cambridge, Mass. There's a household for you! Dick is New England passenger agent for the Eurness Bermuda line, which makes him a sort of Cupid once removed or something, since the line is famous for its accommodations for honeymooners. Ralph Tucker was married on December 27 to Ruth Godfrey of Wollaston, Mass. Miss Godfrey is a graduate of Skidmore, class of '28. The wedding party was rendered the more festive by the convivial presences of ushers Chuck MacMillan and Dick Holden. After a Southern honeymoon (see above item) the Tuckers will settle in Detroit, where Ralph is assistant district manager for Lever Bros.
And now that we have broken into print with news of the aforesaid Chuck we push on to further revelations that M. MacMillan is once more in the East. To be specific, Chuck is taking up mechanical engineering at Tech, having left his work in Texas, for the present at least, to gratify his ambitions along this line.
We hear occasionally from Pete Kelsey, who, by his own admission, keeps the nose pretty well to the old grindstone these days in the insurance offices of Marsh and McLennan, brokers, New York city—the same firm that Bob Borwell labors for in Chicago. Pete commutes from Montclair, N. J., and says he enjoys it. Being quite the man-in-the-street, he reports having lately run across Bob Reynolds, who is doing big things with the funds of the D. & H. Railroad, Dutch Hendrian, who is also doing insurance, Brad Smith, who is also doing insurance (in Newark) and also lives in Montclair, Terry McGaughan, now a barrister, and Tibby Marshall and Frank Kennedy, the latter two, of course, encountered in Wall St.—where else? The Kelseys were in Chicago last fall. Pete attended a Dartmouth luncheon there and reuned with Ken Montgomery, Neil Williams, Horton Conrad, and others of the ilk. Also called on Mr. and Mrs. Ike Burner in Decatur, where Ike is a flourishing grain broker, and Gair Tourtellot, Chuck Dodd, and Newt Tobey, in Evanston, stopping off en route to see Frank Hershey, who is with the Marine Trust Co. in Buffalo. All of which gives us a quite comprehensive line on some of the out-of-towners.
Had a visit the other day from Bob Bishop, who is with the Filing Equipment Bureau here in Boston in the capacity of sales promotion manager. Things are going nicely with him, and in case you don't know it there's a Robert Junior, aged two come this February.
Green Envy has us by the throat and all because of some picture postcards to hand from Neil Williams this very morning, consarn him, with views of Mackinac Island, Mich., and comments somewhat to this effect: "There's two feet of snow here in the level spaces and tons in drifts. Tracy Turner and I came up here for a week's rest and sport, and we've enjoyed it so much that we've already stayed two days overtime. If we don't get out tomorrow Lord knows how much longer we'll be here. It looks as tho we may be stuck for a couple of days, as this is just the time when ice is too thick for the boat to crush through and too thin for dog or horse sleigh. The skiing has been splendid, we've bagged a couple of ducks apiece, but there's no fishing until the ice sets. There are four motor sleds here, driven by motor props, and it's quite a thrill riding around—imagine it on a two- or three-mile stretch of glare ice!" That's the life.
Karl Lipsohn has been appointed secretary of the newly formed Junior Executive Club of the Boston Chamber of Commerce. The organization is closely patterned after the older Executives Club, offering the "younger executives" the same facilities for hearing from an outside speaker each month and for discussions of subjects of mutual interest, as well as enabling members to greatly widen their field of acquaintances. Victor M. Cutter ('03), president of the United Fruit Company, was the speaker at the last meeting.
Spent a most enjoyable afternoon and evening not long ago with Jock Brace and his family at their country place in Dover, Mass. After much maneuvering among chickens, cows, dogs, and what not, we were lured into his squash court—and then the slaughter began. The main idea of this game, according to Jock's rules, was to swing wildly and hit (a) the ball or (b) your opponent—preferably the latter. Jock sure was an expert— there's no getting around that-with the result that today, for the first time, I was able to return to my desk and duties. However, in self-defence let us state that Jock too is still feeling the rigors of combat, with the result that he is leaving for Bermuda the end of this month to rest up.
Passing the Court House the other day our ear was halted in mid-air—in fact, both our ears were halted in mid-air—at the sound of a stentorian voice echoing from that Chamber of Justice. "Aha," thinks us to ourself, "them tones have a strangely familiar ring," and with that we pushed open the green baize door. He couldn't fool us—it was Wally Wallis delivering an impassioned plea (and how he can impash them) in defense of Andrew Volstead or the Harvard scrubwomen or something. The silvery-tongued Wally has builded himself quite a law practice in this Seat of Learning, and is rapidly "getting on," as they say out West.
We hear from Norm Strickland now and again; he is in the investment trust department of the National Shawmut Bank, Boston. Which means Norm picks the good 'uns for those fortunate to have trust funds for investment. We can only hope he has better luck in picking than we have—otherwise his job isn't the sinecure it may sound to our vast reading public.
May we again urge you, gentlemen, to step right up and contribute any news items regarding '25ers that might drift your way. Any-and everything is welcome.
Secretary, 67 Milk St., Boston
