CLASS OF 1930

On and on we go with the controversy over christening ourselves. Hardly had the April issue of the ALUMNI MAGAZINE gone to the post office when the following unequivocal communication came trotting in: Dear Al:

This is a case of obeying that impulse. In my humble opinion, "Thirtyteers" is very sad, and "Dirty Thirties" is positively poisonous. Why not abandon the labored attempts to be clever (don't take that personally) and use a term that looks well, sounds well, and gets to the point? Such a one would be "Thirtymen." How about giving it a short workout, under wraps?

What with seeing Larkin (right at my elbow), Olsen, Page, Richards, Garland, Savage, and Holme every day in class, I am constantly reminded of other and better days.

Yours, BILL LUCAS

Soldiers' Field, Boston

Well, that is getting right to the point, and a pretty good point at that. We proceed with a right good will to give "Thirtymen" a workout, and on first acquaintance look very cordially upon the term. We would remind you that neither "Thirtyteers" nor "Dirty Thirties" is our idea. We should drop "Dirty Thirties" without a pang, and forthwith do so, consigning the term to a richly merited obscurity where it will remain, for all we care, till some champion rises up in wrath to redeem it. If such an one does arise, he shall do so over our not dead but completely apathetic body.

As for "Thirtyteers," although we held no brief for it in the beginning and tried it out purely experimentally, after a few months' intimate association we had begun to have a certain affection for it, and we won't surrender it so readily.

So on with the straw vote, ye loyal thanes of sturdy '30, and what will it be—"Thirtymen" or "Thirtyteers"? Or what?

Place your bets early and make your own odds. And a dark horse may spring up just any minute.

We have, at this time of writing on a Sunday afternoon early in April which could—by a liberal stretch of the imagination—be called mildly spring-like even though a bit grey—as we were about to say, we have just had the pleasure of calling upon Frederick Chase, Jr. (or III), and having a chat with his mother, Virginia Chase, and his grandmother, Mrs. Gerould. We didn't chat with young Fred, who was intolerably bored during the entire proceeding. With all due respect to Virginia and Fred, it would still be garnishing the truth somewhat to say that this class baby of ours, at the age of two and a half weeks, is handsome, or even pretty. At birth he was merely a drop in the bucket, considering the heroic proportions of Daddy Frederick, with his quite normal and average seven pounds. But he has picked up two pounds, which is about 30%, in the past half-month, and if some of you bankers figure that up at compound or even simple interest rates, you will obviously have two mountainous Freds in no time at all.

Young Fred was born with blue eyes, which we understand is the conventional thing, and his hair, if any, is red. The funny thing about him is that his interest in nourishment is casual to the point of utter indifference, and as often as not he will go to sleep from sheer ennui right in the middle of a meal, which, in a son of our Man-Mountain, is practically beyond understanding.

The infant Frederick has the distinction —unless some proud mama from Northampton rises to dispute it—of being the class baby of the class of 1930 of both Dartmouth and Smith Colleges.

Treasurer Booth and Pete Callaway are going shopping in Boston to get something appropriate for the official class of 1930 infant. It so happens that Bob and Pete are the only two members of the executive committee within a ten-cent fare of one another. We thought of telegraphing up to Tuck, New Hampshire, for Herm Schneebeli and going shopping down at Allen's, but on second thought it seemed not such a good idea and on third thought practically unthinkable. Anyway, Booth could take his big red checkbook along and settle out of hand, while Callaway is a notorious authority on teething rings and safety pins.

Speaking of Hanover shopping, we should tell you about Progress on Main Street. The new three-story Gitsis Building (large letters on the marble facade) has emerged in brick, and George served his first breakfast to milling and curious mobs after the Christmas vacation. George's dining-room is calculated to out-Wigwam the Wigwam and out-Chieftain the Chieftain and make one feel like a city slicker, but the hamburgers still taste the same.

Perhaps we have forgotten to mention that Saia's fruity establishment with its faint fragrance of ripe pomegranates and mature bananas has also felt the urges toward progress, and has given over its casual fruit-store atmosphere to become metamorphosed into a humming, up-and-coming Luncheonette (no less), designed with much modernistic color in the general tone of the foyer of Roxy's theatre. And its gleaming red neon sign, effulgent through the thickest fog or snowstorm, adds that Broadway touch.

The new brick postoffice, whose exterior is almost finished, stands comfortable and unawed across the street from the bank. All in all, remembering the recently built municipal building placed back from the street across from the bank, we feel that Main Street is taking on some dignity, which for the most part remains harmoniously Colonial, excepting only that faint touch of Hellenism, "Gitsis Building," on the facade of George's shining new hash-house.

