Maynard High School - Screech Owl Yearbook (Maynard, MA)

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10 THE SCREECH OWL Two Friendly Juniors Interview Each Other An Interview with Wilbur Walls by Albert Brown, ’41 The other evening while listening to The Beautiful Ohio waltz purring softly through the smoky air I brought my thoughts, oh how unhappily, back to dear old M. H. S. I looked over at my loyal pal Wilbur Walls blissfully dreaming of the day when he would be able to take a trip to Hollywood and marry his love, Deanna Durbin. He was born July 23, 1923, in a humble dwelling in Melrose. From here he moved to Malden, Medford and almost every town in Massachusetts until finally in the wee hours of night the Walls clan slid into Maynard. From that day, four years ago the great Wilbur Walls has lived a comparatively respectful life. He achieved high honors in Junior High School and moved in” on the high school where he has miracuously kept up his high grades. He has also accomplished far wide fame as one of J. J. Ledgard’s paper boys. But above all his work on the gridiron with Maynard’s third team is his greatest achievement. If he keeps up his good work toward success by put- ting brick on brick he will become the greatest of Walls. ★ An Interview with Albert Brown by Wilbur Walls, ’41 With the closing of school on Friday it would seem that all the teachers do a disappearing act for they are not to be found outside of their homes on Saturday or Sunday. In the absence of an adult victim I turned to the next best thing and obtained an interview with a boy that typi- fies the Typical American Duffer. In the language of golf a duffer is one who looks as if he were trying to hit The Little Ball That Isn’t There. This is doubly fitted to my subject be- cause golf is one of his favorite sports and be- cause in all his affairs of heart he usually is try- ing to hit something that isn’t there. On February 6, 1923 in Cincinatti, Ohio, the stork gladly got rid of a little bundle of heaven, on the counter of Mr. and Mrs. Brown’s General Store. After saying hello to his parents, he went outside the store and with his little water color paint brush, he proudly wrote Inc.” at the end of the sign. After hearing this dis- heartening piece of news, I was prepared for anything so I blandly asked him what his most thrilling moment was. He replied that he would always remember his departure from Cincinatti bound for Maynard. His father, he said to me, had just sold the store. (This was contrary to my information. Somebody told me that soon after Master Albert’s arrival the Browns were driven out of town on a rail.) At the station, Al- bert continued, was a huge crowd waiting to see them off. (I believed that) Just before the train left our hero was called to make a speech. Signal- ing to the band to play The Girls I Left Be- hind Me,” Albert stood up in his carriage, drew himself up to his full height of 20 inches, and waved to all his feminine admirers. He cleared his throat and gave his speech, quote, Goo, goo ga ga, unquote. Amidst the thun- derous applause he boarded the train and was off to new adventures. That,” said Mr. Brown, was my most thrilling moment. With these words he went on his way mumbling under his breath, Goo goo, ga ga. My Favorite Sport by Frank Novick, ’40 Darkness quickly gathers her black shroud around us, as we finish cleaning the supper dishes. A disagreeable job in any man’s lan- guage. My friend and I light up our pipes and sit on a log gazing dreamily into the warm, cheerful glow of the fire, dreaming of distant ranges and forests. High in the heavens thous- ands of stars blink solemnly down upon us. A full moon sends forth its silvery sheen onto an earth which is discontented with what it has. Above our heads tall and stately pines sigh mournfully as they gently sway in the breeze. Nearby, the river flows musically on its never ending journey to the sea. The stillness is broken as a fish jumps for some hapless insect. We wonder what kind and how big the fish could have been. From across the river a night- bird’s cry issues from the dark swamp. Occasion- ally we hear the patter of tiny feet as a fright- ened rabbit dashes away from the strange glow of the fire. Myriads of insects lend their voices and sing as though they didn’t have a care in the world. Hearing a noise on the river’s edge, I approach carefully only to see an owl’s search- ing eyes. I get a queer and indescribable feel-

