We return to the good old days of the alma mater. We’ve been checking out a few of the photos from the 1936 yearbook, The Glomerata. (Part one is here. Part two is here. Part three is here. Part four is right here. Part five is here.) This is hardly a complete look, but there’s a lot to see from 1936.

This is hardly a complete look, but there’s a lot to see from 1936.

By the 1930s the way the yearbooks document the goings on in is starting to feel familiar to modern eyes. There are a lot of very small photos that don’t tell us much, but probably brought a smile, or a frown, to the face of the people that were there. We’ll see a bit of that, and a bit more. We also learn that the highlight of the social season was the Junior Prom.

Joe Sanders brought his band down from Chicago, and they highlighted vocals by Barbara Parks and Jack Swift. Sanders had timed his career just right, surfing to regional and nearly national success with the growth of radio. He went from the midwest to the east coast with the Coon-Sanders Nighthawks, but Carleton Coon died in 1932. Sanders kept the sound alive for decades, touring in a rickety bus, playing, and writing movie scores through the 1950s. In 1936, the students danced the night away to his happy sounds.

Here’s the cover of the 1936 Glom

This is the Activities section of The Glom which is a bit thin owing to layout, photography limitations and/or editorial choices. The yearbook does it gives due to student publications.

This is Doug Wallace, who was editor of The Plainsman. (You can see his 1935-1936 editions.) He helmed the paper that was firmly established in its fourth decade. And the outlet still exists today. Historically, the Plainsman has been honored by 34 Pacemakers since the 1920s, including two during my time there. That’s the most in the nation. In the 1930s The Plainsman was a campus paper in a community served by a few professional publications. In my day, this paper had the largest circulation of any weekly in the state. Today it exists primarily online, of course. These days the campus outlet serves essentially as the local newsroom. All of it builds on the things that men like Wallace built in his day.

Wallace was the ink-stained wretch of Minneapolis, studying science and literature. In addition to running the paper, he was in Spades, ROTC, and a member of the Auburn Players. He served for five years in artillery with the Second Armored. They fought in North Africa, Sicily, and landed in Normandy, crossing into Germany late in 1944. He earned the silver and bronze stars. When peace came, but before he could return home, he ran a division newspaper, the editor of the first ever English language newspaper published in Berlin. When he finally made it home he was destined to become something of a local legend. He worked at the Columbus Ledger-Enquirer, and prior to their manager he was a big part of both papers. He wrote columns. In 1953, WRBL took to the air in that border town, and Wallace was named their weatherman. (He was not a meteorologist.) There are quite a few photos of him giving forecasts off a chalkboard, peak technology in those days. He stayed in that role until 1985, retiring at 70. He wrote a three-volume history of his church and was a big time gardener. When he died, at 90, in 2005, he was survived by his wife of 63 years, two children, five grandchildren and three great-grandchildren.

We’ve met him, and the business manager Herman Harris before. Harris became an Air Force brigadier general. He served in the reserves until, while simultaneously becoming an auditor and inspector for General Motors. He also ran some small businesses, and maintained a farm. He took a job running a hospital, which is where he died, age 59, in 1974. He’d also run the local Little League, been president of the Chamber of Commerce, the Rotary, the Red Cross and Community Chest. He was survived by his wife and three adult children.

Floyd Hurt wasn’t pictured here, but he was the associate editor of the paper. He went to work for Avondale Mills — a large regional textile concern, retiring as a regional sales manager in North Carolina. He was a Rotarian, a country club man, and a Navy veteran.

They had a staff of at least 20 reporters, editors, and contributors, with five people working the business side and five more in circulation. I found a few of the names, one served as a non-commissioned officer during World War II and Korea, and lived to see the end of the 1980s. Another, a man named Clarence Pruet, Jr., went home, took a job at the family department store, which he held for 44 years, interrupted only by World War II. He joined the Army Air Force in October of 1941, rose to the rank of lieutenant colonel, earned five battle stars and the bronze star. He came home, raised a family, served as a church deacon, bank director and city councilman. Small towns depending on there being men and women like this, and Auburn churned them out by the truckload. Then there was Alvin Vogtle, a freshman working on the circulation side, distributing these papers all over. After school Alvin Jr. flew combat missions in the Army Air Corp. He was captured after crashing in North Africa in 1941, and shipped to Germany as a POW. He tried four times to escape, and succeeded on his fifth time, scaling a tall barbed-wire fence, and getting over the Rhine into Switzerland. If you’ve seen the move The Great Escape, he was a real-life part of what was dramatized there. But he was just getting started. He became a lawyer, and then president of a Southern Co. subsidiary in 1960. He eventually worked is way into the CEO slot of the regional electric utility, where he served from 1969 until 1983. They named a nuclear plant in Georgia after the guy. The region needs people like that, too, and Auburn has certainly churned out its share over the years, including quite a few from this era.

