1921
What would Daniel Webster, if alive, be doing in June 1960? Dana Lamb surmises that Black Dan would be found Down East in the last stronghold of our Atlantic salmon. He would be "trying his luck in the Sheepscot, the Narraguagus, the Pleasant, the Machias, and finally in the Dennys where he could not fail to observe that, although it is a small river, there are men who love her, faithfully and well." With two Princeton sons, Dana Lamb, Dartmouth '21 but Princeton '22, may have predominantly orange blood, but in one vein there is a touch of green. Consider his article, "Welfare of Dennys River Rallies Conservationists," in The Atlantic Salmon Journal. It leads off: "Dartmouth is a small college," Daniel Webster said, "but there are men who love her." And because of these men Eleazar Wheelock's little Indian school has developed in excellence to a point where it is the equal of any university on the continent of North America."
In addition to serving as President of Princeton 1922 and making a few millions in Wall Street, Dana Lamb finds time to compete with Sid Hayward '26 and Paul Sample '20 in salmon-fishing championships. Dana, Helen, and their daughter Sally Anson were hosts before the Princeton game at the Cap and Gown Club when their luncheon guests were Marie and Pick Ankeny, Pat Weaver '30, and Ort Hicks.
When does a fisherman cease to be a fisherman? "Never," cry Ernest Martin Hopkins and Roger Wilde, Corey Ford and Hoy Schulting. "Well, hardly ever," murmurs deferentially George Gaffield of Derby Line, Vt. Though his streams are triangled with fishermen, as hunter, shotgun under his arm pit, George has more fun roaming the hills with his dog. The best sport came when he tramped through Vermont forests with his son John, Norwich '58, now a lieutenant in Ludwigsburg, Germany. This will interest Cory Litchard: George is also an expert at restoring antiques in his cellar workshop. Able to retire in two years, George would like to work longer, for his health is good and he enjoys activity. Here is something refreshing. George does not sigh about the past, "the good old days"; he is happy in "the good new days." Also an optimist, George's daughter asked her doctor recently for twins, one of each kind, and the doctor obliged.
Paul Sanderson ought to be quizzed about the practicality of such requests. Paul is a baby expert. On December 2, 1959 he delivered his 10,000th. For 37 years as Dr. Stork, he makes obstetrics seem simple. Late hours and no sleep? "I'm a night stork. I don't mind hanging around the hospital all night." Difficulties in delivery? "I love the feeling of bringing human life into the world." None of us in '21 ever imagined that Paul would become a doctor. On the football team whose opponents had to tackle Gus Sonnenberg, Paul played quarter and half back. Then he became money-minded and went to Tuck School to become the only American physician with a Tuck School degree in personnel administration. Such training was good for a future baby doctor. "Sixty per cent of obstetrics is personnel administration," remarks Paul. The 10,000th baby, a girl weighing seven pounds three-and-a-half ounces, is named in honor of Dr. Paul: Doreen Paula Starr. The 11,000th baby should be twins requested by the mother, a boy named Paul and a girl named Paula. It would be amusing to call up the ghost of Solomon who had 300 wives and 700 concubines and listen to his comment about connubial felicity and fertility in Springfield, Mass.
Big Bill Beers drove 4,500 miles to solve his problem, a toughie. After thirty years and more in foreign countries, including some now behind the Iron Curtain, Bill wanted a home in America where he would have land and trees, a fireplace, a brindle bulldog, and civilized companionship for his Czech wife, Anna Rosa Cvancarova, and himself. Possibilities were Puget Sound, San Diego, Flagstaff, and the eastern shore of Maryland. New England won, and Bill located his dream home in the "beautiful, old, unspoiled town of Newtown, Conn." At 32 Taunton Lake Drive Big Bill enjoys his Yankee role of sawing and chopping wood and melting off European bulges. For 1921 visitors, who will be made "most welcome," he announces a policy as flexible as it is hospitable. He will provide his own favorite brand of Scotch and bourbon, but if it is not theirs, they may uncork their own bottle, sip away, and listen to what Bill has to say about Prague and The Hague, Paris and London, Vienna and Havana, Berlin and London. He is most eloquent about New England, and in this free country Estonia and Latvia seem as remote as Poland and Hungary.
