Hillsdale School - Telescope Yearbook (Cincinnati, OH) - Class of 1956 Page 1 of 74
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uae LEE OI OE PT TN EL ELI LIL TLL ILL LL DL LLL LL OIL O LO SLL LLL LLIN a PON PP ELT ST RI A ff ne 1 ea aa] Bay ay EDITORIAL Can you think back to November 15, 1955, when Miss Fessenden began to read the Biblical story of “The Ark?” If that is clear in your mind, do you remem- ber wondering about the curious. reactions of five certain seniors in that same assembly? We, the Annual Board, happen to be those five; and our reaction was caused by a secret knowledge that the theme we had already chosen was to be emphasized all year long. | doubt if anyone else was as conscious of the many accidental references to the legend of Noah throughout the year as we were, but it seemed to the Annual Board that through the doorway of every classroom came a mention of our topic. While eavesdropping on Miss Emig’s eighth grade English class, we heard a discussion about a book called “The Ark”; we frequently listened to Miss Johnson drilling her geometry classes in problems concerning arcs (the Annual Board is aware of this difference in spelling); and sometimes Miss Shell- berg could be overheard helping a potential artist learn the value of an arc as a basis for a design. In our Spring Concert, the Senior Glee Club sang “Who Built the Ark” topped off by the Gamboliers’ version of “De Animals are Comin.’ ” Also related to the story of Noah, were the terrific floods that our nation ex- perienced this year, to say nothing of the flood right here in our own basement with which Mr. Young had to cope. Not to be outdone by these coincidences, we have decided to give this well-known legend a new meaning. The Ark with which we are concerned is our big, gray ark, Hillsdale, guided by our Noah, Miss Fessenden. As did Noah of old, so our headmistress spent an entire season in careful preparation for the September-to-June voyage. She gath- ered together all the materials available and chose her companions for the long trip in the Ark. The sojourn was successful with no mishaps or catastrophes. Al- though we needed no rain for the journey, the weather played a large part in its success. Not even First Mate Miss Eppley could control the whims of the weather on which the “big game” depended; twice the ice and snow gave the old ark a just cause for alarm when it did not make any mileage for a day. When the midyear storm caused a great flood of exams, our Noah, with the help of her crew, directed our ark back to calm waters and clear skies. The March winds stirred up rough seas and caused a twinge of seasickness in a few lions (seniors ) who had to endure the tempest of term papers and college boards. Fortunately, this was their last encounter in turbulent waters. They sent out a dove who soon returned bearing twenty-six roses with the good news that graduation would be the climax of their trip. The sun peeked through the stormy skies, signs of spring began to appear, and the excitement of our arrival on dry land soon became evident. Now, for the seniors, our memorable voyage is over. As we leave Hillsdale two- by-two, we go our own separate ways expecting a rougher crossing in the near future. Smith, Michigan, Sweet Briar, Mt. Holyoke—these and more will be our chosen arks next year. As Noah did, we must gather together all the materials available, consisting of the Knowledge we acquired here at Hillsdale, to prepare for a new Deluge of floods—the flood of new acquaintances, unfamiliar surround- ings, new romances, tons of facts, and countless decisions to be made. Having . survived this Deluge, we shall view the world victorious from the top of Mt. Ararat. ANNUAL BOARD PINDAg LOVETT a2 ee ee Editor-in-Chief CHRISTI Er BARNARD 2 2:5.28 Bese Ae Literary Editor SUSIE: BOLLER foe ieee, ee Art Editor SALLYVRAININE Yee. an soe ee, Photography Editor RNGIESOCHMIDUARP® =. ile Na see se eee Business Manager The Annual Board wishes to thank Miss Ferguson, Miss Emig, and Miss Shell- berg for their invaluable help in preparing the annual. The senior portraits and group pictures are by C. Joseph Malott. att weet September 17, 1950, a red letter day for the senior class of 1956, was made more important because on that day we met Miss Eppley for the first time, as she sat in the locker room with the uniform list for our seventh grade. Little did we know that we would never again see her sitting still. Long to be remembered are her L-O-N-G lists of fire drill pointers, Miracle Play preparations, and gradu- ation arrangements. Nor can we ever forget her familiar words, “Now, ladies,” or “One—two—three—relax,” and last but not least, those weekly words, “Hand- writing class today!” Miss Eppley has played an active role in every event that has highlighted the Hillsdale School. Not only is she efficiency personified, but : also lots of fun, with a wealth of good advice and unfailing cheerfulness. How her pleasant smile and twinkling eye have lifted us from our lowest moods into a world of sunshine! Thanks to her we dribble down the hockey field with the agility of experts; thanks to her our backbones are straight as boards. To you, Miss Eppley, the senior class wants to say thank you, for making our days at Hillsdale the happiest possible. The wooden Ark Noah fashioned with such care, To hold a family of human kind, As well as all the animals two by two, Could never have had the harmony we know At Hillsdale School. In spite of bells, of shouts Of laughter, giggles, squeals of merriment, Each day there come at proper intervals, Moments of reverent silence, hush of voices In loyalty to those who would be heard. Assemblies, orals, skits, a song, a poem, Command attention, since we care about What others have to say. No Tower of Babel ours. There’s a gay and loyal spirit bestowed by all On all. As girls begin to mold their lives For useful purpose with a strength that serves Both them and others, there must be devotion To the best they know. We call it “Honor.” For those who graduate, for those who stay A while to grow and learn a little more, No better wish is there than this: To gain A love of truth, a thirst for knowledge, faith In God. Thus life has purpose, meaning. MISS FESSENDEN LOUISE ISHAM ATKINS ROBERTA CHRISTIE BERNARD NANCY CATHERINE BERGER MARGARET ANDREWS BLAINE BARBARA SUE BOLLER MARTHA PAGE DAVIS CECILE STEWART DRACKETT i ¢ Or GA (4 : Lu — a = Fa = a) a a) Wu kK Lu faa) O [a4 KATHRYN EILEEN ERBECK LINDA JANE HALVERSTADT NANCI ANN HOGAN SALLY GEST HODGE nn ar pot dla ee en CAROLYN ANN HUMMEL CAROLYN JANE HUWE BARBARA RUFFNER KNAUFT MARCIA IRVING KNOLL LINDA COOMBS LOVETT — ra O = — O U = ww ms zz = hk LU a4 U = — SALLY