Two years after she was properly introduced to international society with a $250,000 blowout at the Country Club of Detroit, and following art classes in Florence, Charlotte Ford, 20, self-starting daughter of Automaker Henry Ford II, came to Manhattan for the best of everything. Hired to help separate the chic from the gauche for the prestigious decorating firm of McMillen Inc., the shapely new Ford breadwinner will toil a five-day (9t05) week, room with two friends in an upper East Side apartment. "Miss Ford," announced her socialite boss, Eleanor Brown, "will have equal rank with our staff members who have had special training in interior design. We feel that her exceptional background, education and travel entitle her to this consideration." Financial consideration: undivulged.
University of Chicago Law School Graduate Abraham Ribicoff (cum laude, 1933) glanced through the program of the American Council of Education's annual meeting just before taking the rostrum for his address as Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare. The purpose of the Washington session, said the brochure, was to stimulate cooperation in education—and Ribicoff laughed sourly. Tossing aside his canned speech, he began scolding the presidents and deans of some 1,000 colleges. "I don't think you really care about education or are going to do anything about it. I don't know that you're ever going to solve the problems of education by coming to meetings like this." Where were the educators, Ribicoff asked, when his bills needed help in Congress. "Each of you was in his own compartment looking for support for his own programs and interests and were not interested in doing something for education as a whole. And education was done in." Like errant first-graders, some 75 of the educators next day declared that Ribicoff was right—and urged the council to support federal aid to public elementary and high schools next year.
"When I was younger, less secure and less repulsive," confided Britain's best-selling Poet John Betjeman, 55, to Associated Press Confessor Eddy Gilmore, "I used to wear modern things. But now I look at the best-dressed men and wear exactly the opposite." So crowing, the latter-day Victorian and crusading architectural antiquarian modeled the glory of his ragbag wardrobe: a morning suit originally made for U.S. Novelist Henry James —who died in, London 45 years ago. "It's wonderful to wear his clothes." beamed Fellow Author Betjeman. "I didn't need a single alteration. But I must confess that I feel a little unworthy." As if his radio transmitter were stuck in mid-orbit, Soviet Cosmonaut Sherman Titov last August repeatedly exulted, "I am eagle, I am eagle . . ." Last week a report newly published by two Russian scientists revealed that Titov had also been as seasick as a puppy during the 25-hour flight. Although the Siberian-born jet jockey spun his dials satisfactorily despite the malaise and disorientation, the Russian experts admitted what many physiologists have long suspected: that the human capacity to endure prolonged weightlessness remains to be proved.
California's brooding, butterfly-bellied Phil Hill, 34, who became the first world's road-racing champion from the U.S. in the Italian Grand Prix that killed