If Marion McKay could have lived only until January 1, she would have had the pleasure of calling Hugh, to his deep delight, President; but, after fighting leukemia for eight years, she died six days before Christmas in Harkness Pavilion, Columbian Presbyterian Medical Center. Twelve days after her death, the New York Times announced that promotion of Hugh from Vice President and General Manager of Refined Syrups and Sugars, Inc., a subsidiary of Corn Products Co. But Marion did live long enough to share in Hugh's constant rise in the business world. As Executive Vice President of the Dextran Corp., he joined Refined Syrups in 1951, became a member of their board of directors in 1954, was appointed Vice President and Treasurer in 1955, and General Manager in 1959. At future 1921 gatherings, Marion will be much missed.
Joe and Ruth Vance hope to visit next autumn the cities they missed on their last European trip: Athens, Vienna, Madrid, and Lisbon. Joe's older daughter Jeanne lives in his old house on Hendrie Lane, Grosse Pointe Farms, with her husband and two small sons, only five minutes away from Joe's present home. His younger daughter Pat, a second-year student at Sarah Lawrence College, married last June a Columbia student, Elliott Ferdon, who goes to school while she works at Goldsmith's to earn money to help support their tiny and happy apartment.
Cliff Corbet came from Vancouver to Hanover in December to attend the wedding in Woodstock of his son Barry '58 and Mary French, daughter of John French '30, the Psi U-fraternity brother and close friend of Nelson Rockefeller. Barry achieved national and international recognition when he climbed Mt. McKinley and wowed the Dartmouth students with an illustrated lecture at the time of his wedding.
When the best American Olympic skier, Bud Warner, broke his leg, the name of Tom Corcoran '54 loomed large. If you no longer ski with the enthusiasm of Fat Childs, you had better read your sporting pages from now on. Tom, come spring, hopes to marry Mary Jo Litchard, Cory's daughter. Cory Jr., a sophomore at Kimball Union, is likely to develop into a good competitor, and by the time he enters Dartmouth in 1962, he may be a strong contender for the ski team. Cory Sr. has two new hobbies: sport cars (he stays young with the younger generation) and photography, and he has just finished a university extension course from which he learned little new. He did reaffirm, however, the Socratic position: ignorance is the beginning of wisdom. Ralph Steiner, who has given his life to photography, would probably subscribe to the statement that photography is one of the most exciting but subtle of arts in which even an enthusiast with the wealth of a Persian Shah, the scientific creativity of an Einstein, and the musical precocity of a Mozart would need about a century fully to flower. But that is Ralph's modesty; he flowered in less.
What a story it would have made! And the headlines! IKE SHOOTS BIRDIE IN GREECE. The news item would have read: "Invited by a Greek shipping millionaire to hunt with him and Ambassador Ellis Briggs in the Aegean Islands, President Eisenhower in Athens accepted and borrowed a gun. Mr. Briggs refrained from shooting first. 'After you, Mr. President,' he said tactfully. Waiting his chance, Ike aimed at a red-leg partridge whirring up and brought him down amid the cheers of Greek patriots."
Well, you know now that it was not so. Ellis's enthusiastic support of that hunting holiday ran afoul of President Eisenhower's Tunisian schedule.
Never diffident about his class numerals, Ellis invites '21 men visiting in Athens to ride in his personal automobile, license plate number CD-21, view the Acropolis by moonlight, and thus combine the old and new in a classic-romantic synthesis.
Secretary, 33 East Wheelock St. Hanover, N. H.
Treasurer, Rm. 1200, 195 Broadway, New York 7, N. Y.
