The twelve mile ride in open wagon, with bright sunshine bearing down on the reflecting white snow, had done things to the girls’ faces. However, the wise ones had fetched along cosmetics to make themselves presentable — but our leading lady said she never had, and by the eternal bonds of respectability, she never would use make-up. Although conceded to be the privilege of stage-women, nice girls didn’t paint their faces in that period. And although our Jane did eventually make Hollywood, I suspect the day never came when she would use make-up. Though a native of Wales, with maybe a dozen years in this country at that time, Jane Thomas did not retain, markedly, the old country manner of speech. She was endowed with a delightful little twist, all her own—that is, something apart from that of other members of her family, which was neither Welsh nor pure English. Jane was a pretty girl. Her slight elegant body, draped in silk with something like six feet of the train trailing in the wake as she moved majestically across the stage, gave her a queenly quality. And she still looked lovely despite her shiny nose. She was, or rather had been before his demise, my brother Charley’s girl. HAPPY DAZE Published in Wetmore Spectator and Seneca Courier-Tribune — October 11, 1935 By John T. Bristow In glancing over the current issue of The Courier-Tribune I notice that the good citizens of Seneca are putting on a Biblical show this week. That’s fine. Whenever I hear of home talent aspiring to portray those ancient characters on the stage I become interested right away. It recalls to mind the time when I myself was, briefly, in the cast of a local entertainment of that sort held in the old school house here in Wetmore many, many years ago. It was a show the likes of which Wetmore had never had before, nor since—a show that stands out in memory as the one classic of the times—a show that rocked the whole countryside, rocked it with near volcanic convulsions. Considering the extraordinary performers and the conduct of an audience which ran wild, this little review is not offered as something worthy of emulation. Nor is it to be construed as criticism. Rather, it is something to be contrasted with the newer interpretations and renditions, something to be compared with present-day reactions as against old-time unbridled responses. As aforesaid, with other local talent—grownups, and some lesser lights, including an injection of members of “that tanyard gang”—I was cast for a minor part in that show. To give you the right slant on this last mentioned group of my theatrical co-workers, I should say here that my father operated a tannery in the old days, and “the gang” — frequenters of the yard—included just about all the happy-go-lucky youth of the town, vividly alive, and callow. Collectively, we made quite a record—something short of enviable, it now pains me to relate.