Flintridge Prep School - Log Yearbook (La Canada Flintridge, CA)

Page 28 text:

The S'eni0rA lllabe af will . . . Sam Beckwith, because of a naturally generous nature, freely delivers himself of some of his most cherished possessions. His curly hair and ringing baritone voice he gives to Tom Box in the hope he may carry on in the tradition of Class Troubadour. 1 Reid Allen looks perplexed but fnally agrees that his col- lection of old Coca-Cola bottle caps is one to be coveted. and he promises it to Yogi forgensen, who went a long way to help start it anyway. Blake Childs comes out from behind a copy of Downbeat and, being in a generous mood, promises that 'Thornton Ladd may have his solid ear for piano played with low- down boogie beat. Because of the occasion, he also prom- ises Thornton a slightly cracked version of Chattanooga Choo Choo by Guy Lombardo fone of Carmen's better vocalsj. Charlie Detoy, frugal by nature. hates to relinquish anything but his silent heat method for prying fabulous grades from the teachers in return for a minimum of work. He figures Benedict would benefit most. Bob Ghrist peeks out from under his raccoon coat and gasps through chat- tering teeth that Phillips and his open-air motorcycle have every right to hrs! call on the adrenalin bottle next year. Bob Lissner utters chokingly through a strangling spasm of laughter the sage observation that Al Mitchum is in line for the title of Most Maligned fallopy Owner which Bob held this year through ownership of the Grey Ghost. Fred Moore looks refiectively out of the window of the School Store and casually allows that Dick Markham will have to carry on the torch next year for clean outdoor life and rugged Wfestern individualism.

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dw... 14nd Kaffalo Yred Moore . zrlm lvuilx from I lfnmrcr, N vu' Maxim, mul lzrmlluzv llre .vfziril of flu' :rifle nfleu xpaves. W'ben af1f1roaclJed ou the .flll7jl't'f of lzix 1701110 xlale. Ifrezl 11'a.x'e.v lmsitirely lyric. bu! a rein of slurdy clellzwldulailiiy ruux llvrnugb lvix vlvar- afler like the grauiie rock of bix native beallw. 111 bis one your 011 the LYINIIIIIX. Fred bas f1ro1'er1 himself a valuable man by nlanuging atblefirx mul flllllllllg the flllllflllj store.

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. . . 14nd Zack Into the ?uture We are walking down the hi gh, shiny corridors of a museum in deepest, stuffest Boston. A glittering guide glides into our ken and takes us, awe- struck, under canvasses of the masters. At the end of the corridor is the museum's newest, a guaranteed Beckwith. A prancing stallion occupies the foreground, led by a small boy. B. K. III, no doubt. Now we are traveling swiftly through lush farm country. Green willows droop protectingly over a small stream. A red roof gleams through giant elms around a noisy farm yard. The late afternoon sun makes sharp shadows in wheat stubble. Time to go home. From behind a haymow comes Reid Allen, eyes pouchy with sleep. lVe are walking the decks of an ocean liner, absorbing the tangy air of the ocean with a will after the city fumes. Wfe wander unsatisped among the brittle, rococo han gings of the liner and search out a secluded spot where we may be alone. Someone is already there. Under the bushy beard we recog- nize the seamed face of a sailor - Blake Childs. An under-official coughs through the latest communique. Pencils scratch on notebooks, heads bob as questions are thrown at the perspirin g underlin g. The interview ends and there is a rush for phones. Charlie Detoy is the prst one to telephone the news. The excited patter of conversation runs through the color- ful audience at Seabright. Under the marquee the players stop to refresh themselves -- the Englishman from a tea cup. the American from a bottle of coke. They step out from under the shade into the brilliant sunlight, the Englishman and Bob Ghrist. Four-thirty, and the lobster watch is coming to a close. Somewhere across town the clock broods brazenly over the fact. From the pressroom teletypes click sleepily, sporadic- ally. The night editor pushes his green eyeshade up on his forehead and turns around. Bob Lissner. Mid-day heat haze veils the buttes across the valley. Cattle spot the range and kick up dust in the corral. The deep shade of the house provides a cool spot for Fred Moore to sleep in.