“Time flies on wings of lightning.”
How true that is! It hardly seems a year since the Utah Amateur Press Club was started. And yet our records show that on Sept. 24, 1936, we elected officers and officially organized by adopting a constitution.
During that one year we have done much in the field of amateur journalism.
We already have three Utah papers and there are promises of more.
Our membership is steadily growing. Just now the Salt Lake club is nearly as large as the Oakland Amateur Press Club and we have prospective recruits throughout Utah. Within the next year we expect to have branches of the Utah club all over the state.
Our first anniversary, celebrated on Sept. 17, received many favorable comments in the local newspapers. Among those who attended was Olive W. Burt, on the Editorial Staff of the Salt Lake Tribune, and various other members and officers of the League of Western Writers. Many visitors seemed very interested in what we are doing and we hope to see them again.
by Inez Stevens
(N. A. P. A. Credential)
An orange moon a-riding by
Swinging low in the Eastern sky,
A streak of red across the west
Say that soon it is time for rest.
So quiet now the crimson fades,
And lights blink softly through the shades –
The hour of stillness now is here –
A biting breeze moves the curtain sheer
(The misty, blue-black haze
Of darkness) – Someone prays.
And higher now the moon appears –
A smaller, silver bark – she steers
Through the heavenly pathway blue –
From God the night has come to you!
Don’t forget – Salt Lake City in 1940.
by Margarite Stanley
I’ve always had an urge to write but never crystalized it into action. One day a friend called my attention to an organization created for the sole purpose of helping just such people as I take pen in hand and get started at something really worthy of consideration.
I shall never forget my initiation into that exclusive body known as the U. A. P. C. My pet name for them is “Amateuriters.” I stopped before the entrance way of 168. I glanced doubtfully at the board sign swinging on which was inscribed “Bartenders’ Union.” Two men, poorly dressed and of questionable character occupied the doorway. The reputation of the street flashed through my mind and various emotions possessed me. My first impulse was to bolt. Walking a few steps past the entrance I glanced back again at the number. That was it. Mustering my courage I brushed past the men, mounted the steps swiftly and stopped before a bulletin board. This proved anything by reassuring. A meeting for bartenders and waiters was posted there.
I proceeded along a deserted corridor and at least was in front of 204. I paused again. Upon the door was the sign “Merrie Marie Dressmaker Walk In.” What an odd place for a Press Club to hold a meeting. But stay, perhaps Merrie Marie was an amateuriter also. It said “Walk In,” but I decided to knock and await results. The click of the typewriter ceased and to my relief friend Elaine appeared in the doorway. She ushered me into an outer office partitioned off from the rest of the room by a low compoboard walling. She led the way through a swinging door into another part which appeared at a glance to be a dressmaking work shop. Still another door was before us. Addressing some one within my friend received permission to enter.
I was in the presence of Mr. Ford Haskill, writer, artist and literary director of the U. A. P. C. The studio is charming. Nondescript furniture sits in a circle around the room, a huge white vase of flowers on a table, books and magazines clutter the desk, paintings cover almost all the available wall space. You feel at home immediately.
Members arrived one by one and soon the meeting was in full swing. It moved along in a lively fashion and the minutes flew. I was sorry when the gong sounded to disperse. Nothing short of the measles will keep me away from another meeting.
(This paragraph did not appear in the original manuscript so may be considered a footnote.) Suggestions were a rewrite. More about the people and less about the place. In defense – first impressions are not always correct especially of personalities. But once orally expressed are impossible to change and upon such, a fine friendship may be banned. What impresses one individual may not interest another. Besides, the female gender of those present when this was read, will tell you my emotional reactions upon observation of Bartenders Union wasn’t just a grandstand play. That’s what comes of criticism – constructive or otherwise. Each person tries to justify his own ideas.
* * * *
In the old days, if pa got worried about why Elmer wasn’t in yet, he had to roll out of bed, dress, take the lantern, and go out to the barn to see if Dobbin had come home yet. Now pa just turns over in bed, picks up the phone, and calls the emergency hospital to see if they’ve picked up anything out of a gray coupe yet. – Lawrence R. Giles
by Lawrence R. Giles
“Emergency! All crews stand by!”
