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

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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

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 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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$f)armafeon both rush to the door at Mac’s approach (Henning is still no further than the lift to his elbow). It seems that they can’t just get the public’s confidence. Statistics show that out of fifty patrons on the opening day a mortality of only thirty was in evidence, too. Puzzling, isn’t it? After all their work on patenting a zipper suture. Never mind, give Karuzas a piano and he’ll keep rich in its “notes”. All aboard! We’re nearing the big city and . . . we’re in it. Broadway, and a peck into Mindy’s restaurant may make one feel as if he were really eating those juicy steaks, especially those coming up on the forks of Lee Katzman and Arnie Shapiro. Arnic’s editorial work on math books must be merely a hobby since he and Lee are professional research men . . . they search, and not finding, research, and so goes their day. Just now, Arnie is searching for coins to pay his dinner ticket, and, not finding, Lee is researching, and he seems to find only a handful of dust in his pocket . . . this is so pitiful . . . Such a predicament for two citizens to be in. Quickly away I would like to be, and so I am. I’d like to see how Frankie de Quevedo is faring, but I suppose this is too much for which to hope . . . bright idea . . . the scene is passing the harbor (at my request). A little more concentration may board me on the U. S. Navy ship. What powers! I’m out on the blue deep and in the ship. Heavens! There’s much need to be affrighted. The crew' seems neglectful of their duty for a spectacular per- former, to say the least. Around flits “The Weltz,” doing some hornpipe or other, the “Wcltzien Way.” I knew I couldn’t find him subdued, even in that handsome garb of Uncle Sam’s blue and white. However, his bouncing does not lastingly disturb his ever-retrievable deliberative calmness of manner . . . and toward me he comes, placid depitc the fact that he still has to take his “practicals” and still lacks two years’ experience. True to form, he’s betting me a lolly-pop that I can’t find Frankie. I assure him that the bet is on, provided the pop is “cold.” Glad I’m aboard. I always did w'ant to see a plane land on a ship and here’s one nowr. Good pilot, nice landing. Bring me the bet, Walt . . . it’s Frankie and none other. He’s in a cockpit instead of over a mortar and pestle. The explanation seems to be that Frankie was taking his work too seriously, and Frankie’s Papa wranted him to have some diversion. Now Frankie’s Papa’s problem is that Frankie is having too much diversion and stubborn-like refuses to work for his Papa, even lightly. Undaunted, Walt issues a “cold” pop which is cherry flavor, and since that flavor is my favorite dislike, I readily take on another bet of a lime lolly pop that I won’t find Young and Verrastro. To be truthful, I have about given up in regard to these two. I’ve been keen at reading signs and concentrating, but of no avail. Besides Walt assures me that I’d never suspect such a change as the years have wrought, so I give up. He then informs me that he one day came upon the most peaceful domestic scene he has ever seen. There were chickens, dogs and cats, etc., running around the back yard, a radio blasted within, and a lovely young girl pointed to her husband on the front porch. It w'as Tom, unmistakably so, since as usual he was attempting to convince someone . . . and the someone was Joe Verrastro . . . and the subject of convincement was that Joe too should approach the altar to establish the equilibrium of their already formed pharmacal partnership. And like all “made” prophets I can do as I please, so I’ll leave Tom on the porch, Walt on the ocean and Frankie in the air, ’cause it’s midnight and I’m tired. Twenty-nine