South High School - Southernaire Yearbook (Cleveland, OH)

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Such Things As Years Are Made Of From the beginning, there was never a question about it. South was our school. Fvery yellow brick of it. It was a constantly changing fabric, a plaid of darkness and gaiety, this background of our high school years. 1940 —Franklin I). Roosevelt, first United States president to be elected to a third term. 1941 -Pearl Harbor. The United States enters the war. 1942— Russia stages a comeback. 1943- -? Around us the world was changing, startlingly, rapidly. Closer still, South High was changing, too. Three years : Nineteen members of the faculty leave, among them our military trio. Mr. Lambert. Miss Schreiber. Coach NVolanski; and the army and navy are the better for the change. Fight new teachers arrive. Not only in the classroom, hut in the library, and in the janitor's office there are new faces. Football seasons come and go. each with its thrills, spills and grid stars; packed stands of loyal rooters and echoing Sis Boom Balts. Basketball! King of winter sports. Capable as they were, the orange and black streaks, with their brilliant team play and fast footwork, set the old gym agog with cheers. But ill fortune does not discriminate, and when the Flyers emerged after the 1943 Senate struggle, it was in second place, and not in the first place which they deserved. Hundreds of Monday mornings passed in classrooms. Scores of radio broadcasts fell upon cars: eager ears, indifferent ears, deaf ears. But there was one Monday morning we marked, and one radio broadcast all heard. It was December 8th and the President of the United States was speaking. The speech was only a matter of minutes, but when his voice died and the air v;i' filled again with silence; we looked out of the window; it was a city at war we saw—a city, a state, and a nation. Soon after there were two eagles in the hall, flanked b long, neat li t of printed names—South's Inns in service. A uniform appeared in the hall, now and then, and old grads came back to shake hands once more before they left to serve the Uncle they would die for. Classes changed swiftly to meet wartime demands. Aeronautics. Blue Print Reading. Measurements, Machine Shop for girls appeared in the curriculum. There were patriotic assemblies and scrap drives. Clubs were disbanded to make room for the nation-wide High School Victory Corps. The country was at war and so was South. Three years. We are not sorry for any part of these that made our school life. What is school life? It is music—an introductory number to life’s melody. It is practice -a carefully planned rehearsal to the greatest of life's plays. It is fabric. The fabric of a coat we have been making and wearing all at once. It is not worn nor threadbare. but just as it is completed it is suddenly outgrown. There remains but one thing more. It must Ik luing away, with a little reluctance and much care, with the knowledge that there will never be another just like it. Phyllis Bardy 25

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Stanley Ziclaskiewicz 3830 E. 53rd St. Honor Study Hall Staff Victory Corps Marilyn Zielinski 7413 Ottawa Rd. Office Assistant Friendship Club Victory Corps Opera Honor Study Hall Staff Carl Zingolc 3412 E. 132nd St. President of Community Service—Victory Corps Manager of Boxing Show Mildred Zolnowski 7213 Indiana Ave. Victory Corps Bowling Club Linn Paul Zook 8200 Vineyard Ave. Scroll and Key Society Student Council National Honor Society Victory Corps Radio Club 12A Commencement Committee Clara Zylko 3095 E. 63rd St. Hall Guard Style Show 24

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A LANGUAGE UNIVERSAL A STAGEHAND REMEMBERS Five minutes to go. The announcer finds the part in the curtains and disappears. He speaks to the waiting crowd, and his voice, floating backstage, is suave, jovial, full of promise. Even his hair agitated and bristling. Mr. Barnes dashes around barking last minute orders at the actors—the stagehands. The murmur of the hidden audience grows louder, and nervous players l»oke at their makeup, muttering fractions of lines. Curtains sway under protesting ropes. The house grows still. Opening lines are spoken, thin and hesitant at first, then growing stronger and more confident . . . The lights worked. The scenery didn't fall down. The audience laughed in the right places—usually. Tension is shattered and everyone laughs, swarming over the shadowy labyrinths of backstage—in and out of the cluttered little office, excited, congratulating. relieved. Another spring play is history, and the ghosts of the high school theatre return to their dusty habitats of old scenery and used costumes. Duplicating the lilt of a lilac stem with one stroke of watercolor; making clay talk as pottery and statuettes; shaping indifferent metal lieneath a jet of flame till it spelled jewelry—always there was something intriguing about art. Can we quite forget Miss Sommer’s turquoise Indian jewelry, her music-lx x. her enthusiasm over watercolor and weaving; and Miss Moody, quiet, gray-haired, tireless—as deft with a soldering iron as with a brush? No storeroom could l e as clammy as 307A. No landscape as often sketched as the comer framed by the windows of 305. There were slides and exhibits, pose drawings and meticulous lettering. Pastels, pencils, clay, crayons, linoleum. inks, oils ... art speaks in many tongues. It is a language universal, commanding, constant. Caught by the Camera 26