Wellesley High School - Wellesleyan Yearbook (Wellesley, MA)

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THE WELLESLEYAN 1935 Miss Dorothea Hogan, for an early appointment. (Is there anyone of the class of 35 who has forgotten Dorothea’s efficiency?) The display window of the store was cleverly arranged by our artistic classmate, Jeanette Adams. Another surprise was the discovery that the smart clothes, exhibited in the same store, were created by Winton of Wellesley and Paris, who advertises color schemes designed by Phyllis Rogers. The park turned out to be of great interest. Sprawled out asleep on a bench, with the customary newspaper covering, was Estabrooks. No one ever got so much rest as did Wilbur in History class! Over in one corner Frank Linden was setting up the annual city Christmas tree in anticipation of the approaching holiday season. “Paper, paper, latest evening news,” ding-songed a voice behind me. And none other than newsboy McCabe sold me my edition. I quickly found a bench where I could read in peace. On the theatre and amusement page Symphony Hall was offering two celebrated musical stars, Janice Lee and Kenneth Seagrave, in their only New England appearance. The program looked decidedly entertaining, so I mentally set aside that night to see my former schoolmates perform. Also a great political upheaval at Washington had aroused the entire nation. President Hunter (our first woman president, and are we of the fair sex thrilled!) had introduced into Congress a bill to close all public schools in April and open them again in August instead of the customary September to June session. Bitter opposition was being voiced by the brain trust head, Rice from Massachusetts. Eddy was always good at arguing! Under the social events column Hope Kingsbery of Long vale was holding a bazaar cn her lovely estate for the benefit of the million and a half unemployed. A feature of the bazaar was the sale of green sweaters with the white “D” on them. With a sigh I closed the paper. Evidently my long and uneventful life must be made more miserable by the unsolved disappearance of my Elmer. Tired of waiting any longer I turned my steps homeward. Yet, could I return tc that solitary place? No! I took a taxi, driven by Georgie Foster (who still has difficulty in reaching the foot pedals) to Miss Maulsby’s finishing school. A visit to the quiet, dignified, and pleasant Gloria would aid me immeasurably to forget, my loss. On the way over Georgie told me that he and McGlone ran the taxi service. He also confided that since prosperity had turned the corner McGlone was thinking of taking a “turn” at matrimony. No more would Foster reveal. As I was a classmate of his, he good-naturedly refused to accept any money from me. At “Miss Maulsby’s School” I met Ruth Barr rather nervously attempting to lead several temperamental children into the school building. It is her duty every day to transport these little wretches to and from their residences. She confided to me that daily, after her work is done, she has to get an aspirin from Billy Birgfeld at the corner drug store. At my rather impatient knock little Inez Wilson, who still maintains her quiet unassuming dignity, opened the door. Gloria received me most cordially and offered to conduct me on a tour of her establishment. In room 101 Miss Matthews was trying desperately to inject a slight conception of the fundamentals of mathematics into the heads of her pupils. By the drawn expression on her face and disarranged permanent wave, I judged her attempts were futile. Farther down the corridor, Miss Hoyt was teaching the finer points of knitting to the most cherubic little girls. My inquiry about musical notes issuing from an unknown spot brought forth the information from Gloria that Phoebe Allen ably directed the music department. In the kitchen Ruth Smythe was arguing with dietitian Elinor Thayer that salads were the correct thing to eat at noon, in order to maintain that school-girl figure. Elinor, with her usually perfect curls awry, looked as though she might be getting the worst of the argument. A wail and a moan caused Gloria to hurry into the room marked lOA. To everybody’s relief it was only Miss Gretchen Willard explaining certain elements of emotional acting. Who could be better qualified for such a position than Gretchen? In the gym Marjorie Keylor was demon¬ strating exercises that used to be the bane of some of us who were less athletically inclined. She stopped her work long enough to tell me that frequently she saw William Cooley pass the school on his way to his radio shop. Also, that now the was taking riding lessons from Virginia Cook, whose thoroughbreds are the talk of the horse world. Gloria told me that because of her expensive and well-equipped laboratory (which is run by chem ist Gorman) she must have a day and night watchman. Day watchman Cronin is relieved every evening by Mantovani. Already Fred and Charlie had ensnared several marauders. After leaving the school my one idea was to eat. I sought a good but inexpensive place. In my “seeking” I came across a book shop. Books here, there, and everywhere Page Thirty-Three

