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

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---------------------------- THE CHRONICLE 1942 -------------------------- The Class Will To Whom It May Traitorously Reveal, Triumphantly Identify, and Tumultuously Applaud: Because we may collapse with the rationing of sugar, we, the brilliant, flat-footed senior members of Lyman Hall High School, an institution noted for the sane and fine traditions it has established, while in good physical and mental health, abundant enthusiasm, and wads of gum, do write and publish the following to be our last will and testament, hoping that our spirit and ambition may live after us. Any resemblance to living people in those mentioned is purely intentional. To the loving faculty, we do hereby bequeath our clever answers so that they will not be stumped when the freshmen begin their questions. To the Class of ’43, we do hereby bequeath the walls in the hallway, so that they may hold up the building and carry their burdens as well as we. To the Class of ’44, we do hereby bequeath our “holding-hands” technique, so that their hands will never be cold. To the Class of ’45, we do hereby bequeath our horn-rimmed spectacles, so that they may thumb through their books and keep an eye on their beaux at the same time. A few of our students make the following bequests so that they may enjoy sanity again. I. Peter Parker, do hereby bequeath my limousine to anyone who has the nerve to drive it on the rims. We, Walter Brunetti and Ralph Perone, leave our nicknames, “Birdie” and “Chic,” to any zoo that can tame ’em. 1. Virginia Grace, leave my mysterious, quiet ways to the Shadow, with the hope that he may capture B-B eyes. I. Julius Senese, leave my curly locks to Barbara Powers, so that she may look as pretty as I. I. Julia Koczak, leave my Veronica Lake locks to any freshman who w ishes to play hide-and-seek. We. Martha Brewster and Roger Williams, leave our historic names to any history class who can possibly remember after whom we are named. I, Retty Tuttle, do hereby bequeath my given name “Olive to Popeye or any oil factory that can make use of it. We. Lois Conway, Betty Brcsnock. Ruth Dunn, and Eleanor Kuzminski, leave our tardiness and good excuses to Marian Hoffman, Barbara Gallagher, and Betsy Wooding, with the hope that Miss Clark will accept their excuses as she has ours. 26

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T HE CHRONICLE 1942 dramatically minded pals, who, wanting to he different, presented three one-act plays, which were pronounced a great success. By the time we had come back to earth, our talent scouts had unearthed a hand upheld by three juniors and some of our senior friends, who put Lyman Hall in the groove and swung their way into the armory as our prom band. Juniors showed up in good form in the basketball race, and the team never lacked for feminine partners when they put away their little ball. Bobbie stole the limelight with her acrobatics, cheering, and baton twirling. Wilma and Betty were seen everywhere, favorites with the seniors as well as classmates. Evvy gave Bert his motive for cheering, and the gym rang with shouts of “Sink that ball, Joe!” To give us strength till prom, June wrote a play for shorthand classes, and we all turned out to find out what those funny little marks meant. After many arguments the prom went nautical under the able direction of Dick Clarke, our master of all trades. Because of Mr. Hitler’s doings we almost didn’t have a prom, and some familiar faces tvere missing. After our jigging was over, we were forced to admit that those “who dance must pay the piper” — if they can —. There was a deep red line in our books but did we worry? Next year’s another year. And so, after helping the seniors out of their rut (and positions) and waving good-bye to the Rocket, we had another vacation. At last after years of struggle we had attained the final station. We could now rest secure on our lofty pinnacle, looking down on mere mortals. This year, we had only the juniors to contend with, and really being a friendly gang, we decided to give them the benefit of our friendship. Bob and Nancy made a dash for their corner and got things off to a good start. Deciding not to waste any precious time, we gave Bud Stimpson the job of trying to run us. A1 Killen decided to help by keeping his eye on Bud, and Lucy was still chief scribe with June moving in as a junior Morgenthau. We started the social season off on a shoestring, despite Simon Legree methods of collecting dues, and rolled up to the Senior Dance. Something new had been added to it with a Senior Queen as the feature attraction. Wilma was the popular choice with Edith, Kate, and Jean at her heels. Our joyous feelings were deluged in ice water when we heard the treasurer’s report. Something must be done quickly or our diplomas would rust. But in the meantime, basketball was king, and Walt led a grand team straight to the finals. We fans did our best by serenading the team with Chattanooga Clioo-Choo wherever they went. The boys kept up the footwork by attending dancing classes in preparation for the prom. But our financial position was desperate; so drama came to our aid again and we turned people away at the doors. Things looked much better, and our diplomas were secure from moths; so we set our course for Class Night. Reception, and Graduation, and shall go into the world with these words in our hearts — “SUCCESS IS MADE, NOT WON.” Jean Brooks 25

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THE CHRONICLE 1942 I, Boh Heilman, leave my beloved saxophone to Mr. Torrey so that he may have a convenient place to “park” the students’ gum. I, Richard Clarke, leave my jokes to any farmer to use as seed in his cornfields. I, Rose Nasczyniec. leave my charming blushes to Edwin Lobb, so that he may enjoy stopping traffic as I have. I, Robert Young, leave my cinema name to Robert Taylor, with the hope that he will be hounded for autographs-—and his homework. I. Frank Hartline, leave my Casanova role to Harold Crump, who is rapidly following in my footsteps. We, Edith Law and Albert Clack, leave our “hand-holding” to Mary Powers and Jimmy Heilman, with the hope that they will be as discreet about it as we. I, Barbara Clinton, leave one of my many nicknames, “Shrimp,” to any chef who makes a salad on Fridays. We, the shorthand classes, leave our horseshoes to the Santa Anita Race Track, to do with as they see fit. I, Albert Killeu, leave my crazy antics to Barbara Wachtelhausen and Mike Pranzetelli, who can raise more cain than I. We do hereby bequeath to our beloved Patrick Tierney, a two-years’ supply of Fuller brushes, in the hope that he may sweep away the dazed, frightened freshmen. 1, Francis Quigley, leave my shoulders to any young fellow who can hold up the wall in the south corridor without scraping the paint off, as 1 did. I, Jeanne Lawler and my swain, leave to Helen McNulty and Angus Rees, onr place at the head of the “going-steadv” list. 1. Margaret Totnko, do hereby bequeath my “cud” to Wally Boyd, in hopes that he may hide it in his cavity as well as I. We, the Senior Class, do hereby bequeath to Mr. Patten, all of our old rubber shoes, with the hope that one rare pair may be made to fit him and that he may fill them as well as June Backcs. I, Charles Cwirka, leave my height to Miss Libby, with the hope that she will then be able to defend herself. Signed: Jine “the Goon” DeBaise 27 Gloria “the Roaria” Puzone