Which brings us to The Glomerata, the book we’ve been reading. The editor was Alton Graves. Born in the northeast corner of the state, an architecture student and memory keeper, he was just 29 years old when he died, in North Carolina, after a long illness. He was married and his parents survived him. He had lived for a time in Birmingham, and that’s where they buried him.

He worked alongside Blake Campbell and a crew of 25 editorial and business-side staffers. And I think the desks they’re using for these photos of the paper and the yearbook were in the same room. Nothing written here says that — nothing written here gives any clue to where the work was done, in fact, it was either known or immaterial — but the context clues in other editions have pointed us that way, and the visuals match up.

It looks, here, like maybe Campbell is already married. After his wartime service he and his wife had first kid in 1945. That first daughter would follow him to Auburn a generation later. She got married in the mid-60s, a younger daughter soon after. He became a warehouse manager in his small south Alabama hometown.

One of the associate editors that worked on this yearbook was Gerald Bilbro, who ran his own shop in Georgia. He became a midcentury designer of some renowned. He worked alongside another architecture student, Helen M. Tigner. She found her way into writing dozens of pieces for the Columbus, Georgia, newspaper. She became a registered architect, a pilot, an accomplished horse rider and a talented photographer. (All before she hit 30.) She got married to a Lt. Cameron Knox, of California. This guy had earned a PhD from the University of Washington in oceanography, and was a paratrooper at nearby Ft. Benning. (Presumably that’s how they met.) It looks as though they might have traveled the world and lived in a fair amount of it.

The dance I mentioned above gets a two-page spread. The first has a cliched posed photograph, and then a wide and blurry shot of the dance itself. Opposite that is a collage that looks similar to this.

There are nine pages of these, each page comes with the briefest of cutlines that probably said it all in 1936, but is rather mysterious generations later. There’s a little bit of everything in here, people standing about, outdoor activities, and people with regrettably painted faces. There are exterior shots of Greek houses, a blurry image from the ODK Cake Race, and shots from various parades. There are some bad and indecipherable photos from various games, a few pets, the big stadium in Columbus, and cars.

Two pages are given to ROTC activities, one of which you’ll see here.

“… and those dinky trains. Remember how they could go up those hills. Just a gentle reminder that Sherman was right.”

Dinky might sound too … something … to belong in a book of this era, but we take the word from a 19th century Scottish dialect. And to see these fellows, steeped as they were in Lost Cause mythology, giving Sherman credit for anything. I wonder if they’re referring there to Sherman’s prophecy.

…where are your men and appliances of war to contend against them? The North can make a steam engine, locomotive, or railway car; hardly a yard of cloth or pair of shoes can you make. You are rushing into war with one of the most powerful, ingeniously mechanical, and determined people on Earth — right at your doors.You are bound to fail.

In our next installment we’ll check out the Features section.

All of this will wind up in the Glomerata section (eventually). You can see others, here. Or maybe you’d like to click through to see all the covers. The university hosts their collection here.

We go back once more some 90 years into the past for a few more glimpses at the people haunting the steps of my alma mater. It was the Great Depression. It was 1936. (Part one is here. Part two is here. Part three is right here.) This is hardly a complete look, but there’s a lot to find in 1936. Let’s see what is inside.

What is today the War Eagle Battalion traces its origins back to 1916, when President Wilson signed into law the Natioanl Defense Act. That gives us the modern ROTC, but the university’s military training program goes back to some of the earliest days of the institution and draws a line from Morrill Land-Grant Act. Back then, all males attending Auburn had to participate in the program for at least two years.

It hasn’t been compulsory for decades, but today it is a four-year program with cadets graduating as junior grade officer going into active duty, the national guard, or reserves.

