Albany College of Pharmacy - Alembic Yearbook (Albany, NY)

Page 27 text:

 9f)armakan $ropfjet is pntf)etic Prophets are born, not made; that’s what I used to think, but it seems that editorial personalities can make them, for that’s what has been done. Well, it’s interesting to conjecture about the future, especially one’s neighbor’s future. If Hymie So ’n So has been the type one could never “take to,” a.prophet is privileged to wed him to a wife who serves cold gravy, for example. But in the Class of ’43 we have no Hymie’s. My problem now seems to be one of securing assistance in visualizing about ten years hence, my fond colleagues—what a powerful imagina- tion to see “The Weltz” who is of stately stature, sophisticated and soundly settled to a serious serenity, for instance. Well, standing before a drug store looking at the pretty colored solutions in those ornate glass containers will get me nowhere, fast. Hmmmm—I have often wondered just what good they were besides being decorative when the proprietor is at a loss for ideas on window schemes. Looking in crystals and the like sort of goes without prophesying .... maybe if I concentrate long enough and look into these fantastic articles .... that’s worth trying! Believe it or not, I’m seeing things. (True, say you). A car just pulled up before a modernistic little structure .... it’s June E. stepping forth and waving goodbye to Bob as he drives away. An illuminated sigh evidences that June has made famous her lemon cream. It, plus other originals are manufactured here and by the appearance of the “Before’s” and “After’s”, she is making over her customers with facials and those myriad hair-do’s of w'hich she is the model. Thank goodness! If June ever saw the narrow escape her husband just had: a Pepsicola truck, too intent on relieving suffering humanity almost made Bob’s car look as if it were trying to fit into a five foot parking space. Francis Conroy is behind the wheel in the truck. I guess he’s sacrificing his planned career to slake thirsts, (pri- marily his own). Points north .... Goldberg Landing .... I always thought it wras Bolton .... no the sign reads Goldberg Landing. Little wonder! Versatile ambitions such as his could never be confined to a corner drug store. What a colony; villa, restaurant, bathing beach, general store not to mention a pharmacy which Peggy manages very nicely. (While passing through Amsterdam, no indications of Karuzas???) Richfield Springs—I can’t say North, South, East or West; I don’t know; but there it is, and there he is! I’ll read the revealing display: “Sav- age Soothing Sulfur Springs” featuring “Crandall’s Convalescent Crystals”. The inseparable duo are still inseparable. Now' wouldn’t you think that after Pete’s course in English he’d know enough to put his name in the possessive case? Do you wrant to frighten clients away, Pete? Savage Soothing sounds rather paradoxi- cal. I’m glad he has had success though, since the valet can shampoo those trans- lucent specs. Never fear, we can still identify him; the inevitable stogey is still clenched between his teeth, politician fashion. (Incidentally, he’s a political boss —merely a side issue). No mistaking Albany, especially with such landmarks as A. C. P. looming. Nothing like reminiscing with former associates. There’s Doctor ---- or is it? Familiar countenance, no doubt, but not one of our former professor’s. Too true, it’s Twenty-seven

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Alembic Mentor Claste £$tll We, the Class of January, ’43 do hereby bequeath the following heirlooms to those who follow in our wake! ! To John Beeble, Bernard Goldberg leaves his upper hand with the women. To Prentiss Derringer, Walt Weltzien leaves his excess vitality. To Louis Fratto, Frank de Qucvedo leaves his bottle-spacer. To George George, Gerry Howard leaves her aggressiveness. To William Globerson, Sol Potosky leaves his advanced knowledge in Prof. Hanmer’s courses. To Tom Hanley, Ed Crandall leaves his bed in Micro-biology. To Edwin Hunting, Sister Mary Eugenia leaves her scholastic average. To Peg Israel, June Turner leaves her hard-boiled efficiencies. To Mary Knapp, Jake Epstein leaves his habitual tardiness. To Dick Major, Arnie Shapiro leaves his bottle of specially prepared liquid petrolatum with which to coat pills. To Joe Palisi, Fran Conroy leaves his “never fail” laboratory technique. To Tom Pitts, Ed Karuzas leaves his playful antics. To Ida Rickey, Allan MacCollam leaves his golden voice. To Paul Rinaldi, Tom Young leaves his advanced studies in math. To Morris Silverman, Leo Katzman leaves his prowess as a softball pitcher. To Jerome Stepner, Dick Phalen leaves his excess weight. To Edward Sternfcld, Walt Henning leaves his early morning chats with the profs. To Frank Sweeney, Russ Denegar leaves his position in the Pharmacy depart- ment. To Nathan Werlin, Joe Verrastro leaves his contract with “Lucky” Teeter. To Leonard Westerman, Pete Savage leaves his familiar stogie. In fond and loving memory of those who come after us, we do hereby witness the above will. Class of January, ’43 Twenty-six