And now we have the New Wigwam Counter Lunch, there by the Nugget exit where the Stage Door and an indoor Tom Thumb (to think that Hanover came to that) flickered feebly and then failed. This new Wigwam Quick Lunch is to supplement the services of the established and fashionable Wigwam Slow Lunch that all we Thirtymen have known and loved. It is planned for those less leisurely souls who would rather have speed than speculation, and who prefer food to familiarity. We predict an illustrious future for the New Wigwam Counter Lunch.

From Palermo unexpectedly comes this message from a wandering Thirtyteer (that is to say, Thirtyman) as follows: Dear Al: Here's one for two classes, '30 and 'Bl, although I fear it's of greater interest to the latter. Yesterday afternoon I started for Palermo, from Taormina, and found that the trains were all off schedule because of some landslides west of Messina, started by a flood of rain which started last September and is still going strong in Sicily, land of Eternal Sunshine, and a pig's wrist.

While waiting at Taormina for any train I fell into conversation with an obviously American gent about 60 years of age. He, too, was for Palermo with his wife, and after I told him from which of our United States I sprang he said he was from New Hampshire, originally, having been born near Salem. I said I had attended school at Hanover and he came right back with the glad news that he also had served a term within Dartmouth's green walls, being none other than Dr. Owen Copp, of Philadelphia, and a right loyal member of the class of '81.

Although he has retired from work and is probably Bearing his seventies, Dr. Copp has all the energy and enthusiasm which you look for in a lad of about 20. He and I had a small-sized reunion on the train, and I believe he enjoyed it nearly as much as I did. He has attended every reunion of his class but one since graduation, and although he said his traveling this year would make it impossible, I have a faint suspicion that June will find him traveling northward on the B. & M.

As for myself—I started out intending to go over to Luxor to see if Spen Foster could give me a job, but as I have struck steadily colder weather the further south I went I am going back up toward Russia.

My appointment for the Army Air Corps was accepted, and I am joining up in June. In the meantime I am trying the cultural effect of travel, and find it is, as reported, very, very, broadening. Yours, WALT DRESSER

Palermo, Sicily

Probably preeminent among the Thirtymen visiting Hanover this month has been Father Frederick Chase, who came here for the event but so far as we know did not pass around any cigars. At least he didn't give us any when we saw him on Main Street.

On one of those rare spring days that happen occasionally in March even in Hanover, Rusty Morrill and Pete Callaway breezed into town. They had their fun and breezed out again the next day.

Hank Odbert tore himself away from his Harvard psychy books long enough to drop in on us one week-end. We are congratulating Hank on receiving the Fred DeMerritte Barker Fellowship for next year, which he is sharing with L. W. Doob '29. Hank is the present holder of the Henry Elijah Parker Fellowship, which will be divided between Thirtymen Toland and Bush next year. Toland has been pursuing classical studies at the Sorbonne as a holder of the George E. Chamberlin Fellowship, and he will continue his study there. Bush will continue in his graduate study of philosophy at Cornell. Al Hayes has been re-awarded the Richard Crawford Campbell, Jr., Fellowship and he will continue in his graduate work in English at Princeton.

By the way, speaking of our academicians, our Gomer Waterman is reported to be at Heidelberg, and whether he has his nose in a book or in a mug we have no idea.

We expect the rapidly developing so-called mating season to produce a goodly flock of '30 benedicts for the delectation of readers of these columns. We have received a roundabout and undated notice of the marriage of Gilman Lowery to Miss Norma Howard of Framingham, Mass., together with the information that they are living in Ashland while Gil works with the Warren Telechron Company.

Aren't there some more unreported nuptials? Come clean, Thirtymen, come clean!

One of those letters that are a joy to the secretarial heart, practically solid with good factual '30 dope, has come in as follows from W M. (Brownie) Brown:

Dear Skip: When I was in Hanover some six weeks ago it seemed to me that I saw about everyone but you. Where do you keep yourself, or was it just a plain case of being away on a peerade to Hamp or Boston?

There hasn't been much of importance taking place in this part of the country, but as far as I can learn all the Thirtyteers in this section are well on the road to their first million. We have a new arrival in these parts —Hal Booma has taken a job with a new cigarette company called "The Dawn Beacon Lit Cigarette Company," or some such thing as that. From that classy title you are supposed to infer that the cigarettes are self-lighting and that they are the finest thing ever created. Hal gives me the sales talk about once every week, so I won't bother you with it, for you will probably have to hear it sometime soon anyway.