Auburn University has produced more than 8,000 Army commissioned officers. Among the graduates include Ralph “Shug” Jordan ’32, who would invade Europe in between stints becoming a legendary coach, Rep. William Nichols ’39, Astronaut Jim Voss ’72, NFL Hall of Famer Kevin Greene ’84, Olympic Gold Medalist Ruthie Bolton ’89, and, even in this book, a few important future generals.

But, first, here’s the cover.

It’s a short little section, so we’ll try to concentrate on finding out who a lot of these people are. But, first, here’s a parade shot.

They’re standing in front of Ross Hall, which is still at the center of things. I can’t get in that exact spot on Google Maps, but here’s the view. You can scroll around through here a great deal, if you like.

Here’s the cadet brigade staff, commanded by Cadet Colonel W.T. Wingo, Jr. He’s second from the left in this formation. We met him recently: William Taylor Wingo was a chemical engineering student from Birmingham. After school he became a Marine. By 1942 he was one of the Corps’ youngest majors. He fell ill in Samoa that year. They flew him to California, but he died there, apparently of pneumonia, just before Christmas, leaving behind a wife and young daughter.

On the left is William C. Piatt, an aeronautical engineering major from Birmingham. He would stay in the army for a while, and was a major in the artillery by the time World War 2 was over. He married a Mississippi girl, and they built themselves a life there. She worked in real estate and owned a dance studio. They were prominent members of their community. He was remembered, when he died at 64 in 1974, as a pioneer in air conditioning — and that’s saying something in the Deep South. His wife survived him. When she passed away at 79 in 1998, they had a son, two daughters, seven grandchildren and one great-grandchild.

Carl K. Warren, Jr., in the back, was a science and literature major from nearby Opelika. He fought in the war, received the Silver Star while in the 4th Infantry Division. Sometime soon after he rose to the rank of lieutenant colonel and took a post at the U.S. Military Academy. His wife died while they were stationed in Hawaii in 1959. She’s buried at Arlington. It looks like he remarried. What became of him after that I can’t say.

Eugene Lee was a civil engineering major. He married a Birmingham Southern grad in 1940. He served in World War 2 and in Korea. He worked at Tennessee Coal and Iron, which was, at that time, busy building a certain reputation, shall we say. He died in 1988, at 76. His wife made it to 89, and passed away in 2002. They’re buried Fort Logan National Cemetery, in Colorado.

Herman Harris was a business student from Clanton. While he was a captain of the ROTC, he was also the business manager of The Plainsman. We met him a few weeks back. He became a brigadier general in the Air Force, finally returned from the uniform in 1971. While in the reserves he was an auditor and inspector for General Motors, ran small businesses in south Alabama and a good-sized farm. He also ran a hospital, from 1963 until he died there in 1974. People remembered his role with the local Little League, as president of the Chamber of Commerce, the Rotary, the Red Cross and Community Chest. He was survived by his wife and three adult children.

This is listed as “The Auburn Band.” It’s included in the military section, which probably makes sense for the time, even if we associate them with sports today.

There are 83 members listed. There in the center is the band’s director, Paul “Bedie” Bidez. A generation before he’d been a captain and 175 pound fullback on some of the great early teams. By this point he was coaching and running the band, which marched under his direction for 32 years. The modern band has 380 members. Almost as many members of today’s band are music majors as those in the picture, above. Bidez deserves a bit of credit for that. He founded the music department.

And here’s the rifle team. They’d won the conference championship the year before. The team was looking forward to hosting the championship this season. The program was expanding, too. They were coached by Lt. William Ehrgott, who came from the Military Academy, MIT, and the French Tactical School. He was an engineer before becoming a professor of military science and tactics at Auburn. He was there for four years. He was in North Africa in 1942, later becoming a staff engineer in the Ninth Air Force, rising to chief of staff as they fought in Europe and North Africa. His billets would grow more impressive as his career marched on. He was promoted to brigadier general in 1952. Probably it was all the lessons he learned from this rifle team.

The SEC doesn’t keep records of ancient rifle championships online, unfortunately. I’ve been pouring over the campus paper for a few minutes and other state publications, but can’t find anything elsewhere that tells us how they did particular season. I do know that later in 1936 it was announced that the university would create a co-ed rifle team. That had to be pretty exciting for the 1930s.

