Charles W Baker High School - Lyre Yearbook (Baldwinsville, NY)

Page 13 text:

that music and “art” go together). Both of them, I learned afterwards, were disciples of the Learn-at-Home Method of becoming a musician. As I sat down to order my meal, who should walk up but a sleek - looking waiter with a pointed mustachio. After a few minutes of silent concentration, I placed him as Oscar Lavoie. He had acquired, besides the mustache, a French accent. If only Miss Wortman could see him now! When I began to satisfy my hunger, I found that the fancy-named dish I had ordered wasn’t so palatable as I had expected, so I demanded to see the chef. Out of the kitchen blustered “Moon” Widger. He explained that the creation was one he had learned in his experiences at Richfield Springs with Prof. Cary. Seeing that that was how matters stood, I tipped them both ten dollars and left. The Great White Way beckoned me so I sped on my way. I hadn’t gone many miles before I came upon three young men who were running along the side of the road at a fair clip. I slowed down and asked if they wanted a lift. They shook their heads in the negative and told me between pants that they were aspirants for the Olympic team. It was then I recog- nized Edward Thompson, Chester Kingsley and Claude Emerson. Thereupon, I again speeded up. Looking down at my gas gauge, I found that the arrow was nearing the danger point, so I stopped at an attractive stand at the side of the road. Who should walk out of the pink and green shack, but Freddy Wilkinson! After he had begun to turn the handle of the pump, (Freddy always did have a good wind-up) I looked around for another familiar figure. I soon spotted her—Mary Jane (you know—formerly Davis) was helping her husband, as a dutiful wife should, to make the stand a success by tieing red ribbons on the hot dogs. While servicing me, Fred informed me that “Prof” Baker and Helen Perkins were doing well with their chicken farm next door. “Prof.” is still “Perk-o-lating”, I see. I continued my journey, narrowly missing a couple of “Prof's” chickens as they cavorted across the road. Suddenly a mammoth rock bounded across the pavement in front of the car. I stopped and looked in the direction from which it came. Over the bank at the side of the highway strode a huge form which I at once recognized as that of “Ileb” Harrington. He told me that he, too, was in training for the Olympics (the shot put) and had been fortunate enough to get a job clearing a farm of rocks, so that he was receiving pay for training. I wonder if that's professionalism. Gradually the houses grew more dense and before long, I found myself in New York. After leaving my car at a garage owned by Ray Lynch, I sauntered out. I decided to spend the afternoon in a theater, so I made my way to a nearby show-house. But before I could reach the sanctity of its surroundings, I was accosted by a girl in a red dress, who was selling red poppies for the benefit of broken-hearted doughboys. As soon as I saw the red dress. I was immediately reminded of Virginia Van Wie. Sure, enough, it was she. By the time she got through with her sales talk, I looked like an advertisement for a florist shop, having bought twenty-one poppies. I finally got into the theater after arguing about the change with the ticket seller, Ethel Glass. Then an usher with red hair escorted me to my seat. Yen guessed it—it was Alice Henderson. I was just in time to see the start of the movie. “The Disappointed Sailor,” featuring Eddie Hyle, Hollywood’s latest heartbreaker, and Frances Church, the cinema’s find ’ of the year. The all-star cast also included several other former Baldwinsville luminaries—Dan Marshall, the “he-man” of the screen, Carlon Cook, the “man of a thousand faces” and David Clary, who is Jo E. Brown, Jimmy Durante and Bert Lahr rolled into one. After this splendid show was over, the stage lighted up and out of ji ?® 'v,ngs stepped Art Davis, Master of Ceremonies. His soft, clear voice fined the hall: “First on our program will be a song and dance featuring Dot Kellicott and her “Kapering Kuties.” His voice faded with the crescendo of the orchestra and in hopped Dorothy, followed by a long string of chorus girls, who were sprinkled 14

Page 12 text:

CLASS PROPHECY The time is 1940. I decided to do what has been uppermost in my mind for some years—to take a leisurely trip and find out all I can about the graduating class of 1932, of which I was a part. To do this takes time and money. I have always had the time, but up to the preceding fall, the money has been lacking. However, at that time, an uncle of whom I had never heard, succumbed and left me a cool million. So, I trotted out one of my Rolls Royce roadsters and started out. My first stop was to be Little Utica, where the mayor, John Paddock, had promised to meet me with a brass band. But alas! when I reached the pre- arranged spot, I discovered that John had not yet outgrown his habit of high school days—he was late! Disgusted. I turned about, wondering where to go next. Then I re- membered that our graduating class's goal was to be something big. Accordingly, I sped toward New York. My anxiety to get to the big town must have prompted me to step on the accelerator a little too heavily. Before I had gone far, I heard a roar of a motorcycle and the command to “pull over. I stopped at the side of the road and turned my head. There, astride the two-wheeled machine was Jack Shea, the pride of the speed cops. Although he recognized me, it was “duty first” with Jack. So, despite my protest, I was hauled into court. When I saw the judge, however, I brightened up. The man in the long flowing robe (named Herman) was none other than Clayton Reddout. He would be lenient towards an old classmate. Then my face fell. I remem- bered that I had never repaid Clayt the two sheets of paper I had borrowed in the spring of '32! I finally staggered out of the court, after being fined fifty dollars and costs. Inasmuch as I went more slowly from then on, I could not reach the metropolis before nightfall and was forced to stop off at Crawling-on-the- Hudson. I made my way to a large, imposing, newly constructed hotel. Here I was to receive many surprises. Out in front, all arrayed in a gilt-edged long coat with brass buttons stood Francis Russell. As soon as I reached the door I received another shock. The red-coated bellhop who grabbed my suitcase was Wilner Hass. Then I turned to the desk to register. The clerk who smiled so graciously, who twisted the book around to the right position and who offered me a pen was Niles Stebbins! The shock was too great—I had to be carried to my room. I came to with the rising sun, an extraordinary experience for me. The first thing that met my gaze as I looked out of the window was a huge sign bearing these words, “Shipwrecked Smith—Contender for Flag- Pole Sitting Championship—4 8th Day Up!” Above the glaring letters I saw the pale, wan face of “Ray” Smith. Ray always wanted to get up in the world. I then decided to partake of some breakfast, so I dashed for the elevator, only to collide with somebody in the hall. It was Josephine Connell— pardon me—Mrs. Harrington (as she informed me). She and Johnny were on their honeymoon. Bon voyage on the seas of matrimony. Johnny! The elevator girl said, “Going down?” I recognized the mouse-like voice of Norlyn McMullen. She was rather disgusted with her position, but then, as I told her, everybody must have their ups and downs. I entered the dining hall to the soft, melodious voice of Bus Smallwood, “The Crooning Sensation of the East.” who, with his orchestra composed of several of his former classmates, were sojourning at the hotel for two weeks. Besides Grace Pratt and Leona Madden, the violinists of the orches- tra, I also saw behind a large, queer-looking instrument, his cheeks puffed out, our own curly-headed Art Albro. Next to him sat Art Huntley, perched upon a step-ladder to enable him to blow into a huge horn. (This proves 13

Page 14 text:

with several other former high school promenaders. In their ranks I spotted Olive Ilosmer, Adele Jones and Catherine Muldoon. The vaudeville was over all too soon and I got up to leave, as all there was , left was the news reel. But before I reached the end of the aisle, I heard a familiar voice coming from the screen. I wheeled about. Laura Dickinson, youngest congresswoman in Washington, was giving a talk on “Why 1 Think There Should Be No Tariff On Asiatic Mouse Furs. I sat down again and listened to Laura expound her theory. I then decided to see the rest of the news—perhaps I could find out something more about our famous class. I had not long to wait. On the screen I saw and heard the famous aviatrix, Frances Belknap, “Belle of the Air, who had just completed a non-stop flight from Paris to Syracuse, a suburb of the fast growing city of Baldwinsville. After coming out of the theater, I walked aimlessly down the street for a few blocks, looking in all the windows. Finally I came upon a crowd in front of a store. Evidently they were watching a demonstration of some sort. I, pushed and shoved my way to the front and there inside the glass window were Agnes Mowins and Lelia Smith, who were illustrating exactly how socks should be darned on the new Peach-o-Reno electric sewing machine. I watched for a few minutes and then I walked on. Soon I found my- self in front of “Ye Olde Booke Shoppe. Being an ardent reader, I stepped inside. Perhaps I could find an interesting story to read in my spare time. As soon as I crossed the threshold, two prim and very sedate young women came toward me. They recognized me immediately, but 13 was at a loss until one of them removed her horn-rimmed spectacles. Then I knew. They were the Orvis sisters! Yes sir, Laura and Margaret, in person. I nearly had apoplexy, but I managed to remain standing. After I had had a few minutes to recuperate, I asked their advice on a good book. They pointed to the year’s best seller, “Etty Kett Takes a Holiday, by Elizabeth Walter, the most popular novelist this side of the Rockies. I had them wrap up the book and then I left. I hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take me to one of the famous night clubs on Broadway. He suggested “Dopey Doc Sullivan’s Starlight Club. We were there almost before I caught my breath at this startling revelation of Doc’s whereabouts. No sooner had I stepped inside than I was besieged by two cigarette girls, Jane Henderson and Velma Crook, who fought over the right to sell me their wares. While they were pulling each other’s hair, I slipped past them into the dim lighted cafe. 1 spied Doc, half asleep as usual, in an easy chair. I sat down, woke him up and told him about my trip. He seemed quite surprised that I hadn’t heard about Philey Cooper. He was now, he told me, affiliated with the New York Yankees. He isn’t exactly a regular, but he runs around the bases for the old and decrepit “Babe Ruth, when he socks a home run. I “chewed the rag until early the next morning and then I left. As I walked across the dance floor, I saw a familiar figure gliding about to the soft, low music of the orchestra. It was James Reeves, one of the many gigolos employed by the Club. I passed the swirling couples and went out to the street. I stood outside the Starlight club and reminisced. I found that I knew the whereabouts of everyone in my class except Millard Blakeslee. Suddenly I was aroused from my musing by a pleading voice, “Gimme a dollar for a cup of coffee, will yuh, buddy? Turning about I recognized behind a three days growth of beard, the missing one, Millard. Naturally, I was surprised at his condition. Upon being asked, he informed me that he had spent his last cent trying to bring back prosperity. Nellie Lee Kittell and E. Stevenson. 15