RANNEY HELEN CRAWLEY PRETTYMAN ANGIE KELLER SCHMIDLAPP of f V Ces 4 ae 0, JANE ANN SLEMMER CYNTHIA TAYLOR CAROL LOUISE WACHS Louise leaves the Red Dog to Sugi. Christie leaves the moon to her sister. Berger leaves her sunlamp to Joannie Barrett. Boller leaves Cincinnati... Destination: Pittsburg. Garrie leaves the morning marches to Margaret. Patty leaves her discombobulation to Lee Adair. Cecile leaves her tact to Sally Hatfield. Bobbie “rides” off in her red “bird.” Kay leaves her artistic ability to Betsy Dixon. “Stadt” leaves hoping to vote at eighteen. Mary Sue will never leave Green Cove. Hauser leaves her heater and turning signal to Annie Gray. Hodge leaves her new power of concentration to Ruthie Robbins. Nanci leaves her top down in mid-winter. Hummel leaves her general knowledge to Mlle. Huwe leaves Italy to the Italians. Barb wishes Ann McComas would leave her those Friday fingernails. Marcia leaves John. “Love” grants the frontier to Davy Crockett. We leave Lucky’s house in shambles. Helen takes her charms with her. Ranney leaves Ike for his next (s election. Angie leaves Glendale to be on the Dean’s List. Cindy leaves Hillsdale without a “wing.” Carol leaves her wonderful disposition to those who need it! Slemmer leaves still wanting to know how to “Hold That Tiger.” The Senior Class leaves! ted dy bear cephalo Goch a St litt le si bug cemem ber Bei “O } G 4 rs % wy P 6 ie) a U bow Sor ‘he ae bkuowk rodent qou-all dear deer Nop oS 2: De animals are comin’, Two by Two, De lions eadin’ dem, All from dé zoo. Te hipey hippoes, Are next in line, And de orissu Poodles Are dein: cont teat : De crazy cats, ‘Bout 21k times we, And de ting tigers, Oh, man alive! Now brivqin ve de crear And really very nice, h I v- Nene pay: 3 CLASS ELEVEN Top row: Toni LaBoiteaux, Sally Hatfield, Susan Steman, Margaret Parlin, Betty Wiehe, Jane Mills, Judy Smysor. Middle row: Mary Ann Swedes, Marian Strick- land, Barbara Hixson, Mary Slade Martin, Dee Anne Schroeder, Judy Hauser, Elinor Scherr. Bottom row: Christy Muir, Janie Hauvenstein, Marianne Hastie, Lynn Dunbar, Meanne Mashburn, Ann Wentworth, Judy Arbuckle. Absent: Anne Gray, Ann McComas. CLASS TEN—PRISSY POODLES Top row: Laura Clark, Francie Garber, Betsy Benedict, Margo Frey, Peggy Sadler, Betty Andrews, Brenda Blatz, Janet Keys. Middle row: Diddy Stilwell, Elinor Adick, Lee Adair, Cindy Terrill, Wendy Thomsen, Ann Ritchey, Eunie Davidson, Alison Chase. Bottom row: Susan Leonard, Bobbie Hill, Claire Friedman, Margie Simpson, Janie Bosworth, Susie Bauer, Joan Barrett. Top row: Bonnie Dodd, Edie Harri Susan Ritter, Pepper Deupree, Joan Guire, Barbey Nyce. Middle row: Pi Sarah Gruen, Nancy Gay, Trish Dwight, son, Kit Nichols, Mary Beth Hilsinger. Missy Richards, Bourque Wunsch, Ruthi Sally Harrison, Ledlie Dinsmore. Absent: Ce 5 Baha | eT) =| = Nw VAG — a Mm a = @) @ oo aan | 9 : +5 00 o7 Os ame | = = 3625. et 6-0 6. 14) om 7 O i oO a “” le te r= am ™ YZ ronal oa CLASS EIGHT—TINY TIGERS Top row: Grayce Ruehlman, Betsy Dixon, Susan Deupree, Sally Davis, Sandra Rowe, Ann Muhlhauser, Nancy Rowe, Martha Thompson, Barbara Watson, Jenny Deupree, Louise Barnard. Middle row: Babsie Kruse, Susan Whitehouse, Kaaren Parker, Anne Thomson, Susan Crane, Betsy Whitesides, Lynn Lawwill, Judy Houk, Nonnie Steer, Betsy Hastie. Bottom row: Peggy Hogan, Louisa Egbert, Jeannie Zimmerman, Heather Humphrey, Pat Wilson, Liz Williams, Sally Snow, Susan Harrison, Ann Minor. Spot: £ Bapitle iia B ies remeriron CLASS SEVEN—MIGHTY MICE Top row: Margot Deupree, Carol lannitto, Cecilie Hamilton, Sandra Dodd, Lee Hoxworth, Joan Fleischmann, Adele Perry, Jane Hamill, Holly Herschede, Katy Stilwell, Susan Lamson, Margaret Highlands, Sallie Greenwald, Sandy Beech, Barbara Simpson, Gale Lockhart, Ellen Thayer, Sarah Taft, Dottie Webb, Frannie Atkins, Pamela Terrill. Bottom row: Sara Lee Oberhelman, Suzzara Chace, Sally Shepherd, Elizabeth White, Mary Barkman, Teresa Staff, Cricket Harth, Gretchen Grandle, Sydney Anning, Claudia Gilmore, Lynne Giannestras, Jeannie Vilter, Sally Harrison. i A.A. COUNCIL Top row: Irene Taylor, ‘Assistant Gold Team Captain; Louise Atkins, Gold Team Captain; Lucky McCalmont, President; Jane Slemmer, Green Team Captain; Joan Krehbiel, Assistant Green Team Captain. Middle row: Lee Adair, Class 10; Barbara Hixson, Class 11; Susan Steman, Secretary-Treasurer; Wendy Thomsen, Class 10. Bottom row: Frannie Atkins, Class 7; First semester; Jane Hamill, Class 7, first semester. ¥ = es ANNUAL BOARD Top row: Susie Boller, Art Editor; Sally Ranney, Photography and Literary Editor; Angie Schmidlapp, Business Manager. Bottom row: Christie Barnard, Literary Editor; Linda Lovett, Editor-in-Chief. ii Nas ae — Waa Ee Qt. “ J ay ™ - F oe aa’ Ae =} = x b ra c “Now chillun turn to page 52.” “Look for the silver lining.” : “Into every life a little rain must weather-bird!” fall.” “Now for a word “De animals are comin’.” “And nobody knew where dey was at!” 55 §ES=== LAUREL HOCKEY TEAM Top row: Nanci Hogan, goalie. Second row: Betty Wiehe, right fullback; Ann Ritchey, left fullback. Third row: Cecile Drackett, right halfback; Barbara Knauft, center halfback; Lucky McCalmont, left halfback. Bottom row: Jane Slemmer, right wing; Mary Hauser, right inner; Elinor Scherr, center forward; Louise Atkins, left inner; Cynthia Taylor, left wing. Absent: Mary Slade Martin, left inner. Rn Me Ut NAIA + SR A Hn mT INTL ; {HUHNE Ti ali ae IEA SP yy ea hives It was Thursday night, February 23. The luminous hands of the clock both pointed straight up. | was living beneath the ice-box in the kitchen of the Barnard family. It was dark. My name is Sylvester. I’ m a mouse! It all began on that fateful evening, after | had spent a quiet day in my shelter, loafing and sleeping. Since you and | may have a different understanding of the word quiet, | believe we had better first define our terms. The dogs were barking all day, at the mailman, the garbage men, the delivery man, the cleaning woman, and the vacuum cleaner. In fact, they barked at anything which moved, but this noise was far from unusual. On returning from school, the children were hungry, and the ceiling over my head shook violently with the frequent slamming of the refrigerator’s abused doors. One must realize, however, that the kitchen is always a busy place; and aside from these minor distractions, the day was unusually quiet. To return to my story, after my quiet day, my stomach told me that it was time to eat, and | ventured away from home with the greatest confidence. The lights were out, the house was still, as | silently made my way to the bread-box for my nightly marketing. Then, to my horror, the lights flashed on with a resounding snap! Temporarily