Also, I found this, in a March issue of The Plainsman.

They were mistaken here about “no athletic relations.” The two schools met in basketball for the first time in 1924, for example. There may be other sports where the schools tangled, but history is a challenge for the athletic department and I don’t want to spend all night on that. We do know they’d not played in football since 1907. We know why they weren’t playing. They did, too. It’d be a dozen more years before the football teams faced off again, in 1948. The state legislature would have to strongly motivate the two schools to make that happen.

But, as you’ll soon see, even without their greatest rival, the Tigers would have plenty of competition. Next week, we’ll talk athletics.

All of this will wind up in the Glomerata section (eventually). You can see others, here. Or maybe you’d like to click through to see all the covers. The university hosts their collection here.

I have fired up the wayback machine and we are going way back, or a reasonably moderate distance back, depending on your perception of these things, to see the people at my alma mater in 1936. We are once again jumping in the time machine, heading back 90 years, to see what the ol’ alma mater was like in 1936. (Part one is here. Part two is here.) The Great Depression was full of depressing things, but the students were determined to make their memories and live their young lives. In many respects, theirs is a different place than the one I knew, but it is awfully familiar.

This is hardly a complete look, but there’s a lot to find in 1936. Let’s see what is inside.

The senior class section includes 336 students and, alongside their headshots we learn their names, their hometowns, what they’re studying and some of their extracurriculars. There are also some vertical photos of some of the high profile students to fill up the margins. We’ll wrap up our look at those today. These are vertical photos, and include a little too much negative space. If I ever meet the young man who designed this — he’d be a very old man by now — I will express my dismay that something he did a century ago hurts the layout to my website. He’d probably wonder why I was hassling him. The photos are fine, he’d say. He’d be right.

But, first, here’s the cover.

Allow me to introduce you to Gilbert McMillan, a chemical engineering student. In addition to being a baseball captain he was in one of the secret societies, and also a ranking officer in the ROTC. He was born in Malvern, and grew up in Alabama, just down the road, in Tuskegee. He married a Jersey girl. And you can not predict his future from this one photo.

He went to work for DuPont, where he worked for 33 years, helping to start nuclear reactors at the Savannah River Site in South Carolina. That seems reasonable for a man that had worked on the Manhattan Project. He was a tree farmer, a city councilman, and then a state senator in South Carolina for decade, leaving that body in 1979. He was the sort of state lawmaker that did not want to spend any money on anything. He’d been a vocal ultra-conservative, in a legislature that doesn’t like loud members. He was apparently instrumental in getting the state to vote for the 19th Amendment. (This was in 1969, and was purely a formality. The amendment had been in the constitution for almost 50 years by then.) The South Carolina Senate honored him with a resolution upon his death, in 1998, aged 83. His wife survived him by a decade. They’d had two daughters. And when his wife passed she could count four grand children and five great-grandchildren.

The head cheerleader was a mechanical engineering major from Birmingham. In his four years on campus he’d been a part of almost everything. Class officer three years in a row, executive cabinet, Spades, Greek this and Greek that, an ROTC captain. One wonders how he had time to study.

After school he caught on with Goodyear Tire and Rubber, then went into the war as a captain in the Pacific. He spent much of his career after the war at at the Birmingham Ornamental Iron Company, where he established Meadowcraft, a furniture division that would, one-day, be one of the successful casual furniture makers in the country. (We have some Meadowcraft furniture in our home.) He was incredibly successful in his business ventures, which led to time as a general chairman of the United Way, and participation in many of the prominent civic and social organizations in his hometown. (I’d list them, but it is excessive.) He was also on the board of some of the largest business concerns in the state. I just found a newspaper clipping from 1998 that talks about how he was teaching fans cheers from 60 years prior. He died, at 90, in 2003. He was survived by his wife of 61 years. They had five children and eight grand-children.

Millard Morris was captain of the football team, but he was also a dynamite baseball player. He threw the first recorded no hitter in school history in 1936 and was named team MVP. He spent a year in the minors, going 2-6 with Columbus and Cordele. He threw four complete games, but that seems to be the end of his athletic career. He shows up in the society pages like a lot of the young people did for a while. He grew bananas in Panama for a spell. He was the father of five sons. He died in 1987 at 75.

