Lake Stevens High School - Pilchuck Yearbook (Lake Stevens, WA)

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The stewardess opened the door so that the passengers could file out. Jim told me the stewardess on this liner was Marilyn Prentice. I moved closer to get a better look. Sure enough, it was. She was talking to someone, and out of idle curiosity I glanced at her. Again I was surprised! It was Kathleen Taro. I hurried over to the gate so that I could stop Kathleen as she went through. She told me she had finally achieved her goal and was employed as a chemist at one of the DuPont fac- tories, and that she had written and published several books. Also on the same plane was the great young football coach of Notre Dame, Harold, better known as Hap” Anderson. We talked for a while, and I found out that Alta Redman was one of the yell leaders at Northwestern and was the team's mascot. Notre Dame had a game scheduled with Northwestern for the fol- lowing week. I had the impulse to ask whether it was the game or Sunny that caused that gleam in his eye, but I squelched the desire hurriedly. Just then the pilot came toward me. I groped for my glasses so I could be sure of what I saw. Yes, it was Bill Kleisath! I was so busy gaping at the silver wings on his shoulder that I didn’t see the co-pilot walking toward our little group until Jim jabbed me in the ribs. Still somewhat dazed by the gleam of Kleisath's wings, I turned my head and saw Jim’s other half, Jack. Gee, it was really true—Jack Mosman, co-pilot! Boy, was the class of '43 ever doing itself proud! We ambled over to the administration building. A tall blonde girl was talking to a group of people trying to persuade them that Florida was better than Michigan to travel to because it was farther away. Ida Hays. I said hello and she smiled and pointed to a dark haired girl who was busy typing something that looked terribly familiar. The girl sitting looked up as she reached for a little bottle sitting beside her typewriter. I was delighted to see that it was Irene Wahl. Then I laughed for, after pushing my glasses up on my nose where I could see through them, I saw the familiar looking object she was typing was a stencil and the little bottle turned out to be the ever present correction fluid. Poor Irene! Even out of school she was still cutting stencils. It was almost her quitting time so I waited for her and we walked down town to the leading newspaper office. She had lost a stylus and wanted to insert an ad for it in the lost and found column. She told me all the latest news as we were sauntering along. Frances Erickson was the editor of “Glamour” magazine and was doing very well for herself. Calvin Prentice finally gave up his half of the noble Model A to his brother and had been persuaded by that super-salesman. Bob Nourse, to buy a slightly used Jeep. Don Gilbert had a radio master-mind quiz program on station LSHS on which Clyde Peterson was one of the master-minds. That just goes to show you never know how people are going to turn out. Loyal Watkins was the receptionist and private secretary to Bob Baber who happened to be president of the station. Ray Anderson had decided he wanted to inflict the misery he went through on someone else, so he was attending the University of Washington Dental School.

