1918
ONCE AGAIN the stalwarts and their consorts gathered beneath the elms of old Pomonok to make merry. 'Twas September 21—and they're still talking about it.
A southeast gale snapped across the golf course —a sequel to the hurricane. But did it bother the razor-sharp game of the Messrs. Earley, Morey, Hanley, Shea, Holton, Nelson and several others? Yes sir, it did. It made most of them look like applewomen, and venerable applewomen at that. Shamus O'Shea put his masterful mind off his giltedged bonds and his gilt-haired blondes, and played as only an O'Shea can play. Good. Cap Hanley, the tire man with the heavy tread, trod close behind. When he drove, housewives in far-away Bensonhearst clapped their hands to their ears and hollered, "Earthquake!" Walt Nelson, the big mortgage man who will lend you money on anything except your personal word, did more with half a swing than Earley could do with his two-and-a-half. Syl Morey still teeters up on his high Mongolian toes when wielding the mashie, and attracted quite a segment of the huge gallery. "We go fer novelty," said one follower.
And at Forest Hills.
On the classic ground which Tilden trod, several inept members floundered and fell, fought and lost and won. Renewing the ancient grudge of last year, when a referee's questionable decision cost them the match, Johnny Johnston and Stan Jones scored in easy fashion over their opponents —"The Thin and the Thick of It," Dwight Sargent and Pete Colwell. At no time did the losers threaten the sublime control' of the victors, who led them to defeat like Pekinese on a leash. Red Hulbert came along, too, and sides were changed as well-worn hearts began to whang and flutter. Red was by all odds the fastest man on the courtrunning three times around his partner in one hectic exchange.
At the Club
At Dick Holton's hostelry, everything was ready,willing, and able to give the gang a marvelous time. The spirit of John Barleycorn beamed over the gentlemen, while the ladies devoted them- selves to tea with lemon. And the food Dick left absolutely nothing to chance. Cocktails, dinner, lobsters, clams, oysters—even roast beef and chicken greeted the Gargantuas when they reeled into their seats. Dick and Edith mixed around, seeing that everybody had as good a time as they should have had—and did. It was good to have Miriam Morrison with us. She was one of the great hits of the day, and purty? Yes indeedy! A special committee will be appointed to see that she gets there," every year. Johnny Johnston (what a tennis player!) and Ann danced their shoes into spats—and good, too. Johnny is V.P. of Belding- Hemingway-Corticelli, in charge of production. Let us prophesy, here and now: a man who can play tennis .like that will be President of the company in a matter of weeks.
Steve Mahoney was on hand, feeling mighty relieved to be out of that lieutenant commander's uniform at last. Steve says the youngsters sure make a man feel his years. It's "Yes sir!," and "No sir!" all day long. Hort Kennedy had the likker ticket concession again this year, and had his hand in your pocket all day long. He reported getting the shock of his life when he encountered two white mice in Bob Fish's hip pocket. "Pets," explained Bob. Germaine was laid up this year, so none of the local Gauls could practise on her. Hort hints that he may be back in Paris before too long, and hopes the krauts have left the rent money on the mantel. It was mighty good to see Edith Hanley. She tried to get the Cap to take his lemon juice and hot water, along with that whisky stuff, but had no more success than you might expect. Dave Garratt, the chisel-chinned Colonel House of the party, br©ught Marion—and delighted everyone by inducing Mouse O'Gara to come along. Marion says she's mighty glad she isn't up in New Hampshire (the state, not the hall, dope) this fall. The Big Wind put their old apple trees down for the count, not to mention Dave's prize flowers.
Al and Becky Gottschaldt, looking handsome as hell, say they're opening up the Lyme house for a weekend this fall, and will welcome '18ers. (What's the weekend, Al?) Al also claims a "first," which we are too dumb to unravel, but will turn it over to the Phi Betes here and now. Get out your pencils: "A. Kingman Pratt Jr., born August 24 in Hanover. His father is a Dartmouth man, class 1944. His paternal grandfather is a Dartmouth man, class of 1903. His mother formerly worked in Dean Strong's office (Dartmouth influence). And I am the maternal grand-dad, class of 1918. "Come, come—Fish, Clahane, Glendenning! What does it mean?
Kurt and Ruth Glover very jovial and good to see again. (How does that woman hold a tan way into the fall, huh?) We are distressed to report that they have a son who is a Math, shark, and about ripe for MIT. Hal Glendenning was his usual smooth self, but refused to let the muggs shine his Phi Bete key on their coat sleeves. Here is a very swell guy, who wears mighty well. He and Hort Kennedy lunch together downtown now and then, and neither the banking or the legal business gain anything. This is as it should be. Bob Fish, the Quick Lunch Kid, was called back to N. Y. by the serious illness of his dad, who is now improving at a' rate that will permit Bob s fast return to Arizona. Robert looked as if the West was putting him in sound shape once again —or for the first time. Mildred was missed acutely, but Bob promised to produce her and the three children at our first post-war reunion. Bob ladled out a few fast hors d'ouvres anent the wonders of Arizona to all those silly enough to get him started. (McEl-wain: how could you hit such a good guy in the face with a golf ball, you dirty little mucker!)