paralyzed, | stood blinking into the eyes of what appeared to be a girl from outer space. Iron pins were sticking into her head, and her face was daubed with mud. | needn’t tell you that | was startled. As a matter of fact, | was thoroughly frightened, but | did not have to look at this strange creature for long. It must be that | looked equally frightful to her, (though | can’t imagine why!) for with a piercing shriek of terror, the girl bolted for the door. At the same time | shamefully displayed my cowardice, and made tracks for the icebox. That was Thursday night. The following evening | was truly famished, not having eaten for two days. This night | waited until | was absolutely certain that | would not be interrupted. Such experiences as the one of the previous evening could easily cause a timid mouse like me, to have a nervous breakdown, ulcers, or even fatal symptoms. This evening, however, | smelled something new in the air, a fascinating, tempting odor, close to the bread-box. Further investigation proved my senses to be reliable. It was cheese!! There it was, as plain as night, placed on a little scrap of steel, just waiting for tiny eager jaws to transfer it to a tiny starving stomach. | advanced slowly, touched the metal, and jumped back! A deafening snap echoed through the room, as the deadly trap barely missed my left front paw, but claimed the tip of my tail for its own. Forgetting my pride, for- getting the cheese, | scurried to my hole in the wall, and kept on, and on and on, through secret passageways, and hidden tunnels until | reached the outside of the house. The comforts of a modern compartment no longer appealed to me as | hurried into the dark. It is Saturday night. There is no clock to tell me the time. | am living under a tree. It’s cold. My name is Sylvester. I’m a houseless mouse. CHRISTIE BARNARD Class 12 SLL, a a REJUVENATION The air seemed hot and oppressive that last summer evening as Dr. Richard U. Mixum, chemist, closed the door of the “Peeches and Kreem,” cosmetic re- search laboratory, and left its pleasant air-conditioned comfort. He joined the hurrying group of people on the mid-town sidewalk, and in five minutes had reached the garage where his car was parked. After a tiring drive of starts and stops through the heavy city traffic, Dr. Mixum arrived at the outskirts of the modern residential section in which he lived. He brought his car to a stop in front of a drugstore and went in to buy a pack of cigarettes. An attractive elderly lady had just preceded him and was inquiring about a face cream new on the market. The doctor noticed her eyes, blue as cornflowers. “She’s been beautiful in her day and she’s trying desperately to find the magic formula for staying young and lovely,” the chemist thought, with just a twinge of pity as he heard her asking hopefully if the cream advertised would really do all that was promised. He could not resist an impulse, and with a half- apologetic smile for interrupting, he said, “One of these days there will be a cream that keeps the word of the advertisements.” The lady turned and looked at the man in wonderment, but by that time, he had finished his purchasing and was continuing his way. Reaching home, the doctor drove into his garage and climbed briskly out of r. Locking the garage door quickly, he hurried eagerly into the house. a the ca “Aren‘t you home a little early, dear?” his small blonde wife greeted him. “Yes,” he answered. “I'd like to have dinner as soon as possible so | can com- plete my experiment.” “Wash up and cool off a little; it's been so hot today. I'll have things on the able in a jiffy.” Over the dinner table, Dr. Mixum remarked, “Well, Alice, this is it. After tonight you can quit worrying about those crow’s feet around your eyes, and all the other lines you women fret about. | saw another potential customer in the drug- store tonight. We'll realize a fortune on this.” = ' “Dick, | do hope your experiment is a success. They'll be somewhat chagrined at the lab too, that they didn’t let you put through your idea there.” Ten minutes later, Dr. Mixum hurried down to the basement where in a small room, he had set up a working laboratory. He carefully locked the door behind him, to avoid being disturbed, and threw himself into his work. It was midnight when the last ingredient was added and the completed mixture spooned into a jar. He held it to the light. He smelled it, and then for a moment his eyes closed to slits. “This will show them all up,” he murmured smugly. “The perfect formula.” Alice was braiding her long golden hair in preparation for going to bed, when Richard came in and with a ceremonious gesture, put the jar in her hands. “Twenty years younger—you're sure?” she queried. “Just put it on,” he urged as she hesitated ever so slightly, “and you'll see a big change in the morning.” “Surely, it can’t work that quickly!” “Not quite, but there should be some results.” Alice went to the mirror and smoothed the odd purplish cream over her face and neck. “It feels a little strange,” she said, “but it smells good,” and with a yawn, she climbed into bed and was soon asleep. Dr. Mixum slept too, but not quite so soundly. The first twittering of birds the next morning awakened him. He glanced over at his wife. He leaped out of bed, pulled back the window shade, and peered at her in the brighter light. His eyes widened with horror. “Oh no! It can’t be!” The words caught in his throat. JUDY SMYSOR Class 11 IS THERE A DOCTOR IN THE HOUSE? yv) w © Ww © {@) O C U 12) m yw) + ¢ Oo @ Oo 6 £ By ) f ¢ O oe on iw) 7) ‘ co A® Ww) Lo fr _ eve @ w ae ¢ “ w ’ @ o ed Noe 0 te w : Y . ) oO : oe ) + ; © vb) YW «uy 4 4 w 6 © v aT) ) d ; ie} Oo 2 ¢ : Q : =o « te ou 8 “ Oo ¢ - ie) Lt a tae} ® - GWehi ge’ Oy ee a 4 fel © w) oot f z= =) ’ U A. of} yy ¢ WM @ t Ae C oe oe ¢ O @ ire} a w wo @ os . ef 4 @ ox Oo Vv w) t 2 ‘Oo Ww) Ww) w ) Ww oO Om : = @ ) YW) + © (@)) ¢ qa oat oO O Q 18) x O Ww ‘ w sie] ee: ¢ hs O C O V uv § C ¢ Oo Y ' @ tie} _ oO) 4 O 0 S ¢ ‘ (oO = @ at OD ) wn § op a Le. 