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THE WELLESLEYAN 1935 CLASS PROPHECY ’35 “Oh where, oh where, has my little Elmer g one?” I wailed. Overcome by my loss, I took up the daily journal hoping to find some mention of my curly haired and brown eyed darling. For a moment my grief was forgotten in a startling discovery. The name of the editor was familiar. Where had I heard that name before—Owen Hillberg— Hillberg—mmm—why, of course, he was that charming, friendly soul of my high school days who delighted in pushing defenceless little girls against walls and maliciously pulling their hair in classrooms. All thoughts of Owen were banished by an advertisement which declared in bold type that the “Can’t Fool Us” agency would guarantee the return of lost relatives and friends. In other words it was a bureau of missing persons. Just the place to find a reliable detective to discover the location of my idol. With renewed hope I made my way to the address given. A big, rough looking uniformed officer, wearing the stripes of a lieutenant, answered my knock. As the “boss” was busy, the lieutenant offered me a chair and before I knew it I was pouring out my tale of woe into his sympathetic ear. As I finished, my listener said, “Say, ma’am, haven’t I seen you before, some place?” Then he hastily amended his question with the suggestion that, perhaps. I was a Wellesley High graduate. With my affirmative answer he declared that he was Francis Kilduff, “Curly” to his pals. Now I remembered the great Kilduff of football fame. At this point the buzzer announced that the “boss” awaited me. “And wait until you see who he is,” Francis whispered as I passed him. Prepared to meet anything, I went- in to face the “boss.” All that I could see at first was two fairly sizable feet stretched out on a desk. At my entrance the feet were quickly placed on the floor and up sprang boss Tartari with that inevitable pipe of his. He declared that it was the same pipe he had had his picture taken with way back in ’35. (Nobody would forget that photograph in a hurry.) My own business completely forgotten as a result of so many discoveries, we sat down to recall old times. Always one of the well dressed boys in the class of ’35, he now looked even better. My comment on how well he looked brought forth the information that Zatz, that tailor of tailors, kept his clothes in A-l condition. (We both remembered seeing Earl racing up and down Washington Street on business.) When I inquired into the nature of his work, Joe volunteered much of interest. “Do you know,” he said, “one of my most difficult ca.ses is keeping track of Betty Drake for her parents. Only last week I answered their plea by locating her in Bagirmi, Africa, trying to discover an indelible lipstick. Period¬ ically it is my duty to seek out Charlie Abraham in his hermitage in the Blue Hills and bring him back to civilization. Charlie insists that solitude is the way to wisdom. And do you know. Bill Price”—at this moment a terrific din is heard outside the office door. Staccato masculine and feminine shouts fairly deafen us. Then, all of a sudden, the noise ceased as abruptly as it began. Bewildered I turned to Joe. With a sigh as if he was glad that it was over and yet acting as though he were accustomed to it, he explained, “That outburst you just listened to came from four persons, two males and two females. Remember Winchell? Well, one of the members of the fair sex is more deadly than that keyhole artist ever could be. She runs the “Snooper” column in Hillberg’s paper. What she doesn’t find out nobody can. The name is Deborah Campbell. Debby and Virginia Brady, the other woman in the feud (Brady runs the linguistic column in the same paper) have been arguing over the position of their respective columns in the index for so long that now neither column is mentioned. The male part of the battle rages between two more members of the staff, cartoonist Dick Monahon and Russell RoSe. Dick says that his “Can We Forget” page of cartoons is far superior to Rose’s comic section on “You, Me, and the Guy Next Door.” Certain facial contortions by Joe revealed very plainly his feelings on the subject. Incidentally, I later learned that Bill Price was driving the wagon that delivered Hillberg’S publications. Now it was my turn to talk, and tearfully I poured out my story of how much I missed my Elmer and wished I could find him. Joe assured me that he had never lost a case yet. First we visited the county jail where Chief Angelo Di Giandomenico informed us no one by the name of Elmer had been “hauled in.” Seeing that my spirits were extremely low, Joe suggested a walk in the park. He promised to get to work immediately and call me as soon as anything developed. A department store which I passed on my way to the park suggested that all ladies, in order to look “their best,” should visit Mile. Bernice Beale’s beauty salon or call her secretary, Page Thirty-Two