John Haygood Paterson was well known for his football prowess. A 1960 Sports Illustrated feature named him a Silver Anniversary All American. He was an all-conference lineman in his day.

He went into the family business, where he was part of the third generation to run a huge floral business. He’d served as a county official in central Alabama, as a member of the state’s Agricultural Center Board, the Rotary and more. He died in 1988, aged 74. He had two daughters and four grandchildren. Extra fact, his grandfather, William Burns Paterson, made the boat ride from Scotland in 1869 or so, and a few years later moved to Montgomery, built up the flower business and started what is now Alabama State University. William died when John was young, I wonder if he had any memories of him.

It’d be a shame to draw conclusions about a person from just one photograph, but George Quinney looks like he was ready to be the archetype of a certain sepia-toned way of live, doesn’t it?

He was from Columbus, Georgia, but would later spend 40 years in Jacksonville, Florida. He worked for Blue Cross-Blue Shield. He was a big part of the alumni organization down later well into his later years. He died in 1989, at 77, the father of two sons and four grandchildren.

We met John Rush a few weeks ago in the first installment. His is a sad story, but that sweater … I need one of those.

He was from Mobile, the class president, majoring in aeronautical engineering. He became a naval aviator. He died just before his 27th birthday, in June of 1941. He’d been conducting a test flight of the Curtiss SNC-1 Falcon when he got caught in a squall off Pensacola. He and his co-pilot were killed. Rush was buried at Arlington. His father, John Sr., was also an Auburn man. He died when Junior was a freshman in school.

Jane Slack was Miss Auburn, a little pageant vote contest that doesn’t mean much off campus, but is one of those things that sits prominently on the school calendar. It got a few mentions for her in newspapers late that winter, all using the same contributed headshot, which is a tightly cropped shot of her senior portrait.

In 1937 she married her college sweetheart, Bobbie Blake. I can find more about him than her. They met their first year in school. He was a local boy, and a serious athlete, playing basketball, throwing the javelin, football. He was, in fact, a part of the school’s first bowl team.

When his playing days were over, he coached for a bit, but soon moved into banking. He’d served in the Mule Pack Corps and artillery during the war. When he retired in 1981 they moved to Florida. They’d been married 60 years and had five children, seven grandchildren and six great-grandchildren when she passed away, in 1997. She’s buried in her hometown, Birmingham. He moved back home after that. Her husband lived for four more years. He’s buried in Auburn.

I wonder if they were friends with James Vance. He was from Gadsden, studying business. He’d been the president of the sophomore class. He played in the marching band and the jazz band.

After school, he went to Birmingham and worked at First National Bank. He’d become vice chair of the local medical clinic board and was a president of Alabama Goodwill, and the treasurer of his church. He worked with the local Junior Achievement program, serviced on some city commissions and the local lung association, among several other civic groups. He died at 69 in 1984, survived by his wife and a son and daughter.

Here’s an ink-stained wretch, Doug Wallace of Minneapolis, who was studying science and literature. In addition to running the paper, he was in Spades, ROTC, and a member of the Auburn Players, which was a band, as I recall. He was destined to become a legend.

He served for five years in artillery with the Second Armored. They fought in North Africa, Sicily, and landed in Normandy, crossing into Germany late in 1944. He earned the silver and bronze stars. When peace came, but before he could return home, he ran a division newspaper, the editor of the first ever English language newspaper published in Berlin. When he finally made it back to the States he worked at the Columbus Ledger-Enquirer, and prior to their merger he was a big part of both papers. He wrote columns. And, in 1953, WRBL took to the air in Columbus. He was their weatherman. (He was not a meteorologist.) There are quite a few photos of him giving forecasts off a chalkboard, which would have been peak technology in those days, I guess. He stayed in that role until 1985, retiring at 70. By then, of course, he was a local legend. He wrote a three-volume history of his church and was a big time gardener. When he died, at 90, in 2005, he was survived by his wife of 63 years, two children, five grandchildren and three great-grandchildren.

Charles Whitten Walter was a business major from Birmingham. When he died in 1986, at 72, the second sentence of his obituary gave readers the details of his college life, half-a-century prior. Isn’t it interesting how that’s the priority? He’d been in Sigma Nu, Spades, and an honor society.