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Pe. ov WY) 1) © Oo - + t WY c Ww O = - ‘; WY) O _ © oO wha cb) O oO) Cris = —) 7 oO Aen 7a) + o (ie) — [ve Q. C . yy) Cc O emg cae ) 18] VU ite] YNN DUNBAR ; = — Y) ” lis} i THE RED FIRE STALLION On a hill where he stood with a coat of red fire, He rose to a breath-taking height. He had challenged the head of another great herd, And the look in his eye meant a fight. Soon the fight started, ond oh, what a scene! Those stallions were fighting to kill. There was fire in their eyes as they reared in the air, And never a moment were still. The battle of horror went on for some time, But at last their fighting had ceased. The chestnut had won but was wounded so deep That | knew he depended on me. So all through the day | nursed his cruel wounds, And kept him with me at my home; But somehow | sensed he was not happy there, So | gave him his freedom to roam. And on days when | wander the mountains so high, Or down on the barren rough plains, | can hear his proud call, his challenging call, Making known that he’s free once again. JANE HAMILL Class 7 LONG, LONG AGO Long, long ago when | was twelve, | lived for my Friday evening dancing classes under the direction of Madame Federova. | spent the entire week before each meeting planning which taffeta dress, which bracelet and which pair of white party anklets | should wear in order to look my b est. If my Thursday evening labors of setting my hair resulted in a nest of fuzz, | would spend a tiring Friday afternoon in the beauty parlor having my coiffure arranged in perfect ringlets. The anticipation of the evening resulted in so much excitement that | could seldom eat much dinner, and to my despair, my appetite was usually ravenous when refreshments were served at intermission. | not only took a huge handful of sugar cookies, but once managed to spill my cup of Hawaiian punch all over the chaper- one’s dress. Although the boys could only dance the eternal], stiff, box-step fox trot, we were — taught to dance the Charleston, the rhumba and the jitterbug. Our instructions were given before refreshments were served, and afterwards came the part of the evening | had been looking forward to all through the week; the moment when the boys could choose the girls to dance. Would he or would he not ask me to be his partner? When the whistle signaled, shy boys in blue suits could be seen dashing across the ball room to pretty little girls in their favorite party dresses, and finally, after seven days of waiting my “prince charming” stuttered, “Hey, you wanna dance?” My melting “Golly, yes!” resulted in an awkward version of rigid fox-trotting on little pink clouds. The pitter-patter of my heart and the sparkle in my eyes were signs of sheer ecstasy that Friday evening, long, long ago. CAROLYN HUWE Class 12 | CAN | have a thought, all to myself, About a problem, but, Afraid that | may be quite wrong, | keep my mouth tight shut. | almost speak one time, but stop; My cheeks feel hot and red. With all these brilliant people here, Let them speak out instead. So each one in his turn, does speak, And still the thing’s unsolved. It seems to me their answers are Too long and quite involved. | think, “Now, that just goes to show, I'm not as smart as they,” But still the thoughts inside my head Refuse to go away. | know | shall not be content, Until I’ve said my word, And simple as it seems, | hope It will not sound absurd. | try to gather all my strength, | swallow and | blink; | wet my lips, prepare to speak, And start off with, “I think—” A host of eyes are turned on me; They quickly glance away. A loud voice booms, “| have it!”’ And goes on to have its say. That voice is saying my thoughts; All think theyre mighty fine; That man is getting highest praise, Which could have been all mine. They think that he is very wise, But now | know, I’m smarter. | had the answer all the time, But fear had stalled my starter. To them I’m still a nobody; To me I’ve grown a man. Though he is hailed, | feel a warmth, That says to me, “I can!” CHRISTIE BARNARD Class. 12 OtiR HARVEST FAIR ep THE BEACON The boy walked quickly down the dark deserted street, his thin shoulders hunched forward, damp clenched hands thrust deep into his pockets, and his large searching eyes straining out into the darkness. The thick choking fog and the intensity of the big city at night filled him with awe, and deep down in his heart, he was afraid. Yes, in him was the strange, mounting panicky fear that a boy has of darkness, loneliness, and of what lies around the next corner; the fear that too few adults seem to understand or remember. The boy’s reason urged him to turn around and assure himself that his fear had no cause, but with the uncanny sense of a small child, he knew he must not stop; he must not run, and above all, he must not look back, for whatever lay behind in the shadows was not meant to be seen. An icy shiver ran down his spine, and suddenly, he wanted with all his heart to scream, and to fight off the swirling strangling fog that was all around him; to pierce the silence with the voice of his lonely terror. He knew, though, somehow, that he would be unable to do anything but keep on walking down the black, empty street. So he strode on, his well-worn heels throwing hollow, ringing echoes up to the gaunt houses that seemed to mock his childish fear. His straining nerves were acutely aware of his surroundings; the smell that reached his nostrils was a promise of the sea to come; of smoky factories, and rotting food and of the strange, unhealthy dirt that is a natural symbol of the city. All these smells meant home to the boy, and in a small way they comforted him; but still there was the nameless terror in his pounding heart. As he turned, he saw, far down the shadowy street, a light that still shone in one of the grim brick buildings that are typical of slums. The light filtered dimly through the restless eddying fog, and seemed to beckon to him, to give him strength to walk the endless distance to its source. The beacon, to him, meant safety, warmth, and welcome, and he knew that his unseen follower would not, could not, follow him into the circle of its beam. The boy’s shoulders straightened a little, and he stepped along the pavement with a surer, firmer step toward the haven that awaited him. Suddenly, he was there. A deep wave of relief swept over his small frame, and he stood numbly for a moment, not quite believing that he had reached his destination. Almost casually, he looked over his shoulder, and then, suddenly he began to laugh, a laugh which pierced the darkness and fog. A woman looked out of a nearby tenement window and surveyed the scene, wondering what could make a small boy laugh so loudly into the night. MARCIA KNOLL Class 12 WHY? In room number 434, on the second floor A wail was heard, then no more. A baby had breathed his very first breath, As in room 433, a man met death. All life is a cycle, a revolving door. Why mourn the passing of a man you know, When a baby next door is destined to grow? BARBARA KNAUFT Class 12 SO SLOW IN COMING, YET GONE SO FAST It is amazing how quickly one year can race by, especial ly our senior year which was prophesied to be so filled with work and projects that at first we feared it would never end. Yet here it is, almost over, and graduation so close that at the mere mention of the word, each