Lyman Hall High school - Singer Chronicle Yearbook (Wallingford, CT)

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boy.” A tangerine festival was ordered by the political machine, but the committee for prevention of cruelty to tangerines called the whole thing off. To help us see ourselves as others see us, we had our pictures taken. Charles Stearns is still trying to convince John Olayas that there wasn’t a birdie at all. Then the Chinese gent, one honorable Confucius bowed in. Every one thought he was stealing Thelma JefTords’ stuff. After Fred Fucci could click his heels a la mode, the Senior Play, Tou Can t Take It with Tou. started an era of prosperity in the Senior class treasury. At the “Prom” Harry Riotte found himself dancing alone when his partner got lost during the accustomed break in the shag—a true example of where is my wandering boy tonight. As this goes to press, plans are being made for Senior Day, when the seniors will stop being sophisticated and consume luscious lollipops; the Class Night committee and the Reception Committee arc bursting with plans; and “There’s music in the air” as the orchestra begins to practice our graduation march. Robert McLaughlin Shirlee Sinow T It e 19 40

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CLASS HISTORY On a bright day in 1936 the class of ’40 wandered into Lyman Hall in pairs and threes to start a hectic four years of school life. The Hallowe’en Party was a pronounced success from an eating standpoint. On St. Patrick’s Day we adjourned to the “gym” for a party, where George Magee attempted to take pictures, which looked like the photograph of the inside of a dark-room in operation. The Backes-Ferraro feud got off to a good start and has continued ever since. The basketball team won the inter-class championship for the first time in a row. Bob Nash had all the girls’ hearts a-flutter. In June the teachers declared an armistice and we devoted the next two months to forgetting all that we had learned. Returning from a two months’ hibernation, we started the school social activities with the annual Hallowe’en Party, where we showed the fluttcry freshmen that being a sophomore was a great honor. Bob Nash was our chief cook and bottle washer, with George Cook as his able assistant. Harriet Gelfalum, the only girl to get elected to an office in three years, was the secretary, and Dave Anderson was our official dough-boy. Bob Nash now had another rival for his heart-fluttering activities. It was noticed that feminine membership in the musical organizations showed a decided increase. Aghast at having learned something in the past ten months, we left school to forget and indulge in anything that didn’t require much work. Junior year was the year Mr. Torrcy convinced us that we looked like cows when chewing gum, except that cows looked thoughtful. Immediately we practiced looking thoughtful. At the polls Robert Heath won over Robert Nash. Everyone wondered if they were just taking turns at the presidential office. David Anderson, the treasurer, was well versed in money matters, having seen Wall Street. Frank Tomko, since he had kept a diary so long, was an ideal writer downer, so we made him our secretary’. In the Junior Play Charles Wooding and Carolyn Masoni played Guess Again to a full house. As this was merely a public view of a long standing romance, our Thespians were very convincing. From the play to “Prom” was just a long haze of jitterbug jackets and saddle shoes, with lulls in the rush for us to scrape up money for rings and to appease Simon Legree dues collectors. With a furious pace dashed Daniel Boone draped over a squared hypotenuse, pursued by a short hand playing a typewriter. Aeneas was beginning to say Heigh-Ho Silver instead of groaning. When May had come and the “Prom” was in the offing, the young man’s fancy lightly turned to thoughts of a tux and a corsage. The ingenious juniors, profiting by financial theories that would honor a Morgan, finally announced that they could take the affair in their stride. James Lee, the man who came to dinner, also went to “Prom.” Everybody wondered if the red glow in the hall was the new indirect lighting, but soon we all discovered Joseph Fitton just radiating. Right after the “Prom” John Bresnock discovered that Einstein was right all the time, and since then John has scrapped all his theories. We could hardly wait for the seniors to vacate so that we could occupy the upper berths. It was fun to be a junior, but we wanted to be tops, and besides Joe Wrinn and Bob Harrington were by this time big enough to be senoirs. The seniors were perfectly willing to vacate. So in June a stampede for Senior Home Rooms began. Senior year the C’s had it—Cicero, Confucius, and cardigans. As soon as the boys had seized all the window seats, we were off. The Senior Dance brought forth many new romances. Richard Crocker resolved to devote himself to someone. William Taylor sedately took office after a successful campaign. His political colleagues Richard Johnson as the forgotten man, George Cook as pen-pusher, and James Lee, the man with the dough, were inaugurated with him. Martin Factor now began spouting formulae and was named the test tube kid of chemistry. Ruth Backes tried very hard to steal John Bresnock’s record for being late to class, but John was too practiced in this art. Kenneth Spellacy and Charles Sabo were right on the ball and the talk on the court was “Shoot the score to us, Ken, The Chronicle 1940 22

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THE CLASS WILL Know All Men by These Presents: That we, senior members of Lyman Hall High School of the town of Wallingford in the county of New Haven and state of Connecticut, being of sound mind and unblemished character, because of the amazingly good “advice” imbedded in our souls by our trustworthy friend and faculty member, Mr. Patten, do make, publish, and declare the following to be our last will and testament, because we all agree that “to give is better than to receive.” To Mr. Curtis we do hereby bequeath our thanks and gratitude for a most enjoyable year under his supervision. To the faculty on whose brows have been added more than one wrinkle of worry and care, we do hereby bequeath our memory, which we trust will not recall to them too often the trials and tribulations of their associations with us. To them, also, we leave our undying gratitude for their kind tolerance and guidance which along with a dash of Lady Luck achieved for us this moment at hand: to graduate more worldly wise, carrying with us the slogan “you can get out of school what you put into it,” hoping that it has not too often been a foot. To the Class of 1941 we do hereby bequeath our position of wisdom and sage philosophy, now resigned to the fact that all good things must some time come to an end. To the Class of 1942 we do hereby bequeath our five-minute-period “dates” which have been ably supported and led this year by Gordon Smith and Evelyn Doucette. To the Class of 1943 we do hereby bequeath our school day of eight to one o’clock, with the sage advice that the early bird catches the worm. To the entering freshmen we do hereby bequeath to each and every one a pair of steel-soled shoes that they may have no trouble in keeping their feet on the ground. To Miss Disken we do hereby bequeath a pair of drum sticks so that she may beat double time for the type classes. To Mr. Patten we do hereby bequeath a broom with which to keep the Democratic Party clean. A few of our more richly endowed classmates, who believe in sharing their wealth, take this opportunity to make the following bequests: I, Louis Gelate, do hereby bequeath my bright smile, the gleam in my eyes, and my carefree ways to Bud Stimpson. We, the senior “math” class, do hereby bequeath to Mr. Hall a copy of Joe Miller’s joke book for the benefit of the classes of ’42 and ’43. I, Barbara Cottrill, bemoaning the fact that through my generosity I have nothing more to offer, do hereby bequeath my only remaining cherished gift, that of “gab,” to my cousin, Nancy Young, who already shows some ability along this line. I, George Magee, do hereby bequeath my gun-boat shoes to Jane Backes, that she may in wearing them substantiate the already known fact that she can paddle her own canoes. I, Fred Fucci, do hereby bequeath my ability to play the clown to Albert Killcn. I, Ken Spellacy, do hereby bequeath my keen “shooting eye” to any boy who wishes to make the varsity basketball team. I, Chuckic Bridget, do hereby bequeath my slow ambling walk to anybody who isn’t in a hurry. We, Wilma Freeberg, Gwen Wcstphal, and Doris James, do hereby bequeath our shining blond hair to three brown-haired girls to help them in getting their men. The Chronicle 1940 24