Class of 1934
Until today I feared that '34's contribution this month would consist only of a few paltry notes turned back by the grim MAGAZINE editors who couldn't fit them into the October issue.
Last spring Bill Scherman, father of the 1934 Alumni Fund newsletter, smooched a lot of our material for his propaganda sheet, but to keep the columns complete I am going to backtrack to a couple of those items, with apologies to those who have read some of this news in Bill's brief.
Homer Gregory was married last June the twentieth to Miss Martha Louise Knox, at Old Saybrook, Conn.
On the letterhead of WTAD, alleged to be a broadcasting station in Quincy, Ill., writes Bill Gay, onetime space salesman, onetime wisher for the big town. Settled for the present on one of the banks of the Mississippi, Bill declares that life in Q. runs the complete gamut of emotionsfrom the heights to the depths—"the pleasure of getting from house to work in 5 minutes 5 ... . the sorrow of having tostrain one's ear while at the supper table inorder to hear Glen Gray and his laddies onthe Camel program." Good grief, it's alarming how even literature like this becomes dated in the course of an all-too-brief summer. The Gay capacity is that of chief of announcing staff, with some news editorship, commentating, and sports reporting thrown in. And as if Hanover, N. H., didn't give him a sound education, he claims to be learning to talk all over again, courtesy Webster and Funk & Wagnalls.
Yes, this was all the news there was, this and a lonely business card handed me over the punch bowl the other night by Fitch Briggs, locating him in the Wall St. district with the investment house of Schlater, Noyes, & Gardner.
Then like an augur of good happenings arrived the announcement by Mr. and Mrs. D. C. Bambenek of the marriage of their daughter Louise Ann to Mr. John Bush Torinus, better known to the boys in the city room as J. B. They will make their home in Green Bay.
Then sure enough, along came Pappy Benson, to correct our erroneous report of his nuptials-to-be; It was Mrs. Louise P. Bennett he was engaged to, and on August 1, he "married the same. Along with her," says Jim, "came a bouncing 2-year-old,Dorothy Ann, and at the present time Ifind myself repeating, 'It's not the initialcost, it's the upkeep.' "
Benson goes on to say: "A note from Bud Hart has him co-editor and owner of an Albion (N. Y.) yellow journal. See a lot of Emmie Brown, who is making his prowess felt in insurance circles . . . . he's still single. Will Richardson is living in Springfield and is becoming a capitalist, having just bought a mechanics' soap formula and the good will of the company . . . . is now a soap manufacturer of no mean proportions and a dealer in tobacco. He is, of course, married, has one bambino. Art Noble joined the ranks of the Legion of the Benediti last month, as did the Ancient Mariner, McHugh.
"For myself, I pumped gas, sold ham, loaned money, and now am selling printing for an A-1 Boston house Did Wilmot ever marry that Hindu girl? . . . . Does Dartmouth play Harvard this year?"
Brownie Brown was wedded to Miss Hazel H. Rees, of Arlington, Mass., on June 27. Besides continuing his work at the N. H. Industrial School, he is pursuing graduate studies in sociology at Boston U. He admits that it's a big commuting distance. H. B. reports that George Collins is still with the N. H. Highway Department. . . . . Elmer Fulton is teaching English and philosophy at Hanover High School. .... Bob Layzell is real estating in Manchester John Hallenbeck is back at Harvard Law for his last year. ....
And now, having no further notes or letters, no milestones to report, no inclination to dig out the class records for statistics or address lists. .... I'm going to talk about myself. Egad, I've been looking for this opportunity for years, for buried beneath this objective secretarial pose, firm held within this Boswellian hide has been smouldering a journalistic self-assertiveness which vowed some day to spring full-armed on to the pages of the ALUMNI MAGAZINE.
In June, 1935, I left the Boy Scouts of America and spent three months as a cyclist and third-class passenger in Europe, concentrating on peaceful Spain and blackbaiting Italy. Directly I had set foot on these United States again I had the good fortune to be accepted by Time, Inc., as an embryo space salesman, sometimes known as a cub. After all these months I am happy to report continued and fervent allegiance to that firm. Although Time is predominantly a Yale-staffed organization, those few Dartmouths among us are sufficiently strong-minded to stick to our sweat-shirt philosophy and north-Yankee twang.
Publishers of Time, Fortune, the Architectural Forum, the March of Time, and now Life (the name purchased, to be used for a new picture magazine), Time, Inc., without intending to do it, found itself experimenting on a publication to be written by its own readers, to be called Letters. It began as a supplement to Time's letters-to-the-editor department. The idea progressed, was well received by its small public, evolved into a unique, extremely effective advertising medium. Into this branchselling advertising space—l was placed, and has spent the past year selling into the ad columns of Letters everything from Dr. Thistlebaum's corn remover to the American Tel. and Tel. However, the company was so engrossed with the approaching debut of Life, that Letters soon took the back seat for a fare-thee-well. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and maybe some day will be taken from the shelf and dusted off.