senior feels a shiver run down her spine. Sud- denly, we find ourselves doing things for the last time. Is it possible that when next year’s Harvest Fair rolls around we shall not be there? Must we watch the Miracle Play from the audience the next time it is presented? Will we never again receive the simple pleasure of awakening some cold snowy morning to find that the office has called and there will be no school that day? We begin to look around at our friends and appreciate all the wonderful things which we have done to- gether—how we sang to our uniforms, sincerely wished each other luck in our College Board Exams, how we worked cheerfully on our Father-Daughter skit, how we laughed, sometimes fought, and then always laughed again. Then, turning from thoughts of work, committees, and parties, we think of each individual girl who, although just one out of many, has helped to make our senior year the fun time it has been. We ask ourselves how it will seem not to hear the contagious laughter of the girl who sits a few seats away in study hall. We wonder how it will be not “aceing” off to school every morning with the riotous groups which we call our car pools. It is almost impossible to believe that the next time one of our friends has a problem with her studies or with her beau, one of us will not be around to help iron out the wrinkles and wipe away the tears. ‘ Throughout the year we sat in the locker room during “conference,” complain- ing about this and that and laughing about everything else. Oh how we have laughed and joked about icy-cold French rooms, Friday lunches, posture classes, and certain unforgettable faux pas which have occurred in class. Soon we found our- selves talking about flowers, speakers, and dresses—dresses for graduation. Then we laughed just thinking about it all, and said how we could not wait for that glorious night to come. We still talk and laugh and joke, but often laughter ceases and our eyes fall upon each other, each of us knowing that the others will not be eager for the time when twenty-six girls will go twenty-six different ways. Everything has gone so very quickly and what lies ahead, we can only imagine. We can picture a bright’ sunny day when almost two hundred girls will be gathered around the driveway for the Class Day exercises, and this year the songs will be the best they have ever been, as we shall listen closely, trying to remember every word. We shall feel more pride than ever before when we look at the new little tree planted in the ground, our tree! Award Day will be fine and exciting as always, but somehow more meaningful as we watch little girls and big girls go forward to receive their awards for posture, sportsmanship, scholastic achievements, and courtesy, all those things which we have learned to love and admire. Then graduation will be here and gone again like a flash of lightning. We fear we shall not hear the speaker because of the loud thumping of our hearts, and each senior will have to listen very closely to hear her name called for her diploma. Finally, along with the music of Pomp and Circumstance, we shall see a chapter of our lives end. There are more pages to be filled, and though we leave with a feeling of sadness, we walk on, prepared and eager to turn to the next page. LUCKY McCALMONT Class 12 DAWN From under the blanket of silence And quiet that covered the earth, The glimmering light Of a brilliant new dawn Was gradually having its birth. The twinkling stars in the heavens, And the moon with its face shining bright, Made a hasty retreat From the rays of the dawn That illumined the blackness of night. The reds, and the pinks, and the purples Were like heralds announcing a King, With the dark driven black And the mist in its flight, The birds were soaring on wing. And now the great victor was ready, In all of his splendor to come, To announce to the world That a new day was born, And the battle with darkness was done. JANE BOSWORTH Class 10 THE RACE TRACK The track is always full of life, When a race is about to start. Even when rain darkens the day, The spectators don’t lose heart. But then again the track May be fast and dry, When out of the starting gates The Thorobreds will fly. And sometimes you will see the track, Just about to freeze. Then the horses come shooting out, Swifter than the breeze. Sometimes the track may be Hot and dry as bone, And the horses are lathering hard, ‘Fore the jocks come galloping home. But there’s another kind of race track, The one when the race is up. The track is dented with hoofmarks, As the winner receives his cup. ANN MINOR Class 8 SURVIVAL Bright waves gently rolled the tiny skiff from side to side. Its four occupants hesitantly stuck their heads out from beneath the battered tarpaulin. It seemed al- most impossible that ten minutes before, thunder had roared in the heavens and rain had fallen in a solid gray curtain, completely blotting out any visibility, for now the sun shone warmly on the gentle blue of the ocean and fluffy white clouds dotted an azure sky. The victims of the gale moved cautiously about the boat attempting to collect their scattered belongings when suddenly they stopped to look around them. A moment before, the shore had lain comfortably close; Now it was nowhere to be seen. Bruin, a husky, athletic young man, looked at the other three who sat huddled together, laughed, and shrugged his shoulders. What did it matter? There was no danger. A tiny rowboat could not float too far from shore, and, anyway, the Coast Guard was never very far away. George, a clever young businessman, found himself believing this sensible reasoning. Here was a lark; something to tell his friends about for weeks to come; why waste a minute of it? So a dilapidated pack of cards was dragged from its water- proof container and tins of food were opened lavishly and passed around. “Hey, shouted Harry, the most frightened of the group, “shouldn’t we save most of the food in case no one does come to get us?” “Well, listen to the little coward,” moaned the two, “Why don’t you jump out and swim for shore?” “At least fish would be better company,” was the sharp reply. At this, Douglas, the quiet one of the group, looked at his companions, disgust showing plainly on his strong face. Just as he was about to enter the argument, a hazy, gray streak across the clear sky caught his attention. The muscles of his jaw tightened as the gray widened and darkened to black. He abruptly began to store the cans and camping apparatus under cover once more, and from a compartment in the bow, he pulled four life preservers and handed one to each man. The others stared at him in amazement. “What's the matter with you? Got the jitters or