Like so many of his classmates, he also served in the war. He was also in the Second Armored. Back home, he became a board member of the Birmingham Botanical Society and helped renovate the Botanical Gardens (Which is a great visit.) He ran the parks and rec board for Mountain Brook, the richest Birmingham suburb. I don’t know that he was one of the Big Mules, but the rest of his obit lines up with it. If he wasn’t, he was buddies with all of them. He and his wife had a daughter and son.

Billy Wingo was a chemical engineering student from Birmingham. He was high up in the ROTC, in all the secret societies, and somehow a part of three different organizations that use Greek letters. I assume two of those are academic and honorary.

His given name was William Taylor Wingo, and after school he went into the Marines. By 1942 he was one of the Corps’ youngest majors. He fell ill in Samoa. They flew him to California, but he died there, apparently of pneumonia. All over the Christmas newspapers there were stories about his death. He had a wife and a young daughter. Just horrible.

Merwin York was a south Alabama boy, a business major from Monroeville. He played in all three bands on campus.

Later in life, he was the chairman of his local hospital board for 16 years. He’d also been the fire chief and a town councilman. He was in the American Legion, the Chamber of Commerce, and was a lay leader of his church. (It’s a very small town, but still.) He was a manager for a construction supply company. He did all that and still had time to raise a family. He and his wife had two daughters. He died in 2000, at 85.

Yes, that’s a lot of men. I’m just sharing the people the Glomerata staff (also a lot of men) highlighted. Take it up with the 1930s patriarchy. But here are two of the women who were graduating seniors. This is Lois Bailey, who was an education major from neighboring Opelika.

She moved down to the Gu’f in 1946. She was in all sorts of clubs and organizations down there. She also worked with the Red Cross, taught Sunday School and played piano at her church for more than 30 years. She taught special education. Lois died at 89, survived by two daughters, her second husband (having lost her first after 56 years of marriage), six grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren.

It’s amazing, but none of these things are in these kids minds when these photos were taken. How could they be?

Like Luella Botsford. She was also from Opelika. Also studying education. Perhaps these two were close friends. Luella wrote for the campus paper, the Plainsman.

She moved south in 1946, and settling in for a nice life in Enterprise. She founded the first Girl Scout troop in that city, and served on the Scouts’ state executive board for a long while. She was active in the arts, and received an award from the governor for that part of her civic life. She was a Sunday school teacher. She’d been a member of the university’s College of Liberal Arts advisory council. She and her husband had one child that died as an infant. Her husband died in 2000. She lived to see 86, passing away in 2002, survived by four daughters, a son, and nine grandchildren.

Next week, we’ll start our glimpse into some of the classic student life photos, so do come check it out.

All of this will wind up in the Glomerata section (eventually). Or maybe you’d like to click through to see all the covers. The university hosts their collection here.

We are once again jumping in the time machine, heading back 90 years, to see what the ol’ alma mater was like in 1936. (Part one is here.) By that, of course, I mean the people as much as anything. It was an exciting young time for a bunch of young people in the middle of the Great Depression. There’s was a different world — but some of this does look familiar.

I’m flipping through, avoiding most of the posed photographs in favor of the more interesting images and names that jump out me. This is hardly a complete look, but there’s a lot to find in 1936. Let’s see what is inside.

In the senior class we have 336 students featured. Standard headshots. The text includes their name, their hometowns, their majors and some of their extracurricular activities. In the margins, we get some vertical photos of some of the student leaders. Those are the photos we’ll look at today. The pictures include a little too much negative space, because the people who designed this 90-year-old yearbook didn’t consider the format I’d be using on this site generations later. We’ll meet the editor in a bit, below. I’m sure his photo will be chagrined about the lack of foresight overlooking my eventual needs. We’ll muddle through it, though, because the format matters little, the photos a bit more, and their stories matter most of all.

But, first, here’s the cover.

First let’s meet Woodrow Barnes. He was from just up the road in Alexander City, but today’s 40-minute commute wouldn’t have been as easy for the business major in his days. They called him “Country.” We should call him the honorable Woodrow Barnes. He was with an artillery unit in North Africa and Europe during the war, and returned to civilian life as a a major. He served three terms as sheriff before becoming a probate judge in his childhood home county. He got the job for a second six-year term. Then, one day in 1972, he developed chest pains while working. A few days later, he died at just 58. He was survived by his wife (who finished his term on the bench), two sons and a grandson.

