Rawlins High School - Roundup Yearbook (Rawlins, WY)

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—only the best would do for Frances—idle hours in which our greatest problem was that of personal ease and comfort. As I lounged on the wonderful, largo veranda of our hotel one drowsy afternoon, I saw someone pass, who caused me to jump excitedly from my comfortable chair, take Frances by the hand, and run madly after the fast disappearing form of one, whom 1 was convinced was none other than Eva Anderson. As we hurried along, 1 explained my “suspicions” to Frances, and was amazed at the wonderful ability she displayed as a sprinter. Eva was as surprised as we were over our meeting. Her rich uncle she told us had left her vast wealth, and she spent all of her time traveling around the world and enjoying life to the fullest extent. As she talked, and I watched her languid gaze traveling along the beach, I might have expressed my thoughts thus: “Some people have rich relatives thrust upon them!” From this place, after buying two new tires, we drove on, and after some time, came to St. Louis. One day as I scanned a newspaper, a picture seemed to fairly jump at me, and if the name beneath had been in letters four inches high, I am sure it could not have stood out more clearly. Eagerly rousing Frances from her beauty nap, I read to her: “Pretty young settlement worker, Miss Macey Lackey, leaves for her girlhood home in Rawlins, Wyoming.” Following this, a detailed account was given of this young woman’s activities as a settlement worker. The rest of the afternoon we spent in trying to imagine this old classmate in the charitable position she now held. When at last our driving brought us to San Antonio, Texas, where, as you may have heard, if you are interested in the matter, had been established a Gregg school for shorthand, we decided that since we were old friends of that system we would call upon the principal of the school, and see how many people were learning the subject and gather what other information we might. When we were at last ushered into the presence of the principal, we tried to think of some excuse besides our curiosity, and our old association with shorthand, for our call. No doubt the principal thought we were coming to join her classes. When she turned toward us—surprised? Oh, no! and you will be just as surprised as we were to learn that Helen Arthaud was still following shorthand as a means of earning her daily bread. From this place we went to San Francisco. Long had we admired a certain big liner from a distance and when a friend of Frances offered to introduce us !o the captain we gladly accepted. The captain was from Wyoming, and though you guessed for an age, you would never name him. If I introduce him to you as he was introduced to us, you will no doubt be as delighted as we were to meet Captain Andrew Peterson, U. S. N. On one of our trips by rail, through California, a young woman came up to us and said: “I wonder if you would be interested in Underwood

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wish to thank our teachers for the great interest they have shown toward us during our four happy years in Rawlins High. „ MACEY LACKEY, 1920. 1920 in 1925 With all of her maids at my service, a cool drink placed conveniently on a nearby table, I made myself most comfortable in the cool, shady library in the home of my friend, Mrs. Sunderland, with whom I was planning an extended motor trip. As I sat there my mind busied itself with the events leading up to my good fortune. Mrs. Sunderland, as all of you must have heard, was an old friend and classmate of mine, whom all of you will recall much better as Frances Phelan. For nearly a year I had been private secretary to Mr. Sunderland, a wealthy broker of Chicago, and had, just two days before, learned that his wife was an old friend of mine. She had long wished for this trip, she said for her health (all very wealthy people I find do things for health’s sake), but as she planned, I more than half suspected that her purpose was to find out, if possible, the present location and occupations of the different members of the R. H. S. class of 1920. Not even a chauffeur accompanied us on our tour of the United States. Frances and I took turns at the wheel. We left Chicago on June 25, 1925, for our memorable trip, and drove directly to New York City. Finding our supply of skin cream and other beautifiers nearly exhausted, we sought a beauty parlor. The powder suggested by the dainty, dark-haired young woman was named “Juanita’s Face Powder.” “How funny,” laughed Frances. “How that reminds me of Nita!” “Why,” said the young woman, “I believe this is Frances Phelan and Emily Mueller, isn’t it?” This was a surprise, for here was Frances Olsen, owner of a well known New York “Beauty Parlor.” She suggested that, as a means of entertaining us, she should be allowed to take us to the place where the powder was made, for, as she expressed it, she was “sure we would be interested.” No wonder “Juanita” sounded familiar! “Juanita Face Powder” was being manufactured by Juanita Howard, and I am sure you will agree that she really should be a judge of fine face powder and soft powder puffs. After a delightful two days’ visit, we made a promise to return soon, and left for the south. After several days driving, interwoven with days of rest, we arrived at Palm Beach, where we had planned to spend several days for Frances’ health. What days of comfort, and luxuries which only a purse like that oi Robert Sunderland could provide. Beautiful rooms in expensive hotels

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typewriters?” We looked up with a sharp reply on our lips, but when we saw her smiling face and her eyes twinkling with mischief, our reply was mingled with gladness and relief, for here was Marion Johnson, traveling saleswoman for the Uuderwood typewriter company. As too much detail would only bore you, I will be satisfied by merely telling you that at last our motoring brought us to our old “home town” of Rawlins. It had grown quite a bit since our residence there, but we found many old friends still. We heard that Ruby Carlson was owner of the old Rawlins opera house, and had remodeled it quite a bit. We called on her one afternoon, and she laughingly told us iust “how it happened.” “Surely you remember,” she began, “the story Mr. Robuck told us about the two boys who began driving the delivery wagon, and how finally the one became owner of the business, and the other remained as his delivery boy? Well, his advice to ‘keep at a thing till we are successful’ led me to try to be owner of the opera house, and I really was very successful.” As Frances’ thoughts of a certain Chicago bungalow and someone who lived there, were always luring her on, we left, after a few days’ visit, for Denver. When we arrived in Cheyenne, we were driving about one day, and passed a modiste shop. The windows were so attractive that we decided to investigate. On entering, our eyes met with the most beautiful hats and gowns that we had ever seen, in fact the lure of one hat of georgette crepe was so irresistible that I finally added it to my wardrobe. It was a mass of fluffy white ruffles, with tiny pink rosebuds nestling here and there in its soft folds. A superb white chiffon afternoon gown next attracted my attention, and Frances added it to her already beautiful wardrobe. The beautiful young woman who had attended to our needs had retired to another room to get change for us, when a voice from behind us said: “I thought so; I thought I knew your voices.” After a moment of silence, caused by our susprise, we nearly knocked each other over in our hurry to embrace the owner of the modiste shop. “Hope,” I exclaimed, when surprise had at last released my tongue, and allowed us to speak, “How, when, why—tell us all about it?” So she told us in detail of her ambition to be a milliner, and how easily she had worked her way up to owning the most fashionable shop in the state. As Hope begged us to remain for a time, a week passed most delightfully before we again took up the trail. When we were within a few miles of Denver, bang! a tire blew out with all the noise that accompanies such occasions. Together we started to change the tire and were getting along famously, laughing and joking, when the jack suddenly fell and caught one of my fingers under the wheel. Frances finished changing the tire and we drove to St. Joseph’s hospital to have my finger dressed.