Fairbury Cropsey High School - Crier Yearbook (Fairbury, IL)

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I, Carlos Bandy, leave to that Romeo, Earl Broquard, my irresistible ways with the Chenoa women (and also a few from Fairbury). I, Glenn Booker, bequeath my Arthur Murray technique of dancing, and ALL my football letters, to my fond and unspoiled brother, Wilbur. I, Doris VonBergen, bequeath my straight, blond hair and my love for the Marine ••him” to that admirer of all the services, Rose Lorch. I, Bill Woodard, leave my indifference to the Fairbury women and my athletic abilities to that “he-man” of the junior class, Ray Fitzgerald. I, Eula Mae Bess, have nothng to leave. I will keep my nightingale voice and numerous other things in hopes that I can use them to find another civilian like Bill. I, Jo Anne Thompson, leave my excess inches in height, my school books, and my ever present giggle to that outstanding comedienne of the sophomore class, Lucetta Wessels. I, Bill Tagg, bequeath my Frank Sinatra voice and the fascination that women hold for me to that baritone of the freshman class, Kenneth Winterland. I, Darrell Peter, leave my low resistance to sailors, my Rogues Gallery of service men’s pictures, to that wolfess of the fresnman class, Cynthia Bittner. I, Dula Mae Dawson, bequeath my nasal-toned voice and my high-pitched giggle to that bang-up vocalist, Nick VonBergen. I, Bob Decker, leave my bold attituoe and Sonja Henie figure to that quiet little Eleanor Walter. I, Jim Degenhart, leave my ability to be always on time, and also my ability to attract proposals from the opposite sex to Richard Kilgus. I, Norma Young, bequeath all my jewelry which I have collected (legally and other- wise) during my two years at Fairbury to Marshall Gordon’s swap-shop. I, George Myers, leave my Veronica Lake hair-do and sour, sulky, sneering snarls, and snorts, to the sunniest soul of the sophomore class, Charles Green. I, Eugene Durham, leave my nickname, “Bull,” and all the insinuations and my “Doiothy” pin to that gent with that shady reputation, Howard Bess. I, Dorothy Wagenseller, leave my desire to remain on the farm all my life, and my ove for the kitties to that lover of wild life, Bob Ziegenhorn. I, Harvey Hartman, leave my ever lingering love for Strawn and its women and its bars to Vivian Schmidt since her interests are also centered in that locality (Bars). I, Jesse Huber, leave my curly locks and my snappy little bashed buggy, to my brother in car trouble, Wee Willie Wilken. I, Jim Rice, leave my drag with the faculty and my undying love for Fran Hildreth, to that junior who also has a drag, but with the female sex, Andy Lehman. We, Joyce and Joan Heins, leave to the next set of twins to enter high school our beautiful understanding that we have for each other, and our mulish” tempeiaments. I, Charlene Schlicher, leave my famous love triangle of Butler, Tull, and Degen- hart to one in need of such, Jacqueline Schade. I, Bob Spence, leave my inexhaustible supply of money with which I purchase the female sex anything their little hearts desire, to that millionaire, Guy Bandy. I, Nina Lou Ramseyer, leave my love for Chenoa women and my everlasting at- tempts to make C. B. jealous, to another gal with the same trouble, Phyllis Somers. I, Don Steidinger, leave my black date book filled to the gills (we mean Don) and also my basement filled to the gills with gum to the O. P. A. I, Margie Jessup, since there is a war on and we must all make sacrifices—I sac- rifice (sob-sob) Clyde Hoffman to Jean Milne for her future use in high school. I, Alden Beckley, leave my drag with Brick Young, and my role of a privileged character to Sam Runyon. I, Emma Lou Huber, leave all my Cropsey admirers, my love for the Navy, and my shady past to one with a likewise reputation, Barbara Steidinger. I, Herschel Butler, leave my deck of cards, and my supply of barrels that I keep on hand for strip poker, to that card shark of the junior class. Bette Wills. I, Florence Gerdes, leave my ability to get ready on a ten-minute notice for a date, and nothing else, for I’ll need all my resources to trap another man since Johnny has been drafted, to that lovesick sophomore, Fran Hildreth. I, Charles Miskell, leave my ability to direct traffic at nights when the high school parking lot is overly congested with cuddle-buggies to the policeman of the junior class. Byard Williams. 22