Dwight and Peg Sargent dancing smooth as silk. (How could such a fine tennis player lose a match to such nudnicks as Jones & Johnston? Could it be carrying Pete?) Son Dave still instructing with the British. Greatly admires their passion for understatement .... their rigid discipline under tough going.... their wonderful gift for relaxation when off duty. Krausemeyer Whitmore blinded all beholders when the lights hit that gilded dome, but Tilly (his child bride) stood off all attackers. The Krause has been in Washington dollarayearing it, but is now back making paper boxes. (Warning: if he offers you one of those Weber and Fields cigars—spurn it. Full of hemp.) Red Wilson and Peg looking very fit and sharp. Peg came in reluctantly from the farm in Kent, Conn., and will be going back for the fall seeding soon. Banker Andy (not Mellon— but nearly as good) Ross beamed confidence in the dollar and in the Mrs. (Virginia can outgolf '18's best.) Big Bill Christgau talking the olden, golden days with Curt Glover, and letting out a bit on the stuff that has mint many's the man. "I'll be paying for this in a few days now,' prophesied Bill. "But brother, it will be worth it— it sure will!"
Pete and Evelyn Colwell looked almost repulsively healthy as they swayed and circled (on the dance floor, waterhead—on the dance floor!). The Pete bore up courageously under the onesided defeat on the court, and even appeared to forget it at times. Well, more power to him! Van and Janet Van Raalte made a striking couple. The Van is now with the Starrett Construction Co., in N. Y. Van's son is now at Hanover, and studying engineering. "Where does he get those good marks?" asks the" old man. "He must be sitting next to some guy like Bob Fish, like I used to do! Van has a daughter in Brown.
Paul Miner and Helen (sister of that man Whipple) were a sight for sore eyes—and about time they showed. Old Melon Jaws looked in the pink, as did Helen. He and Earley recalled the old, dangerous days in France, and went over the ground where the Yanks are now winning the war . . . . as the old gentlemen did, 25 years ago in a pig's tozzer. Paul, says Hugh Whipple, has a son in the American Field Service in Italy, and another in the Air Corps. Elusty Russell Rhodes and his G.I. hairdo were much in evidence. He and Stan Jones had a game, seeing who could eat the most oysters, and Dusty won. Wasn't even a contest. The Dust looks in the pink, and his rich baritone was all that he claimed it to be. (Later reports indicate that he lost a couple of falls to J. Barleycorn.) Art (Indian Head) Stout, the renegade Choctaw from the weakling class of 1917, made his usual uninvited entry through the cellar window. He is now becoming so much a part of the 1918 picture that he is being considered for Class Janitor. Art edits the Dartmouth Club paper, in, shall we say, "adequate" manner? Welcome, Art!
Ben Stone, the Brockton Shoe Shah, made a most welcome appearance after all these years. Ben looks young enough to run the errands. Put yourself down—now—for next years' razoo, boy. (How could Dwight and Pete lose a tennis match to old crocks like Johnston & Jones, anyway? They can't be living right, those boys.) Among the small men, Wart McElwain, the canny Scot who handles the towel concession at the Dartmouth Club by night, and the dollars at the Chase by day, was a standout. The (he already lias a bronze placque at the club for being the first and last tenant) clanged glasses with one and all, till it seemed that he had disproved the laws of physiology—and become 100% liquid. Mary Olive Jones was also there,' getting the lowdown on Garden City life from Minetta Morey—whose beautiful horse teeth were the envy of one and all. We missed Ned Ross and leetle Oma, and that "Heh-heh-heh" which has come to be the Vieux Toro's trademark. Also, why couldn't Ole Jedge Colie have carried over his acidulous tongue and sulpha corrosive face? Whassamatter with him, anyway ?
ONCE AGAIN, the class of 1918 gives out with a sincere for Dick Holton. Perhaps Henry Kaiser could have attended to the hundred and one details which make such parties a terrific success. But our money—and our gratitude—goes on Dick. He did it better.
AS A TOKEN OF ESTEEM, "Spider" Martin '19 was presented the above silver tray by his classmates at what would have been the time of their 25th reunion. Mr. Martin was chairman of 1919's 25th Reunion Fund and has served as class president and class agent.
Secretary, 74 Trinity Place, New York 6, N. Y. Treasurer, Parkhurst Hall, Hanover, N. H.
COLUMBIA GAME NEW YORK NOV. 25 —strut your stuff along Peacock Alley at the Waldorf after the game—in the melee we may find some '18 faces to brighten up with an Old-Fashioned. ANOTHER SMASH HIT! 1918 REPEATS 1943 PARTY SUCCESS! JONES & JOHNSTON WIN! by Stan Jones