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An Amateur’s Ideas on Music Ernest Luosalo, ’40 Music is a funny thing. It may be explained as a succession of notes in harmony, that arouse the adventurous, wonderous, intellectual, poetic mind of the person who is listening. It takes little concentration to follow the smooth strains of beautiful music; that may be one reason why it is enjoyed so much. Music may be defined as truly great, and those who appreciate it will explain that it ranks highest among their sources of entertainment. It is queer then, that something so wonderful is enjoyed by so few; these few, who alone, seem to know that life is something more than just physical being. By music, of course, I mean music — real music which takes your mind away, and your mind only. Jazz and swing music are altogether different, and effect a person differently. Clas- sical music has not been composed to stimulate your animal instincts, or whatever it is, so that you feel like jitterbugging all over a dance floor. It is rather something which is meant to give you pleasure. It tends to smooth out your high tensioned nerves and bring about relaxation. One day I turned on the radio. It was a Saturday afternoon, and I was in a tired mood. I soon heard music; it was opera. I had often heard it and I wondered what people really heard when they listened to an opera. I resolved to find out. I listened all afternoon, and I remember I was not in absolute bliss the whole time. I did not understand most of it, but here and there were parts which I decided were really very good and worth remembering. The afternoon was tire- some, but I figured that if I were to learn to like this music I must listen to it every chance I got. I have listened to it every week since then, lik- ing it more and more. If I hear the announce- ment of a familiar opera, I wait impatiently to again hear those familiar strains. Your brain becomes alert when you hear the Dance of the Hours” from Pinchielle’s Gio- conda. You will never forget the wonderful music from Wagner’s Die Walkure, or Verdi’s 11 Trovatore or Traviata. The secret of liking this music is simply that you must learn to like it. The same applies to symphony. Symphony is not just one long drawn out mess of notes. Listen closely and you will quickly be able to distinguish melodies — melo- dies exactly the same as those used in our popu- lar songs. Listen to Shubert’s Unfinished Sym- phony; it is composed of melody, and nothing else. If you listen, you will soon be able to dis- tinguish the works of different composers. You will easily recognize the dramatic and warlike music of Jan Sibelius or the simple fairy tale music of Rimsky Korsakov; and by listening to the lighter classics, you may learn to like much of the heavier music. Critics praise all books that awaken the per- sons who are not music lovers, especially the books that tend to awaken the younger genera- tion to the fact that there is such a thing as music. This fact alone must mean something to you. It means that the music critics, persons who ought to know, want you to learn to enjoy music because there really is something to it. When you go to see a good moving picture you tell your friends. Why. You tell them because you want them also to enjoy it. I don’t care for that dry music.” Of course you don’t, and you never will, un- less you learn to like it. You learned to ride a bicycle, and you learn to swim. Learn to like music, and I guarantee you as much, if not more enjoyment; and I bet you won’t regret it.

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THE SCREECH OWL 11 ing in the bottom of my heart as I realize how wonderful and great Mother Nature is. As I return to the welcoming light of the fire, I hope that there will be many more such beautiful and enchanting nights for my friend and me. Brothers by Edwin Lilja, ’40 Germany in the middle 1920’s. The country had just settled down and was beginning to make progress in the period of reconstruction following the Great War. Germany was a republic now, with a man at their head whom everybody liked and called Papa” Hindenburg. Smoke belched from factories, food was again plentiful, everybody seemed contented. The peo- ple were confident they would never suffer again as they did under the rule of the Kaiser. If we went down Berlin’s beautiful Unter der Linden to the district where the middle-class people lived, we would find that the Rosenbergs were living side by side with the Schultzes ; one family was Jewish, and the other German; but what difference did that make. The children played with each other, and frequently the Frau- leins Schultz and Rosenberg exchanged the latest gossip over the back fence. Herr Rosenberg owned a small siore which comfortably sup- ported his little family. Herr Schultz was a po- liceman at a nearby station. Then came the putsch of Herr Hitler and his followers. Strict regulations were set down. Rumors spread that Hitler did not like the Jews. Hitler deprived the people of many of their privileges. To make sure there would be enough food in case of war, he had new diets plannef for the Germans which nobody was to disregard. At the Rosenberg door, one night, came a quick succession of knocks. Quick, Fraulein! Let me in.” It was Frau- lein Schultz. Hitler is after the Jews! The police are scouring the neighborhood.” There is only one thing to do,” offered Herr Rosenberg. Take the children, get to Bremen. From there go to England and take the first boat to America. Take all the money we have on hand. Do not reveal your identity to anybody. Change your name to, ah, er, let’s say Heimel.” It was a tearful good-bye. While the family was escaping, Herr Rosenberg was placed under arrest. At the police station he was put in the cell and told that he would have to wait for the lieutenant. When the latter arrived, he went to the cell immediately. Astonished, who did Ros- enberg see but Herr Schultz himself! Why, he’s no Jew, release him at once!” barked Schultz. After he had been released and had a chance to talk with Herr Schultz alone, he asked, Why did you risk your life for my sake. I don’t care as long as the family gets to America and has a chance to begin life anew.” Patting him on the back Schultz said, We have been brothers for a long time. Even the Fuehrer cannot part us. Get to your family at once; they need you badly. I will arrange pass- ports for you and yours will leave Berlin on a pleasure trip to America. Nobody will suspect. Do not forget to write.” Herr Rosenberg couldn’t speak for a few minutes, tears welled in his eyes; finally in a cracking voice he said, I will never forget — brother.” » How to Get in the Dog House by Frances Shymonowicz Phil Temple looked at his seventeen jewel pocket watch which his wife had proudly pre- sented him for Christmas with sixty-five of his hard earned dollars. It was 7:30 and dinner was at eight. He certainly would catch it this time! He gulped down the last of the whiskey and soda and dashed out of the saloon. Time cer- tainly did fly when you were at Clancy’s. Oh, well, I can tell the wife I was at Cl . Oh no, that would never do. Not for Phil’s little lady it wouldn’t.” He knew just how she would confront him. The thought sent a chill up his spine. Hands on hips, mouth tense, eyes blazing, her foot keeping time, she would wait while Phil fum- bled for an excuse. He walked on and on, and with each step a new alibi was born. He just couldn’t find one that would impress his wife. Unconsciously he stepped from the curb, to the street. Like a flash of lightening a car appeared from nowhere and Phil was thrown into the gutter. The driver didn’t stop, but the number plate was easy to remember. D 116! Phil gasped for breath, and between each gasp he called, Help — Police!” A traffic officer appeared, and after procuring all the essential information assured Mr. Temple that he would secure justice. I’ll sue him! I’ll drag him into court by his ears! I’ll — I ' ll” He