Foremen shouted out the order all through the plant. It was fifteen minutes until time to quit for the day, and men were tired, weary and hungry.
“Going on the line! All firemen report in 13 – 14 boiler room – Turbine operators at 1 and 2 – Reserves at coal crane!”
Quite an assignment for tired men after a hard hot day. It meant they must go on working – working fast and hard – perhaps all night. But most of the men were veterans of similar occurrences, and the new hands fell to with zeal and a hearty will.
I hurried away to do my turn at starting pumps and dumping seething chemicals into feed water. Darkness came on. A steam line jammed and I rushed through the plant to 13 – 14 boiler room. As I passed through the bunkers I looked out on the tracks to where the coal crane stood above the grating. Men were swarming over – under – and around the iron carcass like summer flies. The crane had been under repair and now, in the emergency, must be reassembled and swung into service to feed the hungry demanding furnaces.
I went on into the boiler room. What a sight: the concrete corridor between the twelve massive black boilers was alive with frenzied workmen. The air was dense with smoke and vapor. Crowded stokers ground and grumbled. Furnaces roared and sent out puffs of smoke and eerie flashes of light as firemen threw open the doors and, peering with shaded eyes into the roaring infernos, would drive great pokers into the flames. The entire building shook and vibrated with machinery. Draft motors roared – steam pipes pounded – and gage whistles kept up their constant irritations. Greasy, sweating men swarmed up and down ladders and rushed among the myriad pipes, adjusting valves and throwing switches. A shower of coal and water poured suddenly from the blackness overhead. No one paid the least attention. Two officials hurried in – no coats or hats – their white shirts smeared and blotched – grease and perspiration on their faces. Such a pandemonium! Orders and directions were being shouted at top voice, but amid the roar and commotion, could not be heard five feet away.
I noticed the big outside doors of the building ajar. I craved a breath of fresh air and a moment’s escape from the commotion. I stepped into the doorway and looked out into the quiet night. The lights of the city blinked placidly. The mountains raised their shapes into the deep sky. The moon and a few bright stars were out. What a difference – what a vast difference – to what was behind me.
It was as though I stood at the threshold of Hades and gazed into the courtyard of Heaven.
by Elaine Jorgensen
Oh, it’s great to be able to laugh at yourself
And say to yourself, “I’m a fool!”
To conquer the other sad half of yourself
By using a laugh as a tool.
When you see that you’ve always been in the wrong,
And yet that you want to be right,
There’s nothing so good as a laugh and a song
To help you along with the fight.
So just laugh at your foolishness, smile at your cares
And cover your sorrows with joy.
New gladness will come to you all unawares,
If these above rules you employ.
by Lillian Lee
(N. A. P. A. Credential)
I love to watch the sun go down
At the closing of the day.
I love to let my heart repose
From Life’s unending fray.
For as the glowing tints and hues
Fade slowly from the sky,
My soul is filled with deep content;
All weary feelings die.
And when the glow has disappeared
And evening starts to fall,
I close my eyes in thankful prayer
For the beauty of it all.
The Antique Shop
by Lucille Montgomery
A placid little old lady keeps the shop. In her life she has had many interesting and romantic experiences just as her antique pieces. She and they are worn and old; uninteresting or worthless to most people yet very precious and valuable to a few.
To the one who is able to see it, they reveal a certain glow, proving their true worth no matter how old or tarnished.
She also collects lost and left-over fragments of homes and families, young and old.
These human strays find a place in her home, and she sometimes helps them to find a real place in life.
by Harold D. Ellis
I often find my words assuming
The pattern of a silly verse.
To those who wonder how I bear it
I simply say, “It might be worse!”
I often find my words assuming
Silly patterns – sometimes worse
To those who wonder how I bear it
I simply say, “It might be verse!”
Utah Amateur Press Club Membership List
*Harold D. Ellis, President
*Elain Jorgensen, Vice-President
*Virginia Baker, Secretary
*Lawrence R. Giles, Treasurer
*Ford Haskill, Literary Director
L. R. Hardman
Sidney De Grey
*N. A. P. A. Members.
An amateur publication, issued quarterly under a rotating Editorship by the Utah Amateur Press Club of Salt Lake City, Utah, affiliated with the National Amateur Press Association.