Class of 1938
When it comes time to jot down stuff for the first issue of the MAGAZINE it's a very definite sign that summer is over. This year I'm about a month out of line in getting mentally adjusted, as for one reason or another I've postponed taking a vacation, and as long as that's still to be done it doesn't seem right for fall to be here all at once. Thinking just now of the pace at which the past summer has clicked by, my mind has been wandering back over the past few years, and it brings you up sharply to realize that it's now slightly over eight years since we filed into Webster for diplomas. At the time, and even as recently as the Fifth Reunion, the ten-year class appeared like a bunch of tired greyhaired old men, and yet a year and a half from now when we'll be in that same spot I'm pretty certain that we'll feel no occasion to acknowledge any such infirmities. And yet, privately no doubt, when we give a glance at a sagging chin or spots of gray sprouting here and there we probably wonder \where we've been while the past eight years have coasted by. And at this point for the first time since 1928 we are amused, but secretly pleased (at the risk of a possible reflection on our intellect) to have anyone make the mistake of asking if we are still at Hanover.
Without a doubt we could have picked a better time to graduate—l'd say from my vantage point that the effects of the past several years have been felt by everyone in the class in a pretty uniform manner. Jobs we were able to get, most of us, and probably we were fortunate at that, but opportunities to demonstrate anything have been scarce. Recently, however, there seems to be a noticeable pickup in rumors, at least, of fat promotions, and in all probability the next few years will tell the story for most of us. So, here's luck to everyone.
Somehow or other that grew into quite a philosophical note. And at this point we seem to have gotten exactly nowhere.
We don't particularly like to lead off with Skinner, but he dropped in on Mab and me last evening fresh from his six weeks' European junket, and there's one thing you ought to know about in case you go traveling with him sometime. Seems this guy has a penchant for climbing things and had his heart set on the Matterhorn. He and another gent of similar suicidal propensities hired a guide (one guide instead of two since they alleged they were experts at the sport) and started up the thing. All went nicely until they reached a sheer rocky slope where the proper system is to watch where the fellow ahead finds his hand-holds. The guide was first, Os next, and his friend last—and as usually can be depended upon, the last man forgot to watch Os, missed a couple of important niches, slipped, and there he was dangling on a rope looped around Os's chest, and Os, with no foothold, hanging on with only his fingers clinched in a little crevice. Os claimed he wasn't worried, figuring that the guide had a good hold, but began to experience some slight discomfort when the rope started to slip down off his chest and the guy below announced that he was coming up the rope. Seems that Os had had a touch of the bellyache the day before and visioned trouble if the rope slipped to that point. So he vetoed the suggestion and proposed that the gentleman swing in to a hold of some sort. Then the process of swinging began, and as momentum was achieved the danglee eventually found something to grab. This accomplished, Os drew the fellow a verbal blueprint of the past several holds, and as these were found the rope between them slackened enough for Os to pull himself up over the ledge—and of course when he got there he found the guide holding on to his rope with one hand.- He had had to untie the rope around his waist in order to reach a higher foothold. If you have been able to time all this, you'll probably figure, as I did, that Skinner must have been hanging for some minutes, but he claims that his fingers simply froze to rigidity and he was apparently too busy to notice the slightest fatigue. Next day, however, they were not too preoccupied to miss noticing several brand- new graves especially constructed for a few individuals who had slipped—rather permanently.
While we're on the subject of the hazards of vacationing, we should by all means inscribe the details of the Heyn-Makepeace Cape Cod idyll. Ed and Milly, Makie and Ann got hold of a cottage on the Cape' for a couple of weeks, worked half the night setting up shop and next morning after breakfast the whole crew went swimming. Not long thereafter they heard a pretty fair-sized explosion and turned around to see the cottage in flames. A quick inventory of merchandise on hand showed four bathing suits, four pairs of shoes, two rubber hats, and two ringsMilly had forgotten to leave hers at the house. By the time they got to the cottage, it was burning merrily and very hot, so having nothing better to do they stood around and watched her go. Midway through the performance the entire side of the building fell away, revealing the second-floor bedrooms, which had not yet been reached, and Ann had the pleasure of seeing the fire reach up and gradually consume a closet in which her choicest clothes were hanging—a grim touch, that. Strangely enough both Ed's and Makie's wallets were readily located, and although the bills were scorched, they could be exchanged for new ones. That was apparently the first thing done, and shorty afterward Milly and Ann appeared at Best's in Hyannis in bathing suits, much to the astonishment of the management. Next day Makie and Ed sifted ashes for hours and actually found Ann's rings. Ed, the rascal, was insured.
According to the latest reports, Bob Reed has left the Bankers Trust for Burton, Cluett, and Dana, brokers, of 130 Broadway.
Jerry Johnston is in a fair way of becoming a celebrated Scottie raiser. We understand that two in the last litter went for $125 each, which, we'd say offhand, is a very substantial price to pay for anything short of an elephant.
Rowland Myers is a professor at Union College, Schenectady, N. Y.—Art Perkins is assistant land architect for the National Park Service and is living at Richmond, Va. Howie Moss is with Doubleday, Doran Publishing Cos., Garden City, Long Island. A 1 Cantril is a professor of psychology at Princeton.
Seems like people are still getting married. Curley Prosser stepped off with Allene Thompson on August 27, and they will live at 25 Remsen St., Brooklyn. After returning from Washington a few months ago, having been loaned to the government by the Chase Bank, Curley became associated with the American Institute of Banking in New York City. Bill Marx and Beatrice Lent were hooked up on June 27. Joe Tidd was married to Margaret Stowell at Glencoe, 111., on August 8. Joe's fatherin-law is F. H. Stowell of the class of 1904. Bob Byrne and Ethel Redman of Franklin, N. H., were married August 1. Bob's wife is a graduate of Peter Bent Brigham Hospital Training School, and for two years has been surgery supervisor at the Cooley-Dickinson Hospital at Northampton, Mass. Bob, you will remember, graduated from Rush Medical in Chicago and interned at the Cincinnati General Hospital. He is practicing medicine in Hatfield, Mass.
Secretary, Wm. Iselin & Co. 357 Fourth Ave., New York