However, as wags used to say about the oboe, it's an ill whirlwind that nobody blows good. So the beginnings of Life took a number of the Time advertising men, which left openings. Fortunately my inexperience rendered me especially suited to one of these jobs, and into it I sailed. Now I am a cross between a production man and an advertising man. I am continuallystumped by questionnaires which ask my occupation, for I do not sell, neither do I write. I am a keeper of the charts, an approver of contracts, a shooter of troubles, a reader of reports, a receiver of complaints, and a position finagler of the first water.
Favorite occupations: .... arguing with Pappy Scherman on the merits of the single, as opposed to the wedded, state .... talking on the 'phone with ex-roommate Hedges, promising to have dinner with him and never having it ... . telling Landon supporters that they can go their way and I'll go mine .... being taught the proper form in golf by Butcher Brabbee, who is fast becoming a slave to the greens and fairways .... seeing many Dartmouth faces at the D'Oyly Carte performances, some of which would seem more at home behind the footlights .... getting the full-dope on trunk lines and multiple switchboards from Leo the Telephone Man Eggleston .... looking forward with undisguised glee to the first Harvard week-end in two years, by the time you read this, of course, well in the past .... hearing just a bare outline of how Harry Wheelock and Al Kahn were held up to the extent of $35 by three Harlem thugs .... getting a hello and goodby call from Em Day before he returned to Harvard for the fall .... running into Bobbie Douglass in every other beanery on 42d St hearing that Buzz Edson goes to Fordham Law, studies while managing the Trans-Lux Theater .... wondering why some of you birds don't let your hair down and write .... wondering when in blazes some of us are going to hear from Willy Leveen again .... reading with much admiration Prexy's articles in the Atlantic .... and with almost as much, I confess, of Red Rolfe's .400 in the Series . . . . wondering how different many things would be had I not gone to the Borghesi Museum in Rome one Sunday morning in the summer of 1935 and there bumped into Kirk Spider. It was Kirk who introduced me to a guy who introduced me to a guy who is my boss
Thoughts at the present moment, however, are predominantly centered upon a happy little fiasco which is to take place the latter part of this week. Much as we revere the single state, we do love to be ushers at friends' weddings. Well, this week we are going to be our first usher, for Bill Knibbs and Lila Lopez are to be married in New Rochelle on the evening of October 16. Fellow workers .... will be Dave Hedges, Dave Callaway, and that stout fella, Buppo Sweeney from Indianapolis.
Why .... what's this popping up to cut short my ramblings on self and friends! Lord save us, it's a letter, and I am going to quote a lot from it, just to get back to that frame of mind essential to all good scribes who themselves forget in service to the welfare of their brethren in '34. This letter is from Jack Feth, who has obtained a year's leave from Bronxville High to join the .... guess what .... the Dartmouth Outing Club, as assistant general manager. Jack says that, while he misses the '34 dinners at the New York Club, he does take comfort in the calm and quiet of the Rood Club porch. Don Allen is back at Harvard for year two in law. . . . Sey Dunn in his third year of teaching and study at Cornell Ben Twiss back at Princeton after a summer at Alaska Johnny Roberts finished at M. I. T. and in the employ of DuPont
The second '34 dinner of the year came off with usual success. Among those present was Al Hewitt, recently released from the boards when "The Golden Journey" closed. Al played one of the leads—juvenile —and got spendid reviews, but the show itself fared not half so well. Hewitt is still under the personal tutelage of the Lunts, who are farming him out to play more prominent roles than would be his lot in one of their own productions.
One of the joys of a late summer season turned out to be an afternoon sail sponsored by Bob Griffin on his yawl. The beer, the breeze, the gags were plentiful. Robbe and Wells discovered that they had many mutual friends in Montclair, and any lull in general conversation would immediately bring forth such Robbean rumblings as, "Do you know Hector Doolittle?" Callaway stopped the show when he cracked his head on a boom, proudly displayed the bump as evidence of his initiation into the ways of the sea. Jeff Jackson was a bit puzzled about the location of the nearest men's room. Wells showed up first at the New Rochelle Yacht Club, had a launch running around Echo Bay bellowing for Mr. Griffin, when he suddenly remembered that the party was at the Larchmont Yacht Club. It turned out that there was a Mr. Griffin at New Rochelle, too, and the club officials were a bit fed up with Wells.
Griffin proved to be an able skipper, but periodically deserted his post, leaving it in such doubtful hands as those of Scherman or Wendy Williams. Only twice did we cross the course of the day's important boat race, only once was Williams a bit shaky as to whether to go to port or starboard of a looming vessel. Out itinerary was a simple one—Westchester to Long Island and back again. It was good sport, even though we returned without learning a jib from a mizzenmast. Those are two terms I just happened to think up, and I hope they don't mean the same thing. Father protect us from Griffin's wrath.
Until the next time
Secretary, 126 Beaufort PL, New Rochelle, N. Y.
