Conant High School - Conanite Yearbook (Hoffman Estates, IL)

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Class Prophecy By Martha Lee Trihble Hello! I'm the genie of all knowledge! I've come to help you. You say you're looking for members of the Class of '62, at Conant High School? You've been all over the world and can't find any of them, anywhere? Well. then, there's one place you missed. lt's a tiny village high in a remote mountain range. I visited there just a while ago. If you want, I'll tell you about your comrades there. You do? Good, then, listen carefully. The Class of '62 just couldn't stand the strain of modern society, so they fled to this little vil- lage hidden high in the mountains far away from the world. Here, free from jet planes, electric can openers, and science textbooks, they set up a society at their own cultural level, a society most similar to what we call prehistoric. I arrived at the pass at the lower end of the valley early in the morning. Here I was greeted by an impressive delegation of town officials. Among them were the tribal chief, Bill Doten, dressed in his royal leopard skins, the justice, Rusty Butler, whose wisdom has long inspired the community, Ed Van Blarcom, who runs the poultry farm C his vultures produce four hundred eggs a day jg Colleen Sebastion and Gloria Paradise, who run the local hide shop f mink muu-rnuus are the latest thing jg our town guide, dressed in uniform C a red blazer Q, Sharon Bosse, and of course, a chauffeur who doubles as a taxi driver, Peter Rivard. Pete's skill at operating a four- speed Brontasaurus was a great help on those torturous mountain trails. We decided to start our tour in the business district, first stop, Monty l-Iart's Stoned Disk Co. Next door, we saw a familiar figureg the Class of '62 had only one member that talll Sure, it's Sam I-Iacklerg he operates a garage for repair of broken vehicles, namely, Brontosauri and Tyra- nosauri. If Sam can't repair them, they go to the junkyard. There, they are taken apart and the skeletons are neatly marked and stacked by Frank and John Tabor. It is to this junkyard that Sylvia White comes when she needs more bone marrow for her latest experiments. She also makes many trips to buy chimps from Celeste Emery, whose motherly nature provides an atmos- phere in which these animals thrive. Across the path is the movie house, Mike Symonowicz's, naturally. Playing tonight is a double feature sports spectacular. In the first picture, Edie Davis tells how to manage a basket- ball team. By the way, the star and only member of the team is Jean Raymond. In the same picture, Ellen Burgoyne explains how she makes basketballs out of rhinoceros blubber. The sec- ond show is about Ioe Cournoyer's baseball team. Jane Boudrieau made a new record last year: eighty-two broken bats in one season! Since it was getting along toward noon, Pete parked the Brontosaurus at Sandy Parking Lot, owned and operated by Kenny Christian. This was a special privilege, since Kenny's parking

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lot is usually Open Nights Onlyl We ate lunch at a quaint little restaurant where we watched Dotty Allord fry our grasshoppers over a campfire. During lunch we saw a TV show with Jimmy Hautenan, who specializes in outwitting Jack Paar. Today's star was Pat Aucoin, modeling bear skin bathing suits. The creations, called September Morn, were by Marney Boucher. After lunch, we were entertained by the town's fluent M.C. , Jane Washburn, and a walking book of everybody's business, Sue Gilmore. Then, we headed for the country. First, we passed Danny Jewell's huge dinosaur farm, and Sharon told us that Judy Larochelle serves homecooked meals here every Saturday night. This must keep Judy busy since there are only three days a week here: Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Our next stop was Jim I-Iarris's ski area. Jim is experimenting with a new kind of kernel show, f pretty corny, huh? J. Roy Drew designed the lodge and now works there as a ski instructor. His chief patron? Martha Tribble, of course, who pays her lift fees by nursing injured patrons. Further along the path we see Larry Doane's pony ranch. On this thousand-acre farm, com- pletely underwater, he raises miniature sea-horses. After Larry's ranch, we entered a deep jun- gle. Here, we took on the local forest ranger, Dick Smith, just for extra protection. Dick pointed out a sight we might otherwise have missed. Staring through the thick jungle, we coulc' just barely make out the man on the swinging grapevine, Bob Oja. Just like other prehistoric villages, this one had its cave-woman and cave-man. Stowed away in a cave, half-way up a rocky cliff were Sandra Bell and her typically ferocious cave-mate, Kent Garland. Sharon told us that the local C'Avon representative, Donna Fuller, had quite a time getting up to this cozy cave. Circling back toward town, we passed Harvey Sawyer's Pteridactyl Airport. Chief test pilot here is Larry Kenneyg chief commercial pilot is Jim Leachg C Jim's hostess is Sandy Hazleton, of course 5. At the town end of the airport, standing in front of Buzzy Stewart's Rock Staple Co. , we saw a tiny figure flying a kite. Sharon then divulged one of the greatest surprises of the day. A discovery which was long attributed to Ben Franklin and his key was really made here by Tina Sawtelle. With the news still ringing in our ears we headed back toward my hotel. I was told that dinner would be served at six P.M. by Eveln Desmarais, chief cook and bottle washer, etc. , etc. , etc. , at The Arkade, a mountain inn, owned by David Bacon. Now I think I've told you of all the members of the Class of '62, They are safe and well, happy and contented in their little villagep And, for the sake of the rest of the world, let's leave them there! n