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make the Freshies” feel very inferior. Bill Tagg, Rosemary Crouch, and Robert Decker joined our ranks. We decreased our number considerably by the loss of: Elizabeth Kaisner, Jim Bean, Robert Dringenberg, Alan Hornbeck, Jim Hurt, Richard Walter, Lyle Winterland, and Jean Lehmann. Again we enjoyed our summer vacation and returned as triumphant upper class- men. During our junior year we selected class rings or pins and elected as class officers: President, Alden Beckley; Vice-President, Bill Tagg; Secretary-Treasurer, Emma Lou Huber. We gave our junior play, “Button, Button,” which was a great success. Then we made a grand finis” with a hot” night club Prom.” Again we lost many of our classmates. They were: Margaret Mehrings, Patricia Mehrings, Ray Carder, Jerry Wilson. Frank Rigsby, Jim Watson. Jack Gahwiler, Ruth Zimmerman, Charles Thomas. Arthur Walter, Robert Hirstein. Norma Young came into our midst at the beginning of the year. After this strenuous year we felt ourselves in need of relaxation. Following the summer vacation, we resumed our duties in the role of lofty and arrogant seniors. We soon slipped out of this role, however, and became absorbed in school life—giving con- siderable thought to our pre-graduation days. Even this year we lost three of our mem- bers. We were saddened by the sudden death of Eugene Loughran. Phyllis Haab and Bill Tagg moved away. In due time we presented to an appreciative audience The Sat- urday Evening Ghost,” a mystery comedy directed by Miss Kemple. Our class officers were: President. Rosemary Crouch; Vice-President. Florence Gerdes; Secretary-Treas- urer, Charles Veatch; reporter, George Myers. While endeavoring tq gain our present goal during the past four years, we have contributed our meager bit of time and talent to the Latin Club, Spanish Club, French Club, G. A. A., F-Club, F. F. A. Club. Home Economics Club, and our proudest achieve- ment—The Crier. Our years at F. T. H4 S. will always be remembered with pleasure, and we will never forget the debt we owe to all of those who have contributed to our education and our lives. We have gained a wealth of experience and made friendships that we could never have made elsewhere. We. the members of the class of One Thousand Nine Hundred and Forty-four of Fairoury Township High School, being of unsound mind and failing health, are now graduating after four years of somewhat triumphant (we’re kidding) study. Since we believe academic courses are the best extra-curricular activities, and make a feeble attempt to agree with the faculty that studies come first barring absolutely nothing, EXCEPT youthful frivolities—do hereby bequeath our reputation as a studious class to the remaining aspirants for a diploma at our Alma Mater. We, the entire class, bequeath the following undersigned things: First: We. the entire class, bequeath to the juniors the privilege of being the hon- ored inhabitants of the southern extremities of the assembly. Second: To the sophomores, we were going to leave Mr. Bayless, but since he left us, this will be impossible. So-o-o-o-o, instead, we leave the secluded (?) spot (well used) by the outskirts of the campus. Third: To those very green and bewildered freshmen, we leave Emily Post’s newest book on Etiquette. Wd do this with the fervent hope that they will learn the ways of high school life much quicker than they seemed to their first year. Fourth: And last and truly least, we leave to the faculty fond memories of our glorious four years of struggle to finally pass through these magnificent portals of graduation. We hope they will treasure them and hold them dear to their hearts, because we won’t! And now each and everyone of us, the class of ’44. individually leave the following most prized and treasured enumerated articles' 21

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I, Jean Leeteh, leave my ability to lead an orchestra at Chatsworth, also my love for “Louie’s” to Reva Wiser. I, Erma Wallenstein, leave to Helen Green my incessant stool-pigeoning, my love for Home Economics, and my Ned Sparks smile. , I, Ernest Johnson, leave my subtle approach to the fairer sex, and my numerous feminine pursuers, to Jewell Shoemaker. I, Charles Wilken, bequeath to Carroll Besgrove my Alan Ladd technique and Lou Costello figure, providing that he doesn’t abuse the privileges that these character- istics offer. I, Rosemary Crouch, leave my trips on the St. Louis trains, my rippling rhythm laugh, and also my partiality to uniforms to Marilyn Steidinger. I, Chuck Veatch, leave my partiality for pale, pink plaids, putrid penetrating pipes, and passion for parking, to that pompous puff of powder and snuff, Tom Carter, who is in dire need of such characteristics. I, Dorothy Carlson, leave my moronish actions, my love for myself and my inces- sant chattering to that sweet, unspoiled darling of the junior class, Ollie James. I, Ellen Vail, bequeath my pleasing personality, sunny disposition and my warm, tender spot in Dale Dameron’s heart, to Phyllis Drennen. And last but not least, we nominate and appoint Bob Nussbaum to be the sole executor of this Will, providing that he carries out our wishes as we so desire. Signed, sealed, and declared in the presence of the following witnesses. MAIRZY DOATS (Seal) DOZY DOATS (Seal) U. S. Navy (V-12 Style) Join the Navy, you high school lads. Join the Navy, as soon as you’re grads. This man’s force is a mighty tough field. So join the V-12—unless you want to get killed. They told me I would see the sphere, They fed me a line, that’s all too clear. Now', I'm seeing the world in a history book, And moidering Japs with the math I took! We live on a “ship,” three decks in all, We muster, like gobs, to the roll call, We march out the hatchway like a regular fleet. But the sign on the road says “University Street.” We have “chow” in this Navy, we hit our own “sacks,” All our slang is derived from the Navy brass tacks. We wear the jumpers, the skivvies, the “bootsies,” We’re gobs from our ears clear down to our tootsies. Don’t get the idea I don’t like it here, I love this life—let that point be clear. The studies we get, we need, we’re told. To provide us with stuff that will stop the foe cold. It takes teamwork for victory; teamwork for war. From the commander-in-chief to the infantry corps. We’re showing our parents their boys aren’t weak, We wanted our chance, and now we can speak. Let every young fellow, who’s able to take it, Join with this outfit he’s bound to make it. Only if, after awhile, he looks like he’s shot. Don’t be alarmed, it’s this history rot. A S BILL TAGG.