This is Garfield School, Cincinnati Ohio--the same elementary school I attended in the fifties. My father is the third from the left in the back row. He was the class clown and often resorted to dropping his pants for a cheap laugh.
This was my father's father's father. His name was Hugo Grosse; he was a German immigrant and, at least for a while in his misspent youth, a trapeze artist. He appears to be saying, "Yeah, it's trimmed in lace. You got a problem with that?"
On being under fire from enemy sentries, one Union soldier observed:
It is a very good place to exercise the mind, with the enemy's
picket rattling close at hand. A musical ear can study the different tones of
the bullets as they skim through the air. I caught the pitch of a large-sized
Minie yesterday ‑ it was a swell from E flat to F, and as it passed into the
distance and lost its velocity, receded to D ‑ a very pretty change.
Come on in and talk. Or drop off one of your random bursts of verbal energy--poem, story, essay, rant, parody, dirty joke, haiku, dirty haiku . . . to share.