Monday night I was somewhat disappointed when I went up to the Columbia gym to see our boys taken in a very fast game of basketball. The evening was not a total failure, as I ran into quite a few of the classmates. Bud Bry said that he had just returned from a trip to Texas, where he had gone on business—what kind I do not feel qualified to state—but if Texas is like Moore says it is, Bud did not accomplish much in the way of aviation research, unless that is a new name for it.

Nels Galbraith says that he likes the insurance business first rate. Of course we all knowthat he has charge of some three hundred girls, and who wouldn't enjoy such a position.

Johnny Cheney is trading bonds for the investment house of Harris-Forbes, and he had the nerve to tell me that I was working for a first class bucket shop. Charlie Rauch has passed me on the street a couple of times, and I guess from what he says that he is satisfied with the brokerage business. He is located with Wood, Struthers. Russ Sigler still pops up from nowhere every now and then on one of his credit investigation tours for the Central Hanover Bank.

Vic Borella is with the Terminal Cab Co. He said that he has a great deal of fun going around to see the various pilots of those yellow wagons one occasionally sees in New York. A fine gang to be associated with.

Bill Moore is still with the Congoleum-Nairn Company, and he seems to think that he may be moved to Dallas sometime in the near future. Every now and then he gets a letter from Don McBirney, who is working in a bank in Tulsa.

I saw Snub Poehler at the basketball game on Monday night and he still seems to be having much success with his school's teams. As far as I can gather he is the coach, trainer, manager, faculty advisor, and the whole darn works.

Bill Rich finished his training course at the Guaranty Trust Co. in New York and he has now moved to Chicago. Frank Tragle has quit at Columbia, where he was studying last fall—it interfered with his week-ends too much. That leaves Kip Chase in the apartment, and although I don't see him very often I understand that he is still with the Chase National Bank.

Freddy Tangeman has gone to Madison, Wis., but he did not state in his card to me just what sort of work he was doing. It may be that he has become the coach of the girls' basketball team at the University of Wisconsin.

Probably a lot of this is old news to you, but I thought you might be interested in hearing what little I know of some of the more lazy members of the class. I certainly enjoy your columns in the MAGAZINE each month, and I read with a great deal of interest just what all the Thirtyteers are doing.

So long, Skip, and keep up the good work.

BROWNIE

Montclair, N. J. Now then, before it begins to get very late and we begin to get very sleepy, we will dash off some brief items which we have gathered by hook or by crook or by agency of those efficient sleuths up in the Alumni Records Office; items about which we have too meagre information to wax loquacious in our garrulous fashion.

There is Ed Meyers, for instance, who is working with the Continental Bank and Trust Company of New York and living on East 76th St.

And then there is Horst Orbanowski, who gives his address at M. I. T. Dormitories, Cambridge, Mass. Horst came up with the M. I. T. hockey team during the winter, and skated into our defense men with as much enthusiasm as if he had never been a good Dartmouth Thirtyman himself.

There is Art Pettengill, too, who has not broken down and written us a letter yet, but we know nevertheless that he is in Lincoln, N. H., in the paper business. Being within cycling distance of Hanover, Art should turn with interest to the notice at the end of this article.

Ed Conklin is a reviewer in the personal trust department of the investment division of the Central Hanover Bank and Trust Company of New York, New York—selah! And he lives in Glen Ridge, N. J.

Bill Dearstyne succinctly states himself a salesman in Pittsfield, Mass., and whether it is Frigidaires, Fuller Brushes, or autogiros we have no idea.

When last heard from in October, Wis Clark was a broker in Hartford, Conn.

We learn via Bottome via an authoritative Source of Information in New York (at least, we assume that she is on the inside) that Tommy Longnecker is covering a colorful beat on a Toledo newspaper. Before long they will be portraying him in the drama— "Four Alarm" Longnecker, the Reporter who Never Said Damn.

That John Coppock is in Springfield, Mass. is the sum total of information on one neat slip of paper from the Alumni Records Office, unless one includes the fact that he is living at 198 Central St.

Dick Loring is living at the A. T. O. house at Orono, Me., attending the Rudyversity of Maine—hum it, boys, hum it!

Paul Maguire is with the Western Electric Company in Kearny, N. J.

Ralph Blake is doing revenue accounting for the New York Telephone Company, and living at the Theta Delta Chi Club in New York.

Bill Christ is running the Old Meeting House Inn at South Hadley, Mass., and we suggest that Thirtymen who commute to Holyoke and Smith try out Bill's inn and tea room for their tete-a-tetes.

Sam Carlisle is connected with De Coppet and Doremus in New York as an order clerk on the stock exchange, and lives at One Fifth Avenue, which strikes us as an impressive address.

