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11

different world to look again at the hills of home. They were quite different now after nine years. The city had changed a lot. I scarcely recognized it. I was still only a nominal 30 but I felt like a sad old man in some ways. For, even though things had changed a great deal, I was still reminded strongly of the past. I thought of all that had happened here. I thought also of all that might have happened here to me if my father had lived. It would have changed my whole life, just how I didn't know, but it would have been drastic in all probability--and not necessarily to the good. I thought of James Street Hill and Thornden Hill and Mausoleum Hill and Onondaga Hill and University Hill. It was a brief return of the native to his homeland scene, calling up a lot of wistful dreams. For I was beginning to realize how fast the years were beginning to spin by and there was nothing I could do to stop them. I wrote a short story which was inspired by this visit to Syracuse. It was titled "Lost Is Found" and I thought I captured pretty well the mood I felt that night although I chose Phil Knapp's story to hang my thoughts on. However, it accumulated two or three rejection slips and wound up in the file with the rest of the efforts.

As I have said, 1933 was not a happy time in some respects. People were discouraged, disillusioned, bitter. If only we'd had a little more faith, we'd have rejoiced in it in the days not too far ahead because the turn wasn't far away in the spring of 1933. However, a scene in a Wesleyville barber shop where I went to get my hair cut will illustrate what I mean. The barber's name was Peterson. He was a sloppy, tobacco-chewing would—be philosopher—politico with halitosis--not inspiring and I don't know why I ever patronized him at all except it was probably convenient to do it partially on Company time when one's biggest problem was how to kill time at the plant without losing one's mind in boredom. At any rate, I was there one day when Peterson's wife came in; they lived in the same building. She was fat and unattractive and slumped into a wicker rocker. There might have been a faint trace of prettiness left but it was virtually lost in the sags, pockets and puffs of her face. What she said was one long complaint: "tired... been house cleaning...done now... moved the radio to house clean while had some pep left...don't need none now...cleaning done...radio no good...interference from the clippers...tubes shot...would like $25 to shop in Erie...on1y day-dreaming...going to Buffalo to visit sister...no more cleaning there...a little cooking but no c1eaning...neighbor's wife worried...husband fell off wagon...too bad...hard worker...conscientious." Mrs. Peterson appeared both lazy and sleepy and certainly not elevating and combined with her husband's bad breath, it was not a pleasant situation. About this time, a big, dissipated-looking man came in chewing a smelly cigar butt, hat cocked on the back of his head, shoddily dressed, face sagging. He slumped into a chair.  Peterson inquired if he was working. "Naw, laid