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THE WELLESLEYAN 1935 greeted the eye. Behind one particular pile of books I caught sight of a tuft of extremely light hair. Tne “whiffle” haircut had given him away. There was my old friend and comrade Allan Stevenson, still reading—after all the hours he has spent in the Wellesley Hills library. Engrossed in thought I neglected to note where I was straying. Suddenly I found myself in a crowd listening to some sort of band. At length I espied the musical gathering in their yellow and green uniforms playing for all their worth. They were being led by that bandmaster of bandmasters, Rocktaschel. He was puffing and panting much as he had done in the good old football days. Ferioli was tooting his clarinet in a most raucous manner, while Parkinson, loudly wailing, told the world that there was no tune like “When Irish Eyes are Smiling.” I still wondered why Rocktaschel had his orchestra there, unless it was to annoy Mr. Upham; yet I didn’t see that able historian anywhere. At length I saw the reason for the “noise.” Coming down the street, riding high on the shoulders of seven stalwart men (among whom were William McCullough and Raymond Cutler) was “Babe” Russ Chase himself who had just returned from the South where he had been playing with the Black Sox. With him was manager Pilibosian who told the press that Chase had almost lost his pos ition on the team to that professional woman player, Irene Carpenter, who certainly had given him plenty of competition. A sudden pang of hunger sent me scurrying to the restaurant. Ruth Bonifassi, whose motto is “Service with a Smile,” gave me my check. My water glass was filled by Stoney who is now lugging water pitchers in place of his brief case. The combination of Gozzi and Campana left nothing to be desired in the way of service. The floor show was ably directed by Paul Monahan whose sense of humor has never left him (thank heavens!). Popularity and fame have overtaken three members of the class of ’35 and I found included in the floor show cast the international favorites—the “Three Black Crows”— Tony DiGiandomenico, Bill Morris, and Leonard Munro. We all remember the appeal they had in that amateur night show years and years ago. Paul (one of the singing McCour ts) crooned a little tune that must have been for the benefit of Eln. r—“When Will You Return?” Between acts, charmingly costumed, Anna Lawson sold cdd favors and flowers. Alas—nothing, not even the discovery of old friends, could make me forget my dear, dear Elmer. As a last resort I decided to take in a movie. At the ticket window Ruth Wright was demanding a refund for not having found the show to her liking. I hesitated after I heard her report of the stage and screen production but finally bought a ticket from Christina Clow, who, believe it or not, still has her million and one curls. She assured me I would enjoy myself. Friendly Bill Kerry, with a flourish, escorted me to my seat. When the faces of Lowell, Austin, Villa, and Wildes flashed on the screen I nearly fainted. Now I was positive it was old home week. Lowell was mentioned for having broken a record in the Olympics; Austin (with his ever present cheery grin) was accepting honors for his basketball prowess; Villa had terrorized all hockey teams with his queer skating tactics; Eugene Wildes was navigating the Danube in his canoe. Another rather interesting news item caught George Perkins servicing Ruth Somersall’s plane, preparatory to a non-stop flight to Austria where she was going to make her home with the American consul and his charming wife, the former Ida Ordis. The feature picture had for its hero—Bill Boyd. Rather sleepily I wended my way home. Suddenly there was a terrible squealing of brakes—then I knew no more. I awoke in a little white bed. Dr. MacMahon assured me that I would be all right in a moment. Presently a soothing voice told me that I could get up if I felt able. It was Nurse Ruth Garland who had spoken. Good old Alfie Juliani insisted that he didn’t see me when I stepped off the curb and if there was any¬ thing he could do—I told him that I was feeling all right and that if anything had happened it would have been my fault. Before I left home, Rita Dedrickson insisted on arranging my damaged coiffure; and an excellent job she did, too. The following morning, my spirits slightly higher, although Elmer had not returned, I lay in bed and heard the whistling milkman, Mr. Doherty, plank the daily supply of milk on the back step. Soon the pleasant deep voice of Ange Maccini announced breakfast. I had some of the most delicious marmalade on toast. Mm, was it good and it was made by no less a person than Dot Manning, who makes a pretty fair living on “jam” selling. She believes in the equality of the sexes and insists that her delivery wagon be driven by a woman. For the task she chose diminutive Ruth Mansfield. The radio announcer, Carlyle Thayer, declared the weather would be fair and warmer. A special news flash said that Cecil Watson and William Weinz, formerly of Wellesley, had recently caught the largest whale ever hooked. It was to be stuffed for the Randall Museum, which John started several years ago, after his great success in the musical world. Also that Dot Garland had just Page Thirty-Pour