Dent Carman, a slip informs us, is in advertising in Boston.

Tom Kedian of Belmont is connected with the George A. Giles Company of Cambridge, in real estate and insurance.

Kels Moore is studying at M. I. T.

Gene Scadron, with a New York city address, lists himself "student," which, as we remember some previous rumor, means Columbia.

Dave Marks, too, is a student, being among that great big happy family of nostalgic Hanoverians in Cambridge, attending Harvard Law.

Bob Barker and Bob Jordan thought it was enough to send in mere addresses, the former in New York and the latter in Boston. The same goes for Bernard Gariepy, who gives us one in five digits on Abington Road in Detroit.

Jack Beckham, that wandering and carefree soul, has a lovely new address in Los Angeles. It is 4062 Wilshire Boulevard.

Jack Birmingham is assistant instructor in chemistry at Columbia College, living on Hamilton Terrace, 63, to be exact.

Speaking of nice California addresses, Doug Nicholson has one at 279 North Euclid Ave., Pasadena, and that is all we know about Doug. Another uncommunicative soul is Fred Hooper at 95 Ocean Ave., Woodfords, Me. And then we mustn't forget Jerry Goodman at 2000 Lincoln Park West, Apt. 1408, Chicago, 111.

Frank Rath is attached in a business way to Deitsch Brothers, 135 Madison Ave. We don't know what the Deitsches do.

Stan Swanson may be found on Wall St. in the offices of L. S. Carter and Company.

To get back to the letters, here is one from Ted Childs which got squeezed out of the last issue:

Dear Al: A craving to see one's name in print is a bad thing to possess, but as it is probably one of my worst vices, I'll admit it.

In a way I am glad that you ignored or never saw the card I filled out some time last July for your records. My original position after graduation was with Harris, Forbes and Company, New York investment banking house. Unlike John Cheney, I got a month's extra pay around Christmas time and a pass to the outside world for refusing to peddle bonds somewhere around the first of the year.

The thought occurred to me that it wouldn't be a bad idea to take a short vacation in the Berkshire Hills of Massachusetts. I did take a vacation.

Fortunately enough it was terminated the latter part of January by the Travelers Insurance Company, who found a place for me in the liability claim division of their New York office. Since that time I have been gaily prancing about New York city chasing claimants who would justly or unjustly (mostly unjustly) have a bit of the Travelers' money. The work is fascinating and profitable. Only today a claimant, also recent bride, had me partake of a bit of wedding cake and better wedding wine.

Perhaps that will be held against me later. That lousy word, "Thirtyteers," should be held against you. Forgetting it for the time being, I might let you know that concerning men of the class of 1930 I have the following:

1. That Bill Howe manages to hang on at Columbia Law School, despite the fact that the dean told him that he would last but a few months inasmuch as he received his preliminary training at the New Hampshire Winter Club.

2. That Bill O'Brion is still atttempting to make all the beautiful girls on the island of Manhattan and on the side sell lithography for the National Process Company.

3. That Burt Sherwood is still with the Edison people, working for the accident prevention department and a title of "efficiency expert."

4. That Ken Johnes and the Murphy Varnish Company of Newark are getting along amicably, although Ken does advise others not to come around to his place looking for a job, as the company might give the newcomers Ken's job.

That's all.—My best regards, Al. TED CHILDS

New York City

We pass over Ted's crack about "Thirtyteers." We have said all that we have to say on that score this month. Of course, next month is another month—! Concerning those postcards filled out last June, July, August, or thereafter, we used some of these for dope for the August issue, but since then letters have come in so handsomely that so far we haven't had a chance to revert to the postcards, which are parked very helpfully in the files, and are meanwhile getting more and more stale for publication, so that we do hope that we shall never have to turn to them.

ALUMNI FUND

By the time this reaches you, Mickey and Sam and Fred and Hank will have told you all about the Alumni Fund. This is our first opportunity to show off, and if we don't make '29 look quite futile and senile and decadent by comparison we should and shall be disappointed. The percentage of contributors is the thing to work for this year, and if we get a hale and hearty roster of givers the amount contributed will take care of itself. One hundred per cent is the goal. Dig deep, Thirtymen, and shell out.

We are just trying to polish off our work tonight so that we may get off tomorrow on a chiefly business junket south to Atlanta, on the tail end of which junket comes in the nonbusiness element, a dinner of the 1930 club in New York which we are going to get to look in on. This is a pretty fine idea, this dinner club of Thirtymen (don't forget to send us your straw vote on "Thirtymen" vs. "Thirtyteers") in New York, and we suggest that Thirtyteers in other urban centers go and do likewise. We have here a very felicitous letter from the ever-facile pen of Kip Chase, explaining the genesis of the organization:

Dear Al: I'm afraid that I haven't done much justice to your much-appreciated letter of some time ago for the usual reasons. But I dedicate this to the purpose of getting back into your good graces, hoping that you will coax me into the alley in back of the Nugget when I come up for House Party.