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H. Russell Denegar, personified. He’s going up the walk, opens the door, descends the stairs, turns right and enters the lab office using his own key. It must be true; an additional assistant professor of Pharmacy. I’m no sleuth, but there arc his lecture notes and a text book which looks rather interesting entitled “Do It By Proportion” by A. Shapiro. Sure enough, who could forget A. C. P.’s cross-multi- plying ace? I did so want to remain and look around at the budding sweet water chemists, but the whole picture is gone and there is no time for confabulation. Here’s a place 1 should know but those two new wings certainly do change the appearance of St. Peter’s Hospital. Naturally I’m interested in the Pharmacy department. Concentration docs the trick in a prophet’s game and there it is and much enlarged in the new East wing. Sister Mary' Eugenia seems busily com- pounding and a young lady seems to be discussing something with her. They’re turning and walking out. If that doctor would only step out of the way ... ah, there he goes, and there they go and moving rapidly to the west wing and into ?????? the laboratory, that’s what it is. As they enter a young lady approaches and addresses Sister’s companion, “Miss Howard, would you . . .”. No need to tarry further; it looks as if Gerry is one of the Somebody’s on the lab staff. (No wonder the doctor got out of the way—I’ll bet Gerry bared her teeth at him.) Now, why this scene should be forthcoming is more than I can figure out. Just a tall building—apparently we’re very near the top story' since I can see the clouds beneath. Whoever occupies these upper rooms must indeed seek solitude for quiet thinking. Warm too, it is, but I’m glad . . . the doors are open and I can readily see the occupants. Such an array of flasks, burners, test tubes, beakers and twisted “apparatae” as is in that room I never have seen in all my school days. “In medias res” sits Jack Epstein. But he’s in oblivion as far as these gadgets are concerned. He sits bent, intent on nothing but pencil and paper. This must be that private lab we used to hear so much about in school, but the glassware must be camouflage since Jack needed only pencil and paper to make his experiments come out “on the nose”. Our Wonder Boy! He doesn’t even look up from his work as Sol Potosky enters and despite the fact that the latter seems so eager to demonstrate his company’s latest product, “No Effort” beard remover. It seems that Jack’s ever-loving wife objects to his ever-growing beard and Sol, pal-fashion is trying to establish ever-lasting domestic peace. Oh well, some days you can’t make a nickel. I most certainly thought that rail travel had long since been superceded by aerial ways but apparently not. I’m aboard a train, and in a private coach are two pharmacal magnates, apparent from their conversation and the rocks glistening from their pinkies. Evidently this is no business trip—golf bags, etc. No mistaking it, that song bird Mac . . . it’s his voice, crooning away. All I can see of the other occupant is that he is in a horizontal position, ergo, it’s Henning. Might as well dawdle and listen since they’re heading toward the big city and no telling what I’ll see there. Mac’s eagerly pointing out of the car window and with much effort Henning swallows a couple of vitamin B capsules and with this aid manages to rise to his elbow. Fortunately, the train has come to a standstill and I can gander. No wonder I didn’t see Karuzas in Amsterdam. Here are his and Phalen’s pictures and names in lights. No half-way about those two. They’ve established a private clinic, a beautiful set-up. I guess they must be anxious for business since Twenty-eight