Gordon Foods–for all your nut meat and potato stick needs!
Atlanta was super progressive, offering international albums–even at night!
If you weren’t into modern Boogie Woogie, RCA Victor might be more your style.
Next up: refreshment!
The College Inn looks like the place to be, if you want to sit at the bar and sling back far-flung milkshakes.
And if too much brewski had gotten you soused beyond function, it might be time to call the White Cross.
In every yearbook of a certain vintage, several pages are devoted to beauty queens and runner-ups, “bluebells” to “sponsors” for men’s organizations. Today we feature not merely the campus beauties of Georgia Tech way back in 1947, but the ones with interesting names. Let’s start the ball rolling with Miss Elizabeth Cottongim!
Nope, it’s not the Eli Whitney cotton gin; it’s gim, which is neither alcohol nor an engine. And evidently the name is still going strong in Georgia, where Cottongim Services addresses all your heating and cooling needs.
Next up is a name I bet you’ve never heard, and probably can’t pronounce. It’s Miss Ygondine Walker! And as you can see by the cropped page, she was a SPON-sor. Extra credit for getting nominated by Mr. Pettyjohn, though I’d rather hear a Pettytom.
Next in line is typical for the era; when a woman married, she lost her own name entirely and became the Mrs. to her husband. So in this case, it’s Mrs. J.O. Paine. I feel your paine, honey. And check out that hair crown!
As we continue on down our list, we showcase Helen Quattlebaum. Evidently famous Quattlebaums existed, such as Cephas and Corey Bear. I guess she also knew a fellow named John Kennedy? Is she even wearing a dress?
And last but not least, let’s sound the chorus for Doris Boris! She might have done well to marry soon after and shed that rhyming surname.
Well, that’s it for today, folks! Enjoy your quarantine! And the next time that you meet an Ygondine or answer yet another Eli Whitney trivia question, think of me and how I just don’t get it.
The girl in the center is suspicious, trying to determine which one transmitted it to the rest.
Probably Margaret.
Yikes, if this was what passed for a beard in 1948, that’s a sad, sad state for facial hair. My brother-in-law is only capable of patchy spots on his face, but my husband can grow a full beard quickly. Now that it’s mostly white, he resembles Santa with only the aid of his round metal readers. Nobody likes a Santa with a fake beard.
That’s probably not kryptonite. In fact, the only thing I recognize in the whole image is dreft, and a man in an apron. A sturdy apron. The rest of it is all science.
This might also be science. Or maybe it’s engineering. I don’t know. It’s machines.
This guy is looking at the things, maybe liquids or gasses.
She is noticing how the thing has changed and is about to take notes on her hypothesis.
More bubble things. Too late to switch careers now, Bud. At least you have at lots of keys.
More liquid things and jars and gravity.
Maybe this is chemistry.
And finally, badda bing, badda boom, vaccines, fresh from the icebox.
Who needs a carbonated beverage when hot and hunky Randy is only a meter away, and his Chanel Pour Monsieur is wafting toward you on the wings of love, mingled with the musky scent of teen athlete? Focus, Joyce, or you’ll drop your pom.
Hormones are high all around. Looks like she’s got designs on this guy.
The sight of Bill literally made Sally’s jaw fall open.
Too much nuzzling!
A’courting we shall go.
Whoa, boy…
He shall be mine by nightfall. I will yet ensnare him.
