Young Scholars of 1923


My father, about nine years old, is on the second row, second from the right, next to the hulking, glowering boy who could not be troubled to wear a white shirt and tie. The grammar school, Jefferson, is likely not in existence any more. In three more years, he would go to Harding Junior High, the same school I attended--with some pride in the fact that he had gone there, too. He was somewhat frail, prone to allergies and mysterious ailments, and he showed an artistic bent, a natural talent for draftsmanship that never found adequate expression. Graduating from Classen High School in 1932, he went right to work as a salesman, which is how he met my mother. He also worked at building himself up--muscle building, that is--and used to enjoy flexing his muscles for me in order that I might be inspired to build up my muscles, too. I tried, but without the success he had had. But I vowed that my artistic talent, should I ever discover it, would not go undeveloped.
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