His wife, Melba Peters Barnes, was also an Auburn grad, and a teacher and court reporter. (She’s a few years younger than Country, but she’s not in this Glom. She took those six months of on-the-bench experience and a Democratic party nod and won her own election for the position, by a 3-1 margin to fill the final four years of her husband’s second term. She was the first female judge in the county, and the papers started using her name, not her husband’s name. She won a second term of her own in 1976. And then she had a heart attack in 1979. She died at 62.

Claes Albert George Blomquist, Jr. was from Savannah, Georgia. He was studying mechanical engineering, and continued his studies in the graduate program at the University of Georgia. Al, as he would be known in later years, was in the Army Corps of Engineers, becoming a colonel before spending a long civilian career with Monsanto in Alabama and then Chemstrand, in Florida and South Carolina.

Blomquist lost his first wife pretty young, and his second wife much later in life. Then, when he turned 89, he married his college sweetheart, Doris. They had about eight years together before she passed. Al Blomquist made it to 102, dying in 2016. He was survived by three children, eight-grandchildren and five great-grandchildren. I hope he talked about his old college days a lot, but I hope those later years were full of great memories, too.

Blake Campbell looks straight out of central casting for one of those “When will my wife finally learn to buy the right coffee?” ads that typified the middle of the century. He got married in 1941. Served during the war. They had their first kid in 1945. That first daughter would follow him to Auburn a generation later. She got married in the mid-60s, the younger daughter soon after. There’s nothing in the newspapers beyond the engagement and the wedding mentions until he passes away at 65 in 1976.

Hardie Deer was from south Alabama and studying chemical engineering. His first name was John, but Hardie is better. If I rattled off all of the things he did in college you’d think he was a young man going places. He’d become a successful Chicago industrialist. He retired young to Louisiana. The governor of that state tabbed him to run the Louisiana Sovereignty Commission, which was empowered to combat desegregation in that state. (I was going to run across one of these guys, eventually. Probably I’ve seen several, but none that had it listed in their obituaries like this one.) When he left that job he bought a motel in Louisiana. He died there, at 54, in 1965. He was survived by his wife and two children.

Helen Franke was a local girl. But not really. She was born at Corregidor, Philippines. If you’ve been paying attention, her name will seem familiar. Her father had previously commanded the ROTC unit on campus. He was an artilleryman and had the honor of commanding the first American unit to fire on German forces in World War I. She was studying business. A few years after this Helen was living with her parents in Panama.

Her headshot is a better photo. She got married at some point. She shows up in one society page mention in the 1950s with both her married and maiden names. At some point she moved to Maryland. She volunteered with the Red Cross. When she died in 1992, aged 77, she was survived by four children, 11 grandkids and one great-grandchild.

This man’s name was apparently Philip Philips Gilchrist. He’s from a small town you’ve never heard of. A place so small, some 400 people lived there back then and just a few more today, that I used to drive through it all the time and I had to look it up just now to be sure. If you took away the airport the town would lose half its landmass. He was studying chemistry. He was from a long line of Philip Philips, it seems, and a lot of them are buried right there in that same town. Our man, however, broke the mold.

He attended Tulane Medical, became a doctor and stayed down on the Gulf, in Mobile. He was an ENT doctor, president of the local medical society, a leader in his church. He was on the state board that oversaw the docks, and also served on the board of Home Savings and Loan. He died in 2004, at 90, survived by this wife, three children and two grandchildren.

B.D. is Bryghte Davis Godbold. He was from Selma, and studying electrical engineering. If he looks like the most squared away college student you’ve ever seen, well, you might not be far off.

Godbold graduated with honors and then headed into the Marines. He was in command an antiaircraft battalion at Wake Island in December, 1941. He was captured and held by the Japanese as a POW until 1945. His men mined coal, their officers gardened, with the crops feeding them all. He later received the Legion of Merit for his service at Wake. He was tasked with modernizing the Marine Corps personnel system, and he turned to computers, their first such use in the military. He was trying to figure out their best use when Korea broke out.

