1909

The hectic holidays are over, but, pshaw, I'll bet you knew that already. Nothing untoward happened in Aurora. There wasn't even white, glistening snow on the ground that the poets write about. One incident marred the peaceful spirit of the season. At the Christmas party of the Ladies Auxiliary & Cultural Study Club, a couple couples had too many Manhattans. One guy was dancing with the other guy's wife when they tripped and fell to the floor, he on top of her. She hit her head and was knocked cold. Someone called her plight to the attention of her hubby who said, "Aw, h—l (mustn't say that naughty word), let 'er lay there. She'll be OK in a couple minutes." This only goes to prove how kind and considerate of their wives are Aurora husbands.

Quite a few seasonal greetings from various members of the grand old class of '09. ArtSivenson tells me they have a Siamese cat 9 years old, but it is very independent. All cats are that way. They don't take nothing from nobody, and that's why I like 'em.

Norm Catharin, on the back of his Christmas card, suggested we get a story from Merrill Follansbee on his date ranch. Merrill told me in one of his previous letters that he was not a big operator, and that when he sends out date packages, as he does on occasion, they are the packages marketed by the date growers ass'n. He sent me a box this year and also one to Buster Brown, but Buster had not acknowledged receipt. Don't send Buster any next year, Merrill, unless he proves awareness of the social amenities in acknowledging gifts.

For the last two years, Merrill and wife have spent Christmas back in Chi, but this year they stayed to home. His three kids are grown and living away from home, the oldest boy making it possible for the old man to be a grandpa. Merrill says that Art Swenson sent him a picture of the reunion group and a list of the names. "I could pick out a third without the use of the list. Some I would not know if I met them on the street. The youngest-looking in the bunch is PlumLeighton. I didn't recognize him at all, for I thought he was one of the sons brought along for the ride."

Special Correspondent Dick Lord wrote on his card, "Have been so busy I haven't had time to scout any news for you. Things remain static." I've always been told that if you want to get something done, give it to a busy man. Maybe it's a bum steer.

From North Thetford, Vt. came a message from Parson Leon Morse and his better half, Ethel. The front of the folder showed a winter view of the Morse Lodge, and on the back was an original poem by Leon that this writer will cherish for a long time.

Trace Kohl '19, managing director of Oak Park (Ill.) Arms (that's a hotel), wrote me that he had used my Christmas Recipe poem on their holiday luncheon menu, and that it caused quite a bit of comment. The pastor of the largest Lutheran Congregation in Cook County, who eats there frequently, asked for a copy so he could read it in his Christmas sermon. That's probably the first time anything of Childs has been used in a sermon—maybe it's the last.

Thanks to Heinie Bullock, Mike Readey and little woman, Gin and Mike Farley, Cad and Ruth Cummings, Buster and Frances Brown, Harriet and Tubby Bird, Elsie and Clark Saville, Bull Hadden, Mrs. Phil Chase, Charlie Truman, the official steamfitter of Dartmouth College, Helen and Jim Greenebaum, Marguerite and Sawney Reagan, Mr. and Mrs. Bill Loughlin and that monumental little guy, Nut Root, for their holiday remembrances.

Frank Solomon, who's in the clothing business here in Cleveland, suggests that we get together for lunch one of these days. That we'll do, and maybe we can get Ced Wallsted in on the deal. There're only three of us in this area, since Jim Huselton crashed the Pearly Gates last year.

That coming out party of Joan Chappelear was also noted by AI Bates in his hideaway at 43 Ridgewood Ave., Glen Ridge, N. J. Al says he saw Mike Readey a day or two before the Princeton game, but he didn't see Mike or any others from around our time at the game.

The Monument to Memory will be erected for Ben Dudley, the Booster of Bergenfield, N. J., who recalls a flock of other 'ogers who lived in Fayerweather as freshmen. He names the following: Sid Thompson, Earle Rogers, Wiley Peck, Tom Fardy, Jack Clough, Buster Goodrich, Harold Osborne, Herb Hawes, Rollo Blanchard, Hal Whitmore, "Louie from St. Louis" White, and himself. Nice going, Ben. You have put me to shame.

ONE OF THE FAMOUS '09ERS

Good Old Al Newton! Ever on the alert for items of interest, he sends in a cover from Club Management that displays a reproduction of a painting by our eminent artist classmate, Russell Cowles. Russ, without doubt, is one of the famous guys in our class. The magazine gives this thumbnail sketch of his life: Born in Algona, lowa, in 1887, was graduated from Dartmouth College, studied at the Art Students League and the art school of the National Academy of Design in New York. Spent five years in Italy as winner of the Prix de Rome and the Fellowship of the American Academy of Rome. Spent a year in China and Japan, Egypt and Greece. Since 1936, has exhibited in many American museums, and has had one-man shows in 40 museums from coast to coast. Russ, the last we heard, was living in Connecticut and had a studio in New York.

ANOTHER BREEZE FROM SCULLY

That guy, Bernard Matthew Scully, gets off some good ones, some of 'em flavored with philosophy. "An ounce of taffy," he says, "is worth a pound of Epitaphy." How true. Scull reports that he's gotten in wonderful shape physically, but by giving up cigarettes and with less exercise than he took this summer, he's getting a bay window that compares favorably, or unfavorably, with that of the distinguished Dr. Burpee. While in Manchester, N. H., last summer, Scull dropped in on Micky McLane. There was an article that day in the paper about the old York Beach team on which Micky and Cad Cummings played. Scull took the clipping into Cad who "beamed like a school boy and put it in his scrap book." While on the subject of Cad, he was showing a picture of his grandson to the teller in his bank. The teller laughed and said, "You're the fifth fellow today to show me his grandson's picture."

Was Bill Hodgkins surprised when Scull stepped up to him and called him by his first name, not having seen him for over 40 years. Bill is cashier of a bank in Chelsea and is doing OK for himself.

Scull indicated that his next letter might be written from Florida where he vacationed last winter. We'll be looking forward to it, son.

Looks like our daughter, Becky, will be on her way to Colombia, South America, about the time you'll be reading this. She's applied for her passport, has been vaccinated, and has had a couple shots, with two or three more to go. She and the good wife will go East together, give the new grandson the once over, and then Becky will take off via Pan-American.

I don't know whether any of you birds recall that era at Dartmouth when they had that smart horse on the campus. The horse was smarter than any animal that ever came down the pike, and so the authorities of the college decided to give him a degree. After the horse had received his diploma one of the professors remarked that that was the first time a full horse had been graduated from Dartmouth. So long, you buckos. Let's be hearing from youse.

Class Notes Editor, Pioneer Trail, Aurora, Ohio Secretary and Treasurer, Sandwich, Mass. Class Agent, 667 W. Randolph St., Chicago 6, Ill.