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

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(Jcloentulels Row 1 : Jeannette Seerran. Ernest Shult. Lonnie Sehove. Leona Pingel. Lloyd Schuler. Ceorge .'teidinger. Jackie Sparks. Jncqui Weeks. Row 2: Alice Nash. Carolyn Shearer. Elaine Stiver. Darlene Price. Nancy Moulton. Mary Lou Wince. Margaret Pingel. Harlan Wessels. Richard Nance. Row 3: Lena Louise Steffen. Ruth Traub. Jeannette Strode. Ronnie Walker. Bob. Price. Francis Sears. Morton Shulman, Kenneth Vowels, C. V. Wing. Don Tollensdorf. Row 1 : Erna Hofmann. Donald Knott. Lloyd Bender. Richard Carlson. Frank Combes. Margarej Cummins. Ivr. Ferguson. Jo Ann Flanagan. Row 2: Janet French. Alvin Friedman. Bill Goslin. Fred Haas. Franklin Hanes. Helen Hethenngton. Leah Hildreth. Barbara Hobart. . , Row 3: Joyce Hodges. Dale Albee. Emma Lou ItTt. Jeannette Kelson, Phyllis Kilgus. Dorothy Kirch ner, Ralph Broquard. Genevieve Lane, Mary Beth Mauier. John Mai el. Ronnie Moore. 29

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Gdoentulete FRESHMAN CLASS OFFICERS President Vice-President Secretary Treasurer Jeanette Strode Phyllis Kilgus Ronald Walker Bobby Price 28

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Hines I torn an Ole) laie TIMES CHANGE In ’45 the halls of F. T. H. S. became infested With 75 freshmen, frightened and green; So many appeared that classrooms overflowed With “infants” who were afraid to be seen. The sophomores were really outstanding, The juniors were something to see; The seniors were worshiped and practically grown, But we were silly little freshmen, you will agree. Now we’re juniors with only one more term, And our high school fun will soon be o’er; We aren’t nearly as important now As the juniors were a few years before. —Lucille Monroe HE WOULDN’T DIM HIS LIGHTS Anger and hate are such cruel tools As all men find when their temper cools; And as one man found to his deep dismay By driving at night in a selfish way. “Dim your lights!’’ was the cry he heard From a passing car and hi? rage was stirred. He muttered low to himself, “I won’t! Why should I dim when others don’t?” Round the bend came a car and he, Though knowing the other couldn’t see, Held to the road with his lights agleam, ’Till he felt a crash and he heard a scream. ’Twas on his lips as he scrambled out, “I’m not to blame for this thing,” to shout But his cheeks turned white and his throat w'ent raw As his own son stretched on the ground he saw. “Son!” he cried. “Have I injured you? I had no idea you were driving through.” The lad looked up .“Was that you ahead? Your headlights blinded me, dad,” he said. —Donna Schroeder. NED’S PLACE Whenever I sit near a fire dreaming, I think of those days of long ago; And I think of faces I hold dear to me, The friends I loved and era I used to know. I dream of the lights of the great White Way, The gala times, the celebrations, the sport; My happy youth, and those other things, Of that horse and buggy day. A place I shall remember when all the others are dead, A wonderful place, incomparable above all; Just what you might call a hole in the wall, A little place called Ned’s. Yes, Ned’s. Where the glasses sparkled row on row, Where the wine and beer flowed free; And a poor fellow such as I could bury his woe In a sparkling glass and bubbling foam. Where such good men as we sang to the rafters on high, And discussing the politics and the news of the day; Drank down old Ned’s good rye Until the day was done or remembered our wives. Oh glorious hous, I love thee still, Re-living each minute of those wonderful days; Remembering the promises we had sworn to fulfill, The promises that, like ourselves, have withered to dust. But who could foretell the doom to fall, On my friends, myself, Ned and the rest; The doom that brought the downfall of that hall That fateful day in ’96. ’Twas New Year’s Eve and shouts rang high, And I myself, I must confess, that night, More than ever before partook of old Ned’s rye, Joyous, oblivious of things to be. An oath above the cries of happines, A bottle on someone’s nead, broken glass; Cries changed from happiness to those of beasts. Never again shall I see such a mess. The bluecoats broke in shouting and shooting And waving clubs, but the turmoil raged on; Until one by one all exhausted and reeling, We fell amid broken glass and running wine. But Ned stood standing yet, And as he iaised a bottle for one last move, A shot from a bluecoat’s gun rang out And dear old Ned fell dead. I shall remember that last awful scene. Remember it till I die; For there in Ned’s hand, as one last salute, Was a bottle of old Ned’s rye. 30 —Duane Steidinger.