He served in Korea in the 1st Marine Division and helped planned the landings at Inchon and fought at the Chosin Reservoir, earning another Legion of Merit award. He retired while in command of the 4th Marine Regiment in Hawaii, putting his uniform away as a brigadier general to start 1958. He went back to school, became the assistant chancellor of NYU, got a doctorate in higher ed. He went to Purdue in 1960 and developed something called the airborne distance education program, which used TV transmitters in aircraft to send signals, because we didn’t have satellites yet. He served as a vice president at what is now the University of Texas at Dallas. After Kennedy was assassinated, Dallas turned to Godbold to run a “Goals for Dallas” rehab program to shape the future. There, he helped start the Dallas International Airport, a new city hall, the city-wide library, and venues for the symphony and art. He was still active locally, and nationally, into the 1980s. Also, everyone was very proud of his berry garden in the backyard. He died at 99, in Dallas, in 2013. The fourth word in his obituary was “service.” Never was the word better placed.

Then we meet Alton Graves, who ran this book. He was from a small town that sat in a valley in the northeast corner of the state, and was studying landscape architecture. He’s another one that died shockingly young.

He was just a week shy of 30 when he passed away in Asheville, N.C., where he’d lived for a few years. The newspaper there said he’d had a long illness. He was married and his parents survived him. He had lived for a time in Birmingham, and that’s where they buried him.

Herman Harris was a business student, and another BMOC. He, too, would become a brigadier general, but of the Air Force. He served in the reserves until retiring in 1971. He was an auditor and inspector for General Motors, ran small businesses in south Alabama and a good-sized farm.

Starting in 1963, he ran a hospital, which is where he died, age 59, in 1974. He’d also run the local Little League, been president of the Chamber of Commerce, the Rotary, the Red Cross and Community Chest. He was survived by his wife and three adult children.

Listen here, see, now and again you see a guy what comes straight out of central casting. No jake, smoe people are just so cosmopolitan-like, that they oughta be in pictures. And Harry Hooper here, he’s da man wit’ da hat, he could be a minor league henchman in a Dick Tracy picture, see. Oh, he thinks he’s a tough, but he’s the guy that gets it in the first act to establish our heroes bona fides. Tough enough for Dick, sure, but not too tough for da bullet.

Only that’s not Harry Hooper at all. He was born in Selma, became another big shot on campus, and a few years later went to war. He landed on Utah Beach with the Fourth Infantry Division. He stayed in the ETO, continual combat it says here, until Germany surrendered. If he was with the Fourth the whole time that might mean he was at Sainte-Mère-Église and Cherbourg, before fighting their way to Paris. They fought into Belgium, throwing themselves at the Siegfried Line and worked their way into Germany that October. They took part in the Battle of Hurtgen Forest, then moved over to Luxembourg where they got caught up in the Battle of the Bulge. They got across the Sauer River in January, then the Prüm River in February. They saw the Rhine, at Worms, in March. They stayed in the fight until May, almost a full solid year. His obituary says he received the Bronze Star, but it doesn’t tell us any other details of his service. When he got back home he ran the family car dealership, which was in operation for 63 years when he finally stepped away from that. He retired at 73, having also served on the City Council for two terms, and in a handful of other local community roles. He and his wife had three children and two grandchildren when he died, at 75, in 1990. The photo that ran with his obituary is a happy shot, he looks like the kind old man you’d look forward to seeing at church every Sunday morning.

You could find Floyd Hurt down at the Baptist Church. He’d studied science and literature in school and would go on to work for Avondale Mills — a large regional textile concern — for a long time, eventually retiring as a regional sales manager in North Carolina. He was a Rotarian, a country club man, and a Navy veteran. He had a wife and they had a son and daughter. He died at 81 in 1995.

Ed McKenzie was an education major, and a two-year track man. He was a steady hand looking down the runway at the pole vault. I can’t find anything readily available that tells us about what he did in the years that followed, unfortunately.

And that should make this a good place to stop for now.

Next week, we’ll take a look at the last handful of these senior standouts. Do make sure to come check it out. There are a few more impressive stories to tell!

All of this will wind up in the Glomerata section (eventually). Or maybe you’d like to click through to see all the covers. The university hosts their collection here.