The "class organization" which you asked me about was born more or less on a hot July evening, when about twenty members of '30 and '31 got together in a Greenwich Village apartment with an excuse. The excuse was to give Billy Alton a send-off on a round-the-world trip he was about to take. From this unostentatious beginning the two classes rapidly got more and more organized, and when I left for home around eleven o'clock I could see that there were unlimited possibilities for organization. In fact, I was slightly apprehensive as to whether over-organization would result. But this was an empty fear.

The second stage of organization occurred at the Yale game. About two weeks before I had lunch with Gil Cheney and Al McGrath to lay plans for the trip to New Haven. We had been laying plans for some time when we decided that it would be a good idea to get a crowd together for the game. Accordingly, McGrath, Cheney, Jessup, Wooster, Winter, I, and others went up on a special and sat together. This second phase of organization ended about when the game ended.

Then in December some of us decided that it would be a good idea to have a class dinner to see some of the boys who are somewhat off the beaten track. We fixed up a letter and had Mac Rollins at the Dartmouth Club send copies to the 130 members of class within the fifty-mile radius of New York. About fortyfive attended the dinner at the Club, and everybody was so busy finding out what the others had been doing since June, that there was no need for other entertainment. Mac gave a talk after dinner, telling us about the present and future plans of the Club and of the New York Association. And we finished up by deciding to meet for dinner once a month.

We called it off in January because the date set was so close to the night of the alumni dinner, but had a dinner about ten days ago, at which there were twenty or so. We are going to have speakers for those to follow.

From your reference to my work in your letter one might think that I operate in greatest secrecy, protected by a battery of field artillery. To explode that myth let me say that I am sort of a clerk in the credit department of a bank downtown. My contribution to the success of the institution is still very close to absolute zero. But I like my work there very much and feel as if I had done some learning since I started in June. Another myth I would like to explode is the usage of the term, "bankers' hours." Contrary to your impression, this term may be, and often is, extended to include twelve or fourteen hours a day. And that is one of the reasons why I haven't written you before now.

In October Tragle, Rich, and I took an apartment. But Tragle at once began a detailed survey of the country, and Rich's one bid to fame was ability to scramble eggs when called upon to do so occasionally. Bill has since been transferred to the Chicago office of the Guaranty Company, and I miss the eggs. With the coming of spring Tragle seems to be winding up his work at Poughkeepsie and turning more to Baltimore than usual. However, he is an excellent roommate when at home, and I think Jessup and I have brought him to the point where he will dip into a little work.

I see a good many of the boys around town, but I believe that you are posted on all of them, with the exception that Hal Booma is now at 120 Broadway, doing publicity work for the Dawn Cigarette. This cigarette would seem to threaten the match industry in that it is lighted by scratching an end on sandpaper. Also, Bottome told me yesterday that Haffenreffer is assistant secretary-treasurer of the Herreshoff Shipbuilding Corporation.

Yours, KIP CHASENew York City

SOMETHING VERY MERRY

You must have heard about it by now. It is a very superior bit of news. It has been spreading among Thirtymen like wildfire, passing from lip to lip in excited whispers, electrifying Thirtyteers from the rockbound coasts of Maine to the sunkist slopes of Rutland Mountain, from the snowcapped peaks of the White Mountains to the burning sands of Coney Island. What is it? It is the 1930 Barbecue Extraordinary on May 16.

Its site will be Lake Fairlee. Food, transportation, everything will be provided. It will be very, very merry.

The planning committee has consisted of "Tuck" Blanchard, "Medic" Birge, "Thayer" Cole, "Undergraduate" Casler, and Committeemen-at-large Schneebeli, Michel, and Rix. There is a subcommittee for drought relief, which has been holding private hearings. The party committee will probably subpoena their proceedings at an appropriate time.

If you can make it, drop us a line right away quick. We will put your name in the pot and let you know what the tax will be. Picture one of those wistful Saturday afternoons, that vague mellow restless feeling, a fast ride, a let-us-be-gay sun, a crisp lake, swimming, hunger, thirst, nourishment, refreshment. Then sunset and a new moon, and the ride back. Your last Merry Council of Thirtymen in the good old hills for a long, long time Don't miss it.

Secretary, Parkhurst Hall, Hanover, N. H.