Bellingham High School - Epilogue Yearbook (Bellingham, MA)

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Glass (Prook ropnecij As I sat in the heat of my hotel room that June day, my thoughts wandered back to the day of my graduation from Bellingham High School. The events of that day stood out clearly in my mind as I wandered list¬ lessly to the window and gazed at the mil¬ ling throngs below. What had become of my former classmates? was the question uppermost in my thoughts. How pleasant it would be if I could see them now. How¬ ever, even these thoughts failed to relieve me of my discomfort. I set out for the beach where I hoped to find a cool place to rest. I finally found a secluded spot on the shore beneath the shade of a huge palm tree. I took the car robe from the trunk and carefully spread it out on the sandy beach and lay down. Lulled by the soft lapping of the sea on the shore, I soon drifted off into the arms of Morpheus. A cool breeze seemed to awaken me. With a shiver I sat up and looked around with awe. I was floating in the air among the fleecy clouds. The robe which I had so carefully spread out on the beach was now carrying me through the air at a fast rate of speed. I looked around in despair. Where was I, and where was I going? Presently I passed over a ballfield and in the pitcher ' s box I saw Norman Belcher standing straight and tall. He was playing with the undefeated Boston Red Sox. How cool and calm he was in handling that siz¬ zling pellet. Even such noteworthy old- timers as Ted Williams, Jimmy Foxx, and the DiMaggio Brothers were held spell¬ bound by the delivery of the man on the mound. Well, at least my travels were going to be pleasant, I thought. As I breezed by the reporter ' s box, I noticed that Lucien Brunetti, renowned sports writer was getting first-hand informa¬ tion for his sports column in the New York Times. Leaving the ballfield behind I saw in the distance what appeared to be an open-air concert hall. My earnest desire to go in that direction made me aware that by deep concentration I could control the course and speed of my aerial sailboat. I steered in the direction of the band stand which was sur¬ rounded by an admiring group. I was just in time to hear Billie Buckley and his Bugle Boy Band go into their last number. This number, I learned, was one of Billie ' s own compositions called You ' ll Be Sorry! . I next sailed away in the direction of a four-lane state highway and ahead I noticed a streamlined sports roadster. I strained all my powers of concentration for sufficient speed to overtake the car. How on earth can there be such speed? I asked myself. I found my answer in the driver who was non other than Romeo Sweck. Romeo just recently has attained the coveted position as State Speed Regulator. Since his appoint¬ ment, all speed limitations have been abolished. Unwilling to compete with such speed, I veered to the right over a wooded section and soon I came to the entrance of a huge hospital. The hospital motto stood out clearly in large letters on the front of the entrance All Mental and Physical Ills Cured . Proceeding along at third story level, I saw Lenore de Jony comforting the pain-racked patients who looked trustingly up at her from their small wooden beds. A loud backfire in this quiet hospital zone attracted my attention to the drive below. The source of the noise was an outmoded car of faded blue. There beside the raised hood of the motor stood super-mechanic Claire Fitzpatrick. Claire, as I understand it, took up the solving of the intricacies of the motor car after she failed to get farther than Medway in her cross-country tour. There she stood with a puzzled look on her face. I wonder if it could have been one of the tires, she said.

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The school orchestra strangely took pos¬ session of our thoughts once again and led them clearly through our last year of high school. Every little detail of that year stood plainly before us, but particularly the most important ones. How fortunate we were to be given Miss Mahoney as our class advisor. Under her supervision we selected our last class officers. Norman Belcher, president— Mary Foley, vice-president — Constance Codin, secretary and Helen Buckley as treasurer. We studied hard for several months until talk about the Christmas Dance interrupted this scholarly silence. With the generous interest of the lower classmen we conducted a successful dance. Realizing that our funds were not suf¬ ficient for meeting the expenses of Gradu¬ ation Week , we decided to conduct several affairs. The most successful ones were the Defense Bond Raffle, Whist Party and Beano. Finally, the great problem of the Epilogue confronted us. Our busy fingers flew from one typewriter key to the other forming memories that would some day bring us happiness. The final exams were here and’ with them appeared the long and rocky road of study. All frolicking and fooling were put aside for a week of seemingly hard and tedious work. As the music approached its climatic beauty we could visualize ourselves tak ng a firm grip on our goal—OUR DIPLOMA Then came our final social of our high school life. The Senior Hop! The soft rustle of the evening gowns easily could have been mistaken for gentle summer zephyers that accompanies a beautiful garden setting. Such a setting was accomplished by the capable hands of the decorating committee. The highlights of the evening were c mmed as we sorrowfully sang our Alma Mater Song, but this sorrow was strangely mingled with the joy of memories to come. These four years of hard work combined with happiness are gone forever, but the spirit which was born within these years will live in the hearts of every one of us, and will lead us toward a path that is now buried under the turmoil and destruction of war. However, we will give to the future all that she may need to help make the way clear again so that all paths leading toward her will be those of freedom and happiness. We, the students of the class of 1942, are the first to achieve the whole four years of high school education in Bellingham High School; consequently, we are the leaders of a great line of graduates to come. May we always prove ourselves worthy of this great honor. As the years go by, may an occasional glance at our Class History bring forth in our memories a spark of happiness and a secret longing for the years that had such a great part in making us the kind of Americans that America sants! GMcc @Lrr i er, — —

