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

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ot youtli asserts itself, generally in the form of de- moniacal, incoherent ravings of and about strange unheard of objects, seemingly from another land. Fiendish enough names they are too, outstanding among them being such insane phrases as straight pipes,” cut outs,” high compression heads,” dual intakes,” and so forth. Blood boils like a hot radiator, exhaust smoke probably inhaled while puttering amid four-wheeled pets courses forth from nostrils, and the pungent odor of gasoline vapor saturates the air. When my tortured ears can no longer stand this ceaseless babble, nor my nose the stench, I unobtrusively slip away, a misfit of the mechanical age, a poorer (in health) but wiser man, humbly asknowledging the automobile as my master. Gerald Kavanagh, ’49 A Visitor The wind shrieks — the windows rattle incessantly. The loose boards creak and groan, throwing A haunted effect over all. How dark the night, how pale the light. Cast from this crescent moon. But hark! A tap, tap is heard at the door. Hear it? It is distinguished clearly from the whiste of the wind through the leafless trees. And a voice we now hear moans, Open up, open up! 1 am the coming of winter.” Frances D’Amico, ’49 A Man Can ' t Win The town clock had just struck five, and Richard Bartlet, with his coat-collar turned up and his hands dug deep in the pockets of his tweed trousers, was going home to supper. He had had a hard day at the office and was still trying to figure a way of posing the question to his wife. Should he tell her frankly, or ask her nicely? Of course she would be disap- pointed, perhaps even angry. He crossed the street, kicked at a small stone, and continued on his way. Richard was a man nearing his forties, but because of long years of hard work in order to keep up to the extravagant demands of his wife, one could easily mistake him for fifty. Indeed, his hair had long passed the greying stage. .ind now it was thinning out around his ears. He was tall, heavily built, and one might even call him handsome, if one quick look was all that was given. However, he must have possessed some charming qualities in order to claim a wife like Emily. Emily was likewise tall, dark, and extremely grace- ful. Black hair and green eyes seem to be a danger- ous combination. If one did not know her, they would expect her to be shy, calm, and queenly. But to Richard, who had known her for the past eight years, her ability to wrap him around her little finger, slightly irritated him. Richard wanted a vacation. Florida. For many years now, he had wanted to visit there, and now a group of men from the office were going and had in- vited him along. All he had to do was ask his wife. He snapped his fingers and said aloud: Darn it! Why should she mind? How many times has she gone on vacations ? two, three, and four weeks at a time? Why, she’s been to New York, Maine, Canada, and California during the past year. Well, now it’s my turn. I’ll just tell her frankly that I think I need a vacation. After all, a man has to have some fun once in a while.” He walked up Bradd Street, took the corner at Elm, and headed for his house, with renewed courage. Emily had lit the fire when he arrived, and its flames cast weird shadows on the walls. Sitting in his favorite armchair, slowly smoking a pipe, a gift from