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Fantasite, v. 2, issue 4, November-December 1942
31858063099612_013
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VIA STFNASH BY PHIL BRONSON FOUR MINNEAPOLIS fans were able to attend this year's Mid-West Conference: Oliver E. Saari, Samuel D. Russell, Manson Brackney, and myself. We all derived the near-ultimate in pleasure (nobody's going to accuse me of Moskowitzing) during the four days of our little journey, and I must confess that I found the get-together even more enjoyable than the Denvention. Ollie picked me up in his '35 Nash promptly at 8:00 Friday morning and we zipped zestfully to the Russell abode to acquire the Hon. Director of the MFS; thence to southeast Minneapolis to the home of Brackney. By 9:00 we were well under way. Although not possessing a sciencefictional nickname -- other than "The StfNash" -- Saari's vehicle is distinguished in that it bears the names of fans, fanettes, and fanclubs all over it, if one takes the trouble to peer closely enough. Said names are skillfully applied by pressing one's forefinger firmly against the desired portion of the automobile, then writing with same. The layer of dust offers a fine writing surface. One may now witness such distinctive appellations as "Ollie", "SDR", "MFS", "Michigans '42", "Janie", "Fantasite", "Phil", "E.E.E.", "Jacobi", "Al", ad infinitum, whenthe StfNash roars by. The first stage of the trip passed by uneventfully, with corny humor flowing freely about. About the time the various anecdotes, jokes, and plays upon the name "Saari" were becoming well-nigh insufferable we approached Sauk City. Brackney disinterestedly inquired if there were any fans or authors in Sauk City, to which we replied with the familiar "no". A second later four mouths emitted loud contradictory "yesses". We looked in a telephone directory in a filling station for Derleth's address, or phone number. We muttered his name. The attendant pricked up his ears, and said, "Oh, you mean Auggie?" He lives such-and-such, three blocks, so-and-so, one mile, across from the cemetery." With profuse thanks we left the station, after learning that the station attendant had gone to school with Derleth. Mr. Derleth was not in, intentionally or otherwise, but we did see his splendid home from the outside, and consoled a charming little kitten which apparently wanted in. That night, as we neared Joliet, Illinois, I suggested that we look up Walt Liebscher if he were in town, and if he wasn't going to the Conference to either cajole or kidnap him into doing so. The suggestion having met with approval we continued on to Joliet in the face of a dreary form of precipitation -- alternately rain and snow -- which made the roads very treacherous, and nearly persuaded us to spend the night in Aurora, the town just before Joliet on our route. All the way I wracked my brain in a futile endeavor to remember Walt's address, which was always most tantalizingly "on the tip of my tongue". We tried everything upon entering Joliet but there was no Liebscher listed, as we had suspect. A good half hour later we decided to push on again, realizing that there would be no way of contacting Walt. As Ollie's foot descended upon the starter SDR inquired hopefully, "It couldn't be 101 South Eastern, could it?". The poor chap still cringes at any sudden noises as a direct result of our concerted whoops for joy. Our obeisances duly made, we found the Liebscher residence and stood resolutely upon the front porch. Russell and Saari were none too optimistic as to the possible nature of our reception. They seemed to think that even a fan would stand aghast at the thought of allowing entrance to four such wet, bedraggled creatures. Bravely I stood my ground as we saw someone trip gaily down the stairs in answer to our timorous knock. Through the window in the door I saw that it was Walt himself. The door opened. I extended a hand, mumbled something unintelligible and heard a surprised voice bellow "Phil!" as I was jerked bodily inside. We went upstairs, met the rest of the family, and gabbed, dripping mournful little pools of water on the rug from out coats, until
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VIA STFNASH BY PHIL BRONSON FOUR MINNEAPOLIS fans were able to attend this year's Mid-West Conference: Oliver E. Saari, Samuel D. Russell, Manson Brackney, and myself. We all derived the near-ultimate in pleasure (nobody's going to accuse me of Moskowitzing) during the four days of our little journey, and I must confess that I found the get-together even more enjoyable than the Denvention. Ollie picked me up in his '35 Nash promptly at 8:00 Friday morning and we zipped zestfully to the Russell abode to acquire the Hon. Director of the MFS; thence to southeast Minneapolis to the home of Brackney. By 9:00 we were well under way. Although not possessing a sciencefictional nickname -- other than "The StfNash" -- Saari's vehicle is distinguished in that it bears the names of fans, fanettes, and fanclubs all over it, if one takes the trouble to peer closely enough. Said names are skillfully applied by pressing one's forefinger firmly against the desired portion of the automobile, then writing with same. The layer of dust offers a fine writing surface. One may now witness such distinctive appellations as "Ollie", "SDR", "MFS", "Michigans '42", "Janie", "Fantasite", "Phil", "E.E.E.", "Jacobi", "Al", ad infinitum, whenthe StfNash roars by. The first stage of the trip passed by uneventfully, with corny humor flowing freely about. About the time the various anecdotes, jokes, and plays upon the name "Saari" were becoming well-nigh insufferable we approached Sauk City. Brackney disinterestedly inquired if there were any fans or authors in Sauk City, to which we replied with the familiar "no". A second later four mouths emitted loud contradictory "yesses". We looked in a telephone directory in a filling station for Derleth's address, or phone number. We muttered his name. The attendant pricked up his ears, and said, "Oh, you mean Auggie?" He lives such-and-such, three blocks, so-and-so, one mile, across from the cemetery." With profuse thanks we left the station, after learning that the station attendant had gone to school with Derleth. Mr. Derleth was not in, intentionally or otherwise, but we did see his splendid home from the outside, and consoled a charming little kitten which apparently wanted in. That night, as we neared Joliet, Illinois, I suggested that we look up Walt Liebscher if he were in town, and if he wasn't going to the Conference to either cajole or kidnap him into doing so. The suggestion having met with approval we continued on to Joliet in the face of a dreary form of precipitation -- alternately rain and snow -- which made the roads very treacherous, and nearly persuaded us to spend the night in Aurora, the town just before Joliet on our route. All the way I wracked my brain in a futile endeavor to remember Walt's address, which was always most tantalizingly "on the tip of my tongue". We tried everything upon entering Joliet but there was no Liebscher listed, as we had suspect. A good half hour later we decided to push on again, realizing that there would be no way of contacting Walt. As Ollie's foot descended upon the starter SDR inquired hopefully, "It couldn't be 101 South Eastern, could it?". The poor chap still cringes at any sudden noises as a direct result of our concerted whoops for joy. Our obeisances duly made, we found the Liebscher residence and stood resolutely upon the front porch. Russell and Saari were none too optimistic as to the possible nature of our reception. They seemed to think that even a fan would stand aghast at the thought of allowing entrance to four such wet, bedraggled creatures. Bravely I stood my ground as we saw someone trip gaily down the stairs in answer to our timorous knock. Through the window in the door I saw that it was Walt himself. The door opened. I extended a hand, mumbled something unintelligible and heard a surprised voice bellow "Phil!" as I was jerked bodily inside. We went upstairs, met the rest of the family, and gabbed, dripping mournful little pools of water on the rug from out coats, until
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