Looking Back: Ups and downs
A few issues ago, Looking Back looked back 100 years to two young ladies who walked to Petoskey to visit an aunt.
The trek took over five hours. Not to be outdone, a young Charlevoix man did the same thing, on a speed record bet.
Charlevoix Courier, Nov. 22, 1922: “SAM HAMILTON WINS HIS WAGER. Foots It to Petoskey and Back In Nine Hours and a Quarter. Last Wednesday Sam Hamilton walked from this city to Petoskey. Now, there is nothing remarkable about walking to Petoskey. ‘Many Charlevoix people,’ as the ad says, have probably done this same stunt without arousing any particular comment.
“But this was different—Sam walking on a wager and against time. Some time ago, he offered in the presence of a few friends to put up fifty dollars that he could walk to Petoskey and back inside of ten hours. His friends took him up on this and thus it is that Wednesday morning, Mr. Hamilton, equipped in light marching order, started out at eight o’clock (at the downtown bridge) and started on his objective being the Mitchell Street bridge over Bear Creek, which everybody knows is near the centre [sic] of our neighbor city.
“His progress was observed at certain points along the route, which as near as can be estimated is about thirty-four miles. Sam got back to Charlevoix at half past five, having completed his task in just nine hours and a quarter, averaging nearly three and a half miles per hour, over the total distance. A large and admiring crowd of citizens met him at the swing bridge and escorted him to the stake-holder, who handed over the money.”
The Charlevoix Sentinel newspaper reported that the jaunt was done in adverse weather conditions to boot.
How much did Sam collect in today’s dollars? Googled queries say somewhere between $806 and $887.
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Today, whether it’s a good thing or not, America has the ability to track the ebb and flow of the Dow-Jones figures by the nanosecond. Fifty years ago was another story. The arcane workings of the Dow-Jones to most people stopped just short of voodoo. Charlevoix Courier editor Bob Clock reported how, fresh out of the army and beginning his journalistic career at the Pontiac Press for a lordly $50 per week, got his feet wet playing, or not, the stock market.
“If I had been able to distinguish between lemon sherbet from butter 19 years ago, I might have been cheering right along with the rest of the financial community last Tuesday when the Dow-Jones Industrials broke 1000 for the first time in history (1003.16). ‘This is the greatest day in history,’ mused Acampora, an analyst with Harris, Upham & Co.’ But because of the lemon sherbet and butter, I’m just going to have to take Ralph’s word for it and try to be happy because he’s happy.
“OK, but what do lemon sherbet and butter have to do with the stock market? I’ll tell you, but it might make me blush.”
He goes on to say that once he got the Pontiac job, still a bachelor, he was able to support himself well on his weekly $50, with a little left over to burn. Then his wire-editor, Gemma Striffler, set her sights on him.
“Stock clubs were the rage in those days, and Gemma belonged to one of the first clubs in Pontiac. She suggested I should start investing.” Her dream was for all her co-workers to form a club, with Bob as co-leader, and make a killing. “I was game, so agreed to attend a supper meeting at her home with two of her fancy stock broker friends from Detroit. I arrived at Gemma’s house and found myself in the presence of two very distinguished gentlemen in grey flannel suits, grey flannel shirts, and grey flannel ties. I was wearing my khakis, with the corporal stripes removed.
“Before dinner, the two distinguished gentlemen gave me a brief run-down on the history of stock clubs. About 90 percent of what they said went over my head, but I nodded agreeably and tried to look intelligent. I didn’t know a dividend from an overdraft but I never let on. After we had drained our cocktail glasses, Gemma invited us into the dining room where a dinner of braised chicken breasts, baked potatoes and green beans almondine was waiting. There also was big basket of hot rolls and before each place setting was a little dish with a mound of yellow butter.
“When the rolls were passed, I broke mine open, slathered the insides with a dollop of butter, and took a bite. To my horror, I discovered that the butter was lemon sherbet. I glanced nervously around and noticed two pairs of grey flannel eyes riveted on me and my roll. Rather than admit to a faux pas, I finished the rest of my roll, which was now soggy with melted sherbet, and tried to pretend I always ate hot rolls with sherbet smeared all over them. The grey flannel eyes exchanged puzzled looks and the rest of the meal proceeded without incident. However, the two distinguished visitors never again broached the subject of my starting a stock club at the Pontiac Press.
“When I arrived home, my mother explained that in fancy homes a little dish of sherbet is often served with the meal to cool the palate between courses. So that is how I missed my big opportunity to become a big wheel in the stock market. I might have been cheering right along with the rest of Wall Street when the Dow-Jones Industrials broke 1000 last week if butter and lemon sherbet didn’t look so darn much alike.”
This article originally appeared on The Petoskey News-Review: Looking Back: Ups and downs
