Galion High School - Spy Yearbook (Galion, OH)

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MORNlN6 MUDDLE Alarm clocks jangle in hundreds of Galion homes. Sleepy protests are of no avail. Yawns, sighs, the stretching of aching muscles-another day begins for the G. H. S. gang. Breakfast. For our slim co-eds that means a glass of orange juice, preferably sipped, as Veda Dysing- er demonstrates, during the ritual of the morning hair-do. For our huskies, not so slim, a man-size meal. Make it pan- cakes, toast, rolls, and fruit. From every direction they stream to- ward the mecca of knowledge. The school bus arrives, groups gather on the steps, a janitor raises the Hag. A bell rings loudly and the crowd jostles its way into the building. G. H. S. is open for busi- ness again. The quiet bell-wrongly named, we assure all the uninformed. Romantically inclined couples linger until irate home- room teachers shoo them along. The tardy bell- Good morning. The an- nouncements this morning-. A speech student is on the air to tell of the events of the day ahead. Lorrine Decker is the lady of the microphone and Juanita Da- vis is evidently contemplating a commer- cial about the youth center. Another bell-classes begin. But in one home in the city a sleepy head is just emerging into consciousness. The hands of the clock are at 8:53 and Joe Mc- Manes, champion late riser, begins to think seriously that maybe he'll get up and go about the business of getting him- self some learning. The remains of last night's lunch are by his side, the literary masterpiece which kept him reading late is in plain view. Get going, Joe. Time's a wasting! Sewing class. Learn to sew a straight seam, girls. You are the future of Amer- ica. Some day you'll be copying the latest Vogue creations. World History-and map study. Miss Tracht is asking Osborne some tricky questions, but she can't stump that chap. Van Meter with the intensity of a budding young scientist performs an ex- periment in the chemistry lab. Dozens of classes are busily at work- English, Latin, Spanish, mathematics, biology, physical education-the educa- tional machine is at work on its victims. Well, no-slight error-one victim hasn't yet reported for action. Campus deserted, silence over all and McManes arrives. Don't worry, Joe, it's detention anyway so why waste precious energy. The morning hours pass-swiftly at Hrst and then slacken as lunch time ar- rives. A first aid class learns to revive those who can't stand the gaff. Decker and Harter are working on two nameless heroes. Eleven forty-just five minutes. Books close softly, like runners getting set on their marks, students slide sly feet into the aisle, poise their bodies for the spring, one eye one the clock, one eye on the door. Then the great stampede as the hungry mob dashes for chow. The morn- ing is over.

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' 2' WM H i MSE' , '21-J-pm... ' If, f gm - 1 L E B7 DAY Morning sunlight on red brick walls. From all directions students converge upon the focal point of their day's activ- ity, Galion High School. They congre- gate on the steps and talk. They whistle at other students. On winter days they may throw a forbidden snowball. In the balm of early spring they do such juve- nile things as play with yo-yos or blow brightly colored bubbles. These are the sights of our school by day. A bell rings authoritatively and they rush into the building as if they were wildly eager for knowledge. The steady hum of many voices, the lilt of laughter, the clang of locker doors being slammed, the jubilant Hi to welcome a fellow student, the polite Good Morning as a faculty member passes. These are the sounds of our school by day. The quiet bell. Where's the quiet? The tardy bell. Where's McManes? The morning announcements. Classes. How long until lunch time? The rush for food. Back again. Intramural games. Romance in the halls. Activity period. Club meet- ings, committee meetings. Who'll take my home room, Mr. Pickering? Classes. How long until four o'clock? The welcome bell. Football practice, play practice, bas- ketball practice, make-up work. I can't stay for detention. I have to work. A coke, a milkshake. See you tonightf' This is what little Ish found by day. Bewildered he was as he hung up his head piece of feathers and put the picture of his favorite pin-up girl on his locker door. Sixteen nights, Ish. Read that bul- letin! Donit mind the mouse. What would a locker be without a pet? Get your schedule card, fella! Every day is a busy day in G. H. S.

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