something?” Bruin growled in his usual snarlly voice. “Maybe we'd better get back under the tarp,” Harry said, the words sticking in his dry throat. With a coarse laugh, Bruin grabbed the life jacket from Harry and threw it with all his might into the foamy depths where it bobbed merrily away from the boat. Then suddenly a blinding flash of lightning tore through the darkness; thunder crashed above the seething,ocean. Three pairs of hands fought each other for the remaining preservers while Douglas looked on with contempt. Now it was a slightly different story since life jackets did not seem to be for cowards. Three pairs of frightened eyes gleamed in the darkness, but no hand moved to offer a jacket to the man who had provided them. Waves pounded the waters. A giant roller came crashing down to upset the flimsy craft and send its passengers swirling through the bubbling brine. Douglas dived free of the wreckage and rose to the surface yards clear of the floating debris. His throat and nostrils burning from the sticky salt, he looked about him astounded. The life preservers, instead of being of assistance to the shipwrecked men, when caught by tiny whirl pools tossed their wearers upside-down and floated on top of them. Douglas fought his way toward them but was unable to swim against the current. He stared, unable to look away, as his friends struggled and then floated lifeless like saturated logs. His helpless watching was soon cut short as a new wave picked him up and flung him ahead as it dashed along its course. This one was followed by another and another, each larger than the one preceding. The awful scene he had witnessed soon had to be forgotten since Douglas was now forced to struggle for his own life, to fight for each breath of air, and to keep himself upright. After what seemed like twenty years of twising and grasping, the heavy sea subsided slightly enabling Douglas to swim along with the tide. Floating in the current, he made his slow, weary way, praying for a piece of solid land. His energy used up, he began to sink lower and lower until it became difficult for him to keep his head close enough to the surface to snatch an occasional gasp of air. The water lulled him into a sleepy stupor, seeming to urge him to give up and go into a calm, sweet sleep. He tried again and again to regain consciousness, but was completely exhausted by his hours of battling the raging sea. Suddenly, he knew that the end had come for him as he felt himself sinking rapidly into the depths. Then a surge of hope sprang forth in him once more as he came down upon something solid that bounced him back to the surface like a rubber ball. Straining every muscle in his body, Douglas forced his way forward through the tepid water. Just as he decided he could not fight any longer and sank below the water level, he felt the muddy sand beneath his feet. A breaker tossed him onto the rocky beach just as the sun broke through the clouds to illuminate the now calm but always wicked and unpredictable sea. MEANNE MASHBURN Class 11 THE PAUSE THAT REFRESHES There are many ways to use it: it’s a grand time for purchasing paper clips or releasing excess energy; it can be used for reliving or anticipating gay weekends; it is the last opportunity for a hasty review of the French verb; you can peddle paper clips or you can simply relax with yo ur mid-morning cookie. During each of my six years at Hillsdale, | have spent approximately one hundred and sixty-five eight-minute recesses in a singular way. An observant onlooker could easily have guessed to which class | belonged by noticing how | used this bit of time. As a study of recess habits shows, “when one is a seven, one does as the sevens do,” and | was no exception. As seventh graders, we would take off from our “third-bell-class” as milers begin a race and either rush to be the first in line at the book store, or run hand in hand to the gym to grab one of the few basketballs, or stake claim to the tennis courts. The bookstore business boomed because of our extravagant spending during our first year at Hillsdale, but the following year, our purchasing power was seriously hampered by allowances. Therefore, we turned to strenuous exercise during recess. From basketballs and badminton racquets to the backboard and tennis courts, we monopolized both equipment and facilities for sports as they came in season. Upon entering high school, our recess habits became somewhat more dignified. We usually spent those eight minutes in despair over the speed at which Mr. A., Mr. B. and their friend, Mr. C., could lay bricks, or in trying to decipher a Latin passage. Occasionally, though, during very undignified recess conversations, matters would get out of hand and giggles, shrieks, and loud exclamations would echo down the hall. By our Junior year, we had come to regard recess as a breathing spell. If neces- sary, we could review the French verb or have a short class meeting, but usually we just relaxed and listened to records while munching a foot-long pretzel or a chocolate-chip cookie. Most seniors follow much the same routine during recess as the juniors, but | am a non-conformist. | spend my eight-minute periods behind the Dutch door of the book store, watching with amusement the extravagant spenders who daily inquire, “What shall | buy this time?” Needless to say, these girls are following the pattern and are “doing as the sevens have done” since | was that age. | do not mean to imply that this is the only way they will use recess. On the contrary, this is just the beginning. Next year, these girls bequeath their places in line at the store to a new class and become heirs to allowances and monopolies on basketballs and tennis courts. It is a never- ending cycle, but it is all a part of that little “pause that refreshes.” MARY SUE HANNAH Class 12 a, en aE sae FERTILITY OR FUTILITY With spring treading on the heels of March, the spirit of growing things touches the hearts of men. Wanting to be a part of this great renascence of nature, | drag out my seed catalogues and garden tools. In order to make this year’s garden the best yet, | buy a new book of vegetable gardening, in which | find a paragraph that reads something like this: “The clay-filled soil of the Middle West is best sui ted for the growing of parsnips, squash, okra, and turnips.” Even though | detest parsnips, squash, okra, and especially turnips, | decide to plant a row of each to give to Aunt Helen and Cousin Bessie, but also decide to plant several rows of my favorite vegetables. My first move towards prosperity is to go out and survey that brown spot in our back yard we call our garden. The next move is to grab a hoe and start work- ing on loosening the soil that has been firmly packed down by winter. Several blisters later, my soil is ready to embrace the little seeds. It is just this time that the rains come and the process must be repeated. Finally, my prospective addition to the nation’s agricultural surplus is neatly planted and ready for action. After several weeks of sleepless nights of anxiety and vigilant days with the watering can, | detect faint green sprouts forcing their way through the earth. Carefully | study them, gazing at them as if | shall never see them again. Chances are | shall not, for unless the neighborhood rodents contract night blindness, the results of my work will be gone before morning. However, luck is with me and my trusty BB gun, and between us we manage to save most of my tender sprouts. This is only the first battle of a full scale war between man and mammal. Among my weapons are my gun, poison, and firecrackers, to be placed in chipmunk holes. The most successful of all my weapons are our cats, avengers of evil and connois- seurs of chipmunk meat. As days go by | can look out and see a thriving patch of greenery in place of the former brown spot. On closer observation | find this flourishing illusion only an entanglement of weeds. Again | consult my manual and discover that | have grown an obnoxious crop of goosefoot and mouseear. The only solution to this, | find, is to go out and start digging. Of course in this process many of my vegetables are uprooted. Once again | inspect the remaining plants for Black Rot or other various blights warned against in my manual. In place of disease, | find my prize plants covered with a most frightening assortment of bugs, including such villains as the variegated cutworm, the white grub, and the squash vineborer. After trying every formula | can find, | finally resort to a solution guaranteed to kill everything. Unfortunately, | discover that plants are included in this category, but through tender care | am able to nurse them back to health. It is now nearly summer and my plants are thriving giants. They also happen to be thirsty giants, and Nature seems quite unwilling to save me any trouble. So about every evening | find myself sprinkling among the chiggers. | am soon rewarded with a splendid crop of squash, parsnips, okra, and especially turnips. The beans, peas, corn and tomatoes lag behind. Baskets of our unwanted produce are sent off to Aunt Helen’s and Cousin Bessie’s. Not too long after this the other vegetables will reach the picking point, that is, after we leave on our vacation, leaving them to rot on their vines. Maybe next year I'll plant flowers! DEE ANNE SCHROEDER Class 11 EXCITEMENT, FANTASY, AND REALISM Lynn was only twelve years old when she took her first airplane flight. She was to fly alone to Florida to meet her cousins who would entertain her for a week. For days in advance, excitement and gay anticipation reigned in her household. She began to pack ahead of time providing more -than she needed. Finally the time came, and Lynn hastily put on her new spring suit, so as not to be too cold at the airport or too hot when she reached her destination. Her heart began to pound and her face became flushed with that last-minute fear accompanied by that private thrill of traveling alone and independent for the first time in her life. As her parents drove her to the airport, Lynn listened half-heartedly to her final instructions: “Don’t talk to strange people unless they are wearing an airlines uniform.” “Remember to give only a quarter to the man who carries your suit- case,” and the inevitable, ‘Do not leave anything on the plane when you get off.” Lynn had heard this advice a thousand times, and she was only thinking of the fun that lay ahead of her. It was after midnight when she boarded the plane. Being the first passenger aboard, she was able to find a choice seat by the window. Lynn sat down, organ- ized her things, fastened her seat belt, and threw good-bye kisses to her parents who were standing below her. It seemed as if hours had passed before the plane took off. Finally, the propellers began to spin. The ship taxied down the runway to gain momentum, and suddenly she felt herself leave the ground! She felt a little twinge of sickness inside; her ears began to pop. She chewed furiously on her gum, pushed a yawn or two, and eventually her stomach settled, and her ears cleared. The roughness had been left behind and the plane hardly seemed to be moving. At last she was on her way! The night was black. The incessant hum of the airplane engines created in her a feeling of security. Lynn wished it were daylight so she could gaze at the toy- like cities below, now lost in oblivion. Fatigue and loneliness overtook her, and soon she fell asleep. When she suddenly awoke, maybe minutes, maybe hours later, her wishes were realized. As dawn was breaking, far out into the East the faint glimmer of sunlight made discernible the horizon where the cloudless sky met the seemingly placid ocean. Directly below, Lynn began to perceive a brand new world. It was early morning, and the sun was slowly ascending toward heaven. Unfastening her seat belt, she sat forward to observe the changing world below her. The sun began to blind her eyes, but she did not care because this new experience fascinated her. .Large billowy clouds began to form on the horizon with constantly changing colors reflecting on them. Lynn was startled as she looked to the South and saw that she was directly headed for a marshmallow fairyland. This new world passed by her, over her, under her; for a good moment she wondered if THIS were heaven! Again the earth below was visible and the scenery indescribable. The deep blue ocean threw its white foamy breakers against the sandy beach . . . this beach that she had heard so much about, yet never seen before. Where the beach met the ocean, there was a long straight strip which was probably a highway. It did not matter much because it was not natural, but commercial, and seemed unimportant. What looked like miniature palm trees bordered the west side of the beach. Farther west, there was an intriguing net- work of small intricate streams connecting the black swamps. Occasionally, she recognized where man’s mind and hand had interfered. Geometrically straight rows of fruit trees formed a dull pattern breaking up the fantasy of the natural beauty surrounding it. Suddenly, Lynn was brought back to realism when a great metropolitan area came into sight. The plane began to descend, and again that sick feeling inside re- turned accompanied by the ear trouble. The pilot circled the airport once or twice before attempting a landing. The ground came closer and closer to