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I had barely ascended to cruising range again when I heard a roar and turned around. There in a beautiful silver-winged plane was Charlie Michalowski flying his plane high to get that ' heavenly feeling. ' The vacuum created by the fast-moving plane caused me to drop suddenly. Before I could regain my bearings, I found myself meandering among the skyskrapers of New York City. As I drifted by an open window of the telephone exchange I caught a glimpse of Mary Foley busily engaged in an¬ swering calls upon a flashing switchboard. Mary ' s reputation for swiftness in answer¬ ing calls is unequalled. Fearing that steering complications might set in, I raised my magic carpet above the roof tops. The strains of soft music brought my attention to the roof garden of the Waldorf Astoria where the ' 400 ' had con¬ gregated. The fact that the patrons and guests were obviously enjoying themselves proved that the pleasing personality of Claire Vanasse, hotel hostess, had per¬ meated the gathering. My aerial plane next carried me over the top of the Chrysler building in time to hear Murlin Henderson broadcast to the world at large the maneuvers of the 10th division of the U. S. Army Air Corps. Because I had neither the training nor the desire to engage in aerial stunts, I left the field open to the army. Only a short time elapsed between the roar of planes and the roar of high-powered racing cars. As I swooped over the speed¬ way, the leading car caught my attention. It was painted a brilliant red with green wheels. In the driver ' s seat sat Emil Pouliot, keenly alert to any danger that might arise. How he had changed! Near the railing watching with fear-ridden eyes stood Nurse Janet Brown. Her clenched fists belied the calmness of her face. Not until Emil had safely crossed the finish line did she relax. From there I ' ' traveled for hours in a Nor therly direction. I pulled my robe snug- gly about me for I had now reached the snow-capped peak of Mount Washington. A close-up view of the ski run revealed Romeo Collamati, one arm in a sling, trying to establish a new world record. So far, judging from appearances, his attempts had been unsuccessful. Romeo had learned to ski while a student in Bellingham High School, in fact, this was often the cause of his absence from school. I followed the run to the bottom where a small coffee shop came into view. The de¬ licious aroma of coffee and hot toasted buns drew me unresistingly to the inside. There in a freshly-starched uniform stood Claire Cuyette unconcernedly demonstrating her culinary art before an admiring audience. On my return trip from New Hampshire, I spied an endless row of outdoor bowling alleys. I changed my course so as to be able to approach these alleys from the front. As I drew nearer, I observed the following writ¬ ing on the arched entrance, Recreation Center of Massachusetts—500 alleys—no waiting—Norman Bel isle, owner-operator. Staying at this low altitude, I cruised along in the direction of home. A group of small boys standing in admiration in front of a billboard made me curious to find out the cause of their interest. I banked my wingless craft in order to get a better view of the billboard poster. There, surrounded by a bevy of beautiful girls, stood Eddie Chamberland. His huge shoulders, nanow hips, and rippling muscles, were a very per¬ suasive advertisement tor the Physical Culture School he represented. Ahead of me loomed a stately college of red brick. On the campus below I discerned the nimble Juliette Callamati actively en¬ gaged in coaching her girls in the popular sport of field hockey. Another familiar face came into view as I coasted over the boy ' s athletic field. Arthur Caron was heatedly shouting to his football squad, Come on, you creampuffs make this field look like a pastry counter. Fearing that he might next turn his wrath on me, I sped across the college premises, to the ' Campus Beauty Shoppe ' , owned and operated by Alice Carrier and Vivienne Bel isle. Their fame for turning out person¬ ality girls is unequalled. Satisfied that the Class of ' 42 was well represented in this section, I directed my course toward dear old Bellingham. Surely some of my former classmates still lived there, I thought. As I flew over the top of the North Bellingham School House, a knot of pupils clustering around a central figure made me dip low to see who it was. Beneath the snow-white hair and horned rimmed glasses I recognized Helen Buckley. As I sat looking on to this pleasant scene, a streamlined pick-up truck of bright yellow went streaking by below me, and I eagerly