April 12, 1934
Cliffside, April 12 — The world’s worst in high school alumnae and alumni will hold its “come home” banquet in Cliffside this summer probably in July as was the case last summer. I am a member of that group. We were a disagreeable lot to any question and, no doubt, our instructors were right in constantly telling us that we were a bad lot! But we did have a certain quality of ego sometimes referred to as “ugh.” We had spunk; we had individualism, and initiative. The house was generally divided into two groups—more often into more groups and ideas than there are red and black shirts in Europe today. (I have on a blue one this morning, thank you). If we wanted a thing, we had just that or nothing—a case of holding the bits in our teeth. The members of this class are splattered over the Carolinas, the District of Columbia, and in New York City. And this is true because they are pursuing those individual ideals and ideas as they have been concocted. These lines of work are represented by them: Radio Broadcasting, Music, Law, Textile Operating, Pharmacy, Short Story and Scenario Writing, Merchandising, Professional Nursing, Farming and Dairying. We did ridiculously silly things of course, but we were a young lot; we could have done better, certainly. Somehow I think that this class will be heard from in strong evidence during the coming years. This is thought because I notice former members here a displaying that “ugh” every day. So far as is known, this is the only “re-union” of a high class in this immediate section. This novel annual custom has been established by our class—The Wildcat Division of graduating classes. As I remember the re-union last summer, it is certainly a joy to a former member to see this group of bigots again argue with themselves. And don’t we like it!
Didja ever: Hear uBa play the rumBa on the tuBa down in cuBa? If you have not, there is only one other song as a counterpart: “Tiger Rag” by a good jig-time band, Yezzir.
During its “hey-day,” I often heard the jig-time song. “Got the Jitters,” on the radio at the little barbecue stop on South Tryon Street in the Queen City. Somehow I always associate barbecue with it and late hours, too. I like to watch the lights blink. And at the same time, romeos were sliding down the trellis from “her” window. With a barbecue in one hand, and making for the coffee, I listened as a New York orchestra “Had the Jitters.” (Note: This is especially for the younger set).
For no reason at all, here of late, I have been singing (yeah!) “Farewell to Arms” in that “baritone-basso” of mine. And I wish you could see my silhouette done by J. Nemo Toth, a Parisian Artist, at the Carolina Theatre in Charlotte. It has the funniest chin!
The “gentlemen of the rods,” or more simply, “hoboes,” evidently take me as an easy “mark.” Recently, two of “the boys” approached me in Charlotte, in as many blocks, asking for an [sic] handout. One of them got it. He told me his story of losing a leg in an automobile accident. I always suspect them of having lost a limb by grabbing for a freight train and missing it! He said he had just arrived in town on “The Blue Eagle,” which is the new freight from
Washington, D. C. “And boy, is she fast?” was his comment. He confided that he intended to “dead-head” a bus to Wilmington.said he had just arrived in town on “The Blue Eagle.” which is the new freight from Washington, D. C. “And boy, is she fast?” was his comment. He confided that he intended to “dead-head” a bus to Wilmington.
My erstwhile correspondent of the “Colonial Dining Room” of 115 East Franklin Street, Richmond Virginia, is a former Forest City resident. My reader says: “Tell the folks down your way that when they are going to Washington to stop with us for their dinners. Lots of them come this way, so why not help out our home folks in Richmond.” And, indeed, we say, why not? I appreciate your interest shown by your regular correspondence.
Since my automobile smack-up I have gone through boracic [boric] acid “soaks,” heating pad “waits,” liniment “rubs” and fruit juice “gurglings.” My idea now is to determine: Am I a dill pickle, a toasted waffle or just a plain fruit salad from drinking so much fruit juices. But until I see “you-all”: A bit of a toodle-oodle, a pleasant bon voyage and a little mite of a crazy crystal.
The lighted court of the Tennis Club is located on North Main Street near the High school gymnasium here. The Tennis Club was organized several years ago, and the movement for its organization was due in a great part to the efforts and initiative of Mr. George C. Shuford and Mr. J. C. Hames, Treasurer of Cliffside Mills and Cashier of the Haynes Bank, respectively.
From its inception, the club went forward with surprising vitality. One of the best courts of the state was constructed. Practically with the same gesture, the court was converted for night playing with the installation of lights, which actuated the expenditure of several hundred dollars.
Tennis enthusiasts of Tryon—a tennis town— Rutherfordton, Spindale, Forest City, Shelby and Kings Mountain honored the local club by driving here to play. After playing on the court here, and expressing themselves as to its excellence, the Shelby boys organized and have now constructed a court there for night playing.
The Club of Cliffside was first in this section to equip for night playing. Recently a New York visitor, in commenting on the facility for night tennis here said: “This court is the best conditioned and has the best lighting arrangement of any that I have seen throughout the south.” In talking with Mr. Shuford, he tells the writer that the usual manner of operation will be followed this season. Each member, as well as visiting players, pay only a nominal fee in defraying the expense of lighting the court during playing hours.
The facility for night tennis in Cliffside is quite exclusive for the village; it is a select sport; a pastime of wholesome, well-mannered sport. Those who necessarily play their tennis at night are afforded this pleasure-even while the moon stands sentinel to the Golden Gate!
An “ad-lib” post-script: Two of the grandest fellows, “hail fellows, well met”, at this writing are out of town in hospitals. Dr. G. O. Moss is in Rutherford hospital and Dr. H. L. Robertson in Spartanburg. What grand guys, and we want to see them back right away!