Central Commercial High School - Hour Glass Yearbook (New York, NY)

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lt's the beautiful restful music We sing with Mrs. Mandel, the rhythmic beat of typevvriters, the contrasting odors of the Florist Shop and the Dental Lab. lt's the bookkeeping test taken in silence like the moment before in- vasion, and your pen running dry in the middle of 85 Words a minute dic- tation, and your holding back those explosive Words that come to mind. lt's looking out of the Window and seeing the Empire State standing guard over the city. lt's the four flight relay for place on the lunch line, the Waste baskets full of ice-cream cups, cake Wrappers, and cookie boxes after the ten minute snack period which to hungry Centralites is as Welcome as a picnic lunch at Coney Island. It's the peck, peck of typewriters trans- forming those crazy-looking loops, dashes, and lines into English lt's the school band practising to hit the same note simultaneously. lt's the thrill of the Prom, the whirl of graduation preparations, the Senior Play with three months of hard vvork for three performances, Red Letter Day and madness done up in the brightest of colors, and the Senior Assembly looking like a field of red poppies. It's the messages from Mr. Massell over the loudspeaker making us sprout wings with pride or hang our heads in shame. That's All. ltls the dragging day in the PM Session with the sun going dovvn over the buildings and lights in school going on. lt's one more period to go. lt's going, going, gone. For heaven's sake, is it still going? Bong! It's the con- gregations at the corner at dismissal time like town meetings of old. It's the general let-down feeling and a tired school which needs a Bromo after all it has seen and heard. lt's dismissal, grabbing your coat, lining up for the street, the dark night air, groans as the train pulls out, and Open the Door Richard! lt's the Third Avenue El humming happily for home like a good-natured demon in the night. lt's a once noisy street quiet with perhaps a man walk- ing to the Waterfront in Tudor City. It's peace for 42nd Street but not for long! SEENA GREENBERG GLORIA POCCHEARE MARGARET ZAROOGAN RITA WUNDERMAN MARY HUKA 31

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Cen tml Commercia' It's a building, small and rather awkward looking, dwarfed by high, shining structures. It's a part-time home to thousands of boys and girls. It's a place where all religions, races, and creeds are respected-an island of de- mocracy in action in a city where democracy is sometimes forgotten. It's two minutes to get to school on time and wondering whether to cross the street, treacherous with taxis and trucks, while the red light Hashes and the cop frowns. It's students going up the foot worn steps after the last quick gulp of fresh air or the last drag on the cigarette and facing the drab black and gold of Central Commercial High School. It's girls, girls, girls, and a solitary boy slowly tearing themselves away from the Automat. It's a stiff-looking courtyard like a tuxedo on a man not used to wearing formal garments. It's the backward glance at 42nd street where citizens rush to jobs and students learn how to take them. It's the turtle-like pace with which students enter and their flight at the end of the day like a flock of pigeons let loose. It's the honking of horns and ringing of bells and shattering of a silence. It's the exchanging of the ridiculous slogans about Kilroy and Richard, the steady hum of boys and girls talking, the continuous grind of teaching, the opening and shutting of books, the scratching of pens like thousands of ticks of the clock. lt's the monitors directing you to the right staircase even if the one which is ten feet away would save a long walk to the upper floor. lt's the varied activities of the Home Room, the last swap of bubble gum, putting lipstick on straight, tiling chipped nails, getting answers to American History questions. lt's the cheerful, excited faces in gym as of children playing, and the same faces in the English room now still as those of soldiers at attention. It's the height of hilarity that fills the auditorium at noon, the messenger service for teachers freely given by students who love to miss class. It's a school iilling like a mechanical machine with morning students leaving by rear entrance and the afternoon session quickly refilling the empty school. 30

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at Wil and 72.6 tament To those unfortunates who must stay behind, missing the joy of pounding the pavements in search of a better job, missing the thrill of being thrown out of the iinest offices in New York City, we the graduates, bequeath the following: We leave to MR. MASSELL- A radio broadcasting station all his own so he can use the mi- crophone whenever he wishes. MRS. MANDEL- A ladder to sit on when she plays the piano to reach the top of scale more easily. Mr. WERTHEIM- Another hungry Yearbook Staff. TO THE INFORMATION BOOTH- Any lost soul who wanders into Central. MISS KALOUSDIAN- A new batch of problem children, and may she always keep her patience. MR. MILBAUER- A brand new desk to sit on. MISS ROCHMAN- An extra chair for Mr. Rosensweig. MR. HERSH- A bicycle to get from one class to another. MR. YOUNG- A golden embroidered casket containing the absent student body-the only excuse for absence. MR. CONCHAR- A juke box to call his own, with lots of shiny new nickels. TO THE FUTURE SENIOR CLASS- NVe leave an open bank account of unlimited funds. TO THE ENTIRE FACULTY- ' HPATIENCE 81 FORTITUDE. MISS HORTON- Ennis, Cole, and Withiiigton. MRS. WEIDL 81 THE STUDENT COURT- A hole in the wall they can call their own. MR. ROSENSVVEIG- A free program all day, to enable him to cope with many Senior problems.