1942

This is a happy month, despite the fact that only yesterday I was awakened from a sweet dream. I had thought, in my lazy way, that last month was my final effort before the red and gold of autumn overlaid this purple prose. But then I found out, through the importunities of one C. Widmayer, editor of this sheet, that that wasn't so at all. I had one more lap.

But it's happy, because, for the first time in 10-these-many-whimperings, I have some copy to toy with, in my own disordered way. Reams of it. (I've been sitting here running it through my hair, uttering abandoned shrieks and coos of joy.)

First, just picking one at random off the heap, X find that I have in my moist, warm little paw an invitation to attend the wedding of one John Jerome Teal Jr., a man who once vied for existence (along with me) with the rats in Crosby House—now, alas, a citadel of bureaucracy, where only red tape vies with neon lights.

In any case, at this writing, the wedding is just past. Took place at Stamford, Conn., Saturday, the 6th of May, at the Universalist Church. For the record, the principals were Miss Penelope Lancaster Holden, the daughter of Mrs. Lansing Colton Holden Jr., and the aforementioned Mr. Teal. A reception following occurred at the New Canaan Country Club.

Here's another one—a sort of duple vision job. It says: "Mr. Peter Marston Crane ("Pete") and Mr. Norman Hitchcock Crane ("Re-pete") announce the acquisition of parents, Tim and Sally, Strong Memorial Hospital of the University of Rochester, Easter morning.

And now, I'm stealing Ad Winship's material. By some bit of mental wool-gathering, one Robert Burdett sent the bottom half of one of Ad's green sheets (you know, those biographical blanks I used to pester you with once) to me. A pack rat by nature, I promptly filed it away, making a firm vow never to let it fall into Mr. W.'s clutches. It hasn't. (As a matter of fact, my filing system being what it is, it's a wonder it hasn't fallen into the janitor's clutches—but you never know, he may be one of Winship's agents.)

The gist of the matter is: Bob is at the University of Vermont getting his master's degree in education and pointing his solid frame toward teaching. Or, I should say, back toward teaching. His present address is 132 Colchester Avenue (ah, I know it well, from my old Free Press days), and he, Mrs. B. (the former Linda Willard of New York City) and daughter Katherine Ann (pretty near a winsome one year) see a bit of Bob Searles, the UVM ski coach. Bob B. relates a nice bit for posterity about Bob S. (as a matter of fact my Vermont scouts, small green men all named Ethan Allen, had already told me).

It's this: Bob S. had a good ski team this year, with only one casualty—himself—one broken leg! Since I'm an old hand with crutches, Searles has nothing but my sympathy.

So up comes another wedding invitation. This one from Mr. and Mrs. Frank Stephen Gardiner announcing the marriage of their daughter Lorraine Katherine to Charles AlphonsusGibbons Ill, him of the resounding name. It took place April 28 at the Lady Chapel, St. Patrick's Cathedral, New York City. Mr. and Mrs. Gibbons will be at home after June 10 at the Gate House, South Bay Country Club, Bay Shore, Long Island, which I can only presume is a pitch and run from the Sound.

Then today a touching note from Faith Huck (bless these wives, they're the only ones who have pity on poor old Farl, wretch that he is). She says: "Arthur is still working for Bigelow Sanford Carpet Co., in Thompsonville, Conn., and likes it more each year. He's been with them since he and Uncle Sam and the Navy parted in February, '46. We won't have any sons to send to Dartmouth put perhaps one of our three daughters may get to be Carnival Queen some day. Pamela is seven, Georganna is three-and-a-half, and Deborah's just two. Hope to get up to Hanover for a weekend soon. I think I'm as fond of the place as Arthur is."

Another letter is from James S. Erwin. Fromthe letterhead, I've quickly deduced that he'sin the law office of Ralph W. Hawkes atYork Village, Me. (I'm a sly dog at this sortof thing.) It reads:

"A momentary doubt assails me. Are you the Claremont Eagle, or do you merely rent lodgings at the aerie of the local eagle in order to avoid all but the most persistent of tree-climbing process servers? (Ed. note—Nope, my brother's the Eagle, or at least he thinks he is and I'm his manager. We make more money at the county fairs this way.)

"I copy your address verbatim from the May issue of the ALUMNI MAGAZINE (Ed. note. what's that?) and trust that the Claremont postmaster has a pigeon which can overtake you if necessary. (Ed. note—Has the Claremont postmaster a pigeon? Brother, she can overtake me any. . . . Here, here, old boy, get a grip on your-self.)

"A very old pigeon or even one in moult (Ed. note—don't know the place—is it near East Agony?) could catch you if your feats of soaring cannot exceed the soaring of your prose. There is sadness to being a Class Secretary, but it is a proud thing, too; for when you stand alone upon the gusty platform of the station at Nadir and the empty wind brings only grit to your eyes, be proud that you are the elected press agent for better than half a thousand men whose native humility is such that they find nothing of interest about themselves which they feel worthy of your press-agentry and the subsequent notoriety. (Ed. note—you got that, Farl, you old soaring-prose-writer you?)

I sided with the strong and silent until the combination of your weary resignation and the ebullient, shameless, albeit newsworthy, Irish prose of Pinky McLaughlin invoked the muse of my Parker 51 and against the better judgment of my native humility set me to writing this with the hope that it will be only one of 500 which will bury you, talons, crooked beak and all in a welter of vital statistics. (Ed. note—as Durante is wont to say 'watch how you talk about the proboscis.').

To those vital statistics I can add very little. Last week I went down to Portland to the Maine alumni dinner and met, much to my delight and surprise, Gardy Bridge, who stands very tall under the name and style of English Master at Hebron Academy. Aside from acquired weight and a new quasi-judicious air, he is the same as he was when he and I and Frank Bartlett, BaileyWalten, Dick Remsen and Hank Reynolds were ushers at Squint Randall's wedding in the early days of 1948.

"If there are other '42's around here, I don't know it; although six Dartmouth men live in this town of some 2500.

"As you may have been canny enough to divine from the letterhead (Ed. note—I give up; you've found me out), I am practising law in the office of Ralph W. Hawkes '99, who has taken me in off the streets and has taught me much that Colum- bia Law School overlooked.

Anne tells me that the fact of our marriage has appeared in your columns—period. That suited my native humility fine, but it might be worth a passing note that I have a two-year-old (today, May 8) daughter Charlotte Elizabeth and will have an announcement to make concerning what I hope will be a son in September."

Now there you are, friends, it isn't hard, this shucking of native humility. Try it and perhaps, you, too, will write as elegant a letter as Jim Erwin does.

For a final, up-to-date, newsy touch, I have unearthed from my musty files at great risk of silicosis of the lungs, a batch of Hanover Inn guest cards for the month of March. They indicate that visitors there that month included Tom Harriman, Mr. and Mrs. TonySusan, Mr. and Mrs. John Callihan and Mr.and Mrs. J. W. Ryan.

A late report on the 1942 efforts in the 195° Alumni Fund Campaign show us to be a sorry ninth out of nine in the Green Derby which includes classes from 1936 through x 94- This is as of May 5. It will be all over by June 30. I hope you won't be one of the ones who "sort of forget."

Well, sir, this time I mean it—you won't hear from me until next fall.

Secretary, The Claremont Eagle, Claremont, N. H. Treasurer, 357 S. Orange Grove Ave., Los Angeles, Calif. Class Agent, 53 Orient Ave., Melrose 76, Mass.