Volume. None whatsoever.
No. 1 of 1951
No news whatever.
Just a bit of gossip.
XXXX Stoyle is going around somewhat at loose ends. His term of office as Master Councilor is rapidly drawing to a close and before anyone realizes it he will be loafing around with nothing to do. His father, the well-known Lewis E. Stoyle, outstanding citizen of the South Shore has news for him. There is the little matter of finishing a painting job in XXXX’s bedroom.
XXXX and his father recently attended a father and son night run by the Taleb Grotto. As Master Councilor of Old Colony Chapter of DeMolay, XXXX was called upon for a speech. When he had finished the air was filled with tumultuous applause, fezzes were thrown as high as the ceiling and the audience rose as one man in spontaneous appreciation. “The boy’s got the gift of gab,” one man said. Ray Warmington said “He’ll be a politician one of these days.” “A second Gladstone,” another man was heard to murmur. “Take that back,” Lewis E. Stoyle remarked, testily. “You know as well as I do that Gladstone is the name of a bag. Are you by any chance insinuating that my son is a bag of wind?” Mr. Stoyle crawled under the table and yelled “Come down here, you bum, and see what happens to you.” Eager hands dragged Mr. Stoyle onto his feet and brushed him off. Explanations were immediately forthcoming and peace was restored shortly. The toastmaster cancelled his hurried call for the police and an excellent entertainment followed.
Everett Stoyle has had a pretty rugged three weeks. The minstrel show and Ev’s exams came together, a situation that would have dismayed anyone who was not a son of Lewis E. Stoyle. Let’s take the minstrel show first. Sensing with remarkable acumen (inherited from guess who) half way through the rehearsal period that things weren’t going very well, Ev mounted the platform during a rehearsal and gave out with a few opinions. A hushed silence fell upon his audience when he finished and some of the more delinquent girls and boys cried into their Coca Colas. Ev laid out a program for the gang to follow, took over the sale of tickets and the program (as well as the sale of candy), resigned from the chorus (to the disgust of all the girls present), elected himself as assistant stage manager and proceeded to contribute considerably to the success of the show. Ray Warmington (that guy gets around, doesn’t he) called for Ev to take a bow at the end of the program Monday night but Ev was thirty feet above the stage manufacturing snow for a special scene and decided not to jump down.
While these activities were going on, Ev managed to get in a bit of studying with noble results. He wound up with an average of 87.3. After the last exam had been taken, Ev went to see “Where’s Charlie.” May we note, in passing, that he didn’t go alone? It should be mentioned n passing also, that XXXX’s interpretation of “The Thing” as an end song in the minstrel show scared several old ladies into hysteria and the situation looked serious until some smelling salts were found.
“Both my sons do all right,” Mrs. Stoyle observed. “They remind me, in a watered down fashion, of my husband.” Mr. Stoyle accepted the verbal bouquet gracefully.
Mrs. Lewis E. Stoyle has slipped her trolley. Seems she got interested in making Oriental rugs and can’t think of anything else. She was aided and abetted in the beginning by Mr. Stoyle who, for the first time in his life, is beginning to doubt his own wisdom. to make one of these rugs you buy a pattern, a needle, and several balls of yarn. Then you thread the needle with yarn and punch said needle through holes in the pattern. This sort of thing seems to fascinate Mrs. Stoyle beyond all reason. Doubt has been expressed in family circles regarding her sanity. “If the men in white coats come after me in the meat wagon can I take my rug with me?” Mrs. Stoyle asked her husband, anxiously, one evening. “Hell of a note if I can’t,” she observed crisply. “I just won’t go.”
Some of her other activities normally participated in by Mrs. Stoyle now take so much of her time that she becomes irritated. For example; last week she got a wave and when it was all over she took one look in the glass, said “Makes me look like a goddam Fiji islander. Where’s my rug?” Last week she had her sewing club girls at the house. Instead of going home around four o’clock they stayed until five thirty. “I love ’em like sixty,” Mrs. Stoyle tartly remarked, “but I wish to God they would go home at a reasonable hour. How in the name of the great Jehovah and the Continental Congress do they expect me to get anything done on my rug. If my husband was home I could understand it but as he wasn’t I can’t understand why the stinkers hung around so long.”
Mr. Lewis E. Stoyle was fairly busy over the weekend. Seems that Ev’s car, formally known as Barkis, had suddenly become as cold to ride in as an ice wagon. Mr. Stoyle solved the problem by using the slide rule for a few moments and then by installing a new thermostat. “Dad is sure wonderful,” Ev remarked when he heard what had happened. Mr. Stoyle smiled in assent.
“Hell and damnation! What’s got into my Mixmaster?” Mr. Stoyle heard these words one morning last week. Mrs. Stoyle couldn’t make orange juice with her Mixmaster and had to go back to doing it by hand. This, of course, took longer and left her less time to work on her rug. She was irritated. Mr. Stoyle sighed and took the machine down cellar and took it apart. It looked quite complicated. He decided to leave it alone and consult with Steve Bagnell at the first convenient opportunity. Said opportunity arose Saturday morning and Mr. Stoyle interviewed Mr. Bagnell. “They’re too complicated for me,” Mr. Bagnell said, “Send it back to the factory.”
Mr. Stoyle went home and thought hard for about twenty minutes. Then he went down cellar and fixed it himself. “You’re wonderful,” Mrs. Stoyle said. “Aint I though,” Mr. Stoyle remarked.
Mr. Stoyle is planning to find a good cooking school and take lessons. He said he had got so he could run a vacuum cleaner in a satisfactory manner but he was a little weak in the culinary department. “I guess I’d better get prepared,” he said. “If things keep on as they are going now Mrs. Stoyle will want to spend all her time with that rug and someone will have to get the meals.” At this remark Ev broke into a cold sweat. XXXX hasn’t spoken for three days.