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Eunice Pruehs leaves her knowledge of Home Economics to Muriel Thompson; Alta Redman wills her energetic ways to Joyce Drake; Iva Rider, her artistic talent to Mary Miller; lone Sawyer, her skating ability to Glendora Watters; Nadine Schuster, her position as Girls’ Club President to Winifred Armstrong; Betty Swan- son, her quiet disposition to Clayton Wagner. Mariece Solberg wills the ability to adjust herself to a new situation to Dorthea Best; Kathleen Taro, the ability to graduate when sixteen to Wayne Prentice; Bar- bara Tedford, her high scholastic standing to Donald Brooks; Irene Wahl, her ability to hold a Student Body position for two successive years to Bonnie Watters; Loyal Watkins, her natural curly hair to Margaret Ohm; Berenice Withrow, her singing ability to Edna Fintz. We, the Class of 1943, do hereby, set our seal to this, our last will and testa- ment. (Signed) SENIORS OF 1943. SENIOR CLASSJ’ROPHECY I had been spinning merrily along in my Piper Cub having a grand time zoom- ing in and out of the clouds, when I noticed a storm was coming up, and I knew I would have to set her down as soon as I could find a field. I looked over the edge of my plane and lo and behold there was a field right below me. I radioed in and after receiving the okay, circled the field, slid into a bank, and went in for a landing. After I had landed and was struggling out of my parachute, I saw a mechanic hurry out of the hangar toward we. As he came nearer I got a better look at him and nearly dropped my 'chute. It was Jim Mosman. I got a better grip on my astonishment and hurried over to him. He was still as friendly as when I had last seen him and we talked for quite a while. We went into the hangar to see if we could squeeze “Little Lulu, my plane, into it somewhere. There were planes and mechanics all over the place and I was just about to walk by a battle-scarred B-17 when I heard my name called. I whirled around and there hanging upside down out of the bomb bay was Andy Jacobsen. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Oh well, way back when Andy was a senior in High he mechanized cars—. Presently our progress was blocked by a snappy looking little number. Jim told me, while I was vainly struggling to put my eyeballs back in my head, that it belonged to none other than Harry Davidson. Harry, Jim told me, was president of a big concern now and owned the big new 2,000 acre farm just the other side of the field. He said that Hilda Peterson was his private secretary and helps keep his books straight for him. We went back out on the field to bring my plane into the hangar. The roar- ing of motors caught our attention and we rolled our eyes skyward. A big TWA liner was coming in and we decided to stand by and watch it. It taxied right up in front of us.

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By this time we had arrived at the newspaper office. As we opened the door an impressive sight met our eyes. People were hurrying here and there, noise every- where, but over the confusion rose a voice that could never be mistaken for anyone else than Bob Lund. It turned out that he was the Sports Editor of the renowned tabloid. A door at the far end of the room attracted my attention. As I moved toward it I saw marching across the glass in big bold letters the words—“Editor—Mern Hegge—Private . I bethought myself to go in and chew the fat with the old boy, but as I raised my hand to knock, the door burst open and out ran Iva Rider with the esteemed editor close on her heels. I stuck my foot out and caught Mr. Hegge on the up beat. As he looked a trifle dangerous to be near after that spill, I thought it best that I move on. In short, I took a powder. Irene inserted her ad and we ventured out into the city streets once more. As we passed the corner drugstore we decided we would like to quench our thirst with a coke or something. As we waited for some service, my companion scared me out of nearly a year's growth by shouting “LOOK” and thrusting a magazine under my nose. There on the cover was a picture of Cleon Plumley. Underneath it said “For more information turn to page 16”. We did, you may be sure. There was a long account of Cleon, stating that he was making his debut the 20th of next month and would go on tour immediately after so that everyone in the United States would have the opportunity to hear Cleon Plumley and his “Golden Strings . My companion and I decided we would like to go cut that night, and around 7:30 we started making the rounds to see what was cookin’. We dropped in at the Coconut Grove of this city. There on the platform was Betty Lou Kinney dishing out the boogie woogie as only she can dish it. We gathered by eavesdropping here and there that the music was by Betty Lou and her P-39’s. She called them that because they were a slick and smooth band with lots of soup. Betty Swanson was in her band too, pushing a mean bow across a defenseless cello. They were pretty smooth all right and I was about to fall asleep on my partner's shoulder when a voice sounding oddly like Berenice Withrow's was lifted in song. We decided to push on and see what else was doing. We walked sedately out of range of the music and up onto the sidewalk again. Across the street was the Civic Hall. There a gigantic sign announced that Frances Kleisath and her “March- ing Maids of which Beatrice Bcrgwall was the star performer, had found it possible to play this city after all, and would appear the following Saturday. I made a mental note of the coming performance and, in my usual scatter-brained way, started to step cut into the street without looking when a horn blared at me. I jumped out of the way just in time as a light blue convertible careened past me. I looked after the now quickly disappearing auto to see what the driver looked like and was shocked to see it was piloted by Marcia Muzzall. With her, and proudly waving a college diploma, was Mariece Solberg. Gee, she made it through college after all!