her, while Lynn stiffened in anticipation of a sudden bump. To her surprise, she was on the ground without a jolt. Everything had happened with speed. As she gathered her belongings together, she saw her cousins waiting to meet her. ‘Susie! Jackie! Aunt Jane!” she cried, as she elbowed her way through the crowd and down the ramp. The sudden impact of the hot tropical air hit her. As she greeted her cousins, the thought of a delicious cool swim in the ocean came to her. Her recent experience already lay behind her; Lynn’s mind was now concerned with the realism of ordinary life. LINDA LOVETT Class212 SET POINT Wesley faced his opponent with quiet determination. “Ready?” he called in his soft voice. He gave the first serve all he had. It was long, as usual. He served again quickly; this one was easy, but it was in. Wesley ran speedily to the net; he felt safe at the net. There his poor long-shot form did not show; he was a good net man, and unafraid. “Good shot, Wesley! said his partner in a low voice. The game went on during the spring afternoon, the Madison High Tennis Team playing against Burgin High. Point after point went by; finally the set was over. “Six-four in favor of Madison High,” called the scorekeeper. On the way to the drinking fountain between sets, Wesley half-smiled as he cradled his second-hand racquet. “Good work, boys,” called their coach to them on their way back from the drinking fountain. “Keep it up.” Wesley grinned self-consciously. “YGS cSir, | Ib trys This match was especially important to Wesley; if they won, it would give him a permanent place on the team. They just had to win! Both teams played hard. The Burgin team won the second set, seven-five. The third set seemed endless to Wesley. Ball after ball whizzed by. He tried desperately for each point. Once he skidded on the court and fell, and everyone laughed. He was embarrassed, but quickly got on his feet again, trying even harder. “Set point,” called the scorekeeper. Wesley smashed his hardest serve. It was in. He had aced his opponent. His partner patted him on the back and turned to go to the shower room. Wesley followed somewhat behind. Wesley could hardly wait to get home. He walked there quickly, taking the shortcut through the alley. He entered a dimly lit room. “That you, Wesley?” his mother asked from beside the stove. “Yes, Ma. We won.” “That's real fine, son,” his mother answered. He carefully wrapped his racquet in his flannel shirt, and placed it on the shelf above his bed. “Were your shorts all right?” questioned his mother. “Sure, Ma, it did not matter if the other boys had white ones and mine were green.” “Maybe we could get you a pair of white ones next week.” “1! would like that a lot, Ma. But it’s not so much the shorts that count; after all, Ma, I’m the first colored boy to make the team. That's the important thing.” SALLY HATFIELD Class 11 | huddled silent And it seemed A thousand hours Till | dreamed About a pen That caught And then wrote down My every thought! | drew a meadow Wet with dew, A chuckling brook Winding through A forest which When it was done Was yellowed with The morning sun. The Best Yearbooks Are TAYLOR-MADE TAYLOR PUBLISHING COMPANY DALLAS, TEXAS A WINTER’S DREAM | drew a field, A shimmering pond, And | dived in But sadly found My pond, my grass, My summer's gleam, Were cold and gone And all a dream. THE FAIR A hive of bees, Some fleas that danced, Calliopes, With horses prancing ‘round a ring Of trained seals, And candied apples, And ferris wheels So big you couldn’t See the top, Where they would stop. Games, cones, Some precious stones, All were there At the fair. ANNIE GRAY Class Il And colored birds With carefree songs, Left their nests And came along; Scarce believing It was true, Trees, flowers, Bees, | drew. Fields of clover, Knee-high corn, Tiny things Anew were born. On and on It drew a tiny Suckling fawn. The journey’s been a long one, Let’s use a magic telescope, But Ararat’s in view, And all the sights we'll fix. And all the lions hurry off, It’s coming into focus now; Into a world that’s new. It's 1966! First of all we see NANCY BERGER, a ni ght club singer in Texarcana .. . CAROLYN HUMMEL has opened a boutique, featuring outmoded sweaters, knee socks and capezios, which she hoarded for that depression that never came . . There’s LOUISE, driving to the shack on her goose farm in her “black machine,” Chonk! honk!) . . . It seems that our girls are doing quite well. PATTY is a history teacher who loves to “carry” on about Thomas Jefferson, while “ROSE DRACKETT” is a blushing gym instructor at Unknown Prep . . . CAROL is the beloved house mother of the boys in Beta Theta Pi . . . SALLY HODGE, of course, is the star in- structo r of Atlas Driving School. (Clear the roads!) . . . Speaking of driving, isn’t that STADT, digging down Observatory in her new red tractor? The way she’s tearing along, you'd think she was being chased by a tiger! Someone who has really gone places is BOBBIE, who was the first woman pilot to jet around the world . . . And then there’s GARRIE, learning to dance in wooden shoes on the banks of the Zeider Zee . . . Barb has married a coolie who took her back to the old country, where she’s never questioned about her nation- ality . . . MARY is constantly finding herself in a big “fix” over the tone of Danny Boy ... A girl with no troubles is KAY, George Gobel’s summer replacement . . . SALLY RANNEY is now a riflery instructor, (better watch out for those ric- ochets!) . . . NANCI has become the first woman Vice President of the United States, and her friend, CYNTHIA, is running on the Republican Ticket, but no one seems to know where she’s running to! Coming back to Cincinnati, we see HELEN, trying to keep luck on her side and dodge Uncle Sam come April 15 . . . LUCKY, who is a “ newcomer” to glass houses, still has a liking for graham crackers, and hasn’t broken her habit of throwing rocks . . . ANGIE is doing a spectacular job, and has made quite a name for herself, setting the Canada-Virginia endurance record in her ‘66 Olds . MARCIA and MARY SUE are both married to millionaires and are taking a long earned recess . . . JANIE, whose motto is, “Never give up!” hasn‘t given up yet, and is still trying to sell her marvelous green nail polish . . . CAROLYN HUWE has gone on from her splendid work here at school, and now sings Christmas Carols with the Salvation Army ... We aren’t too sure what CHRISTIE is doing. We wonder whether she is playing bingo, marbles, or counting little votes. No, there she is, still “reading” to BOLLER and LOVETT about the general principles, Cor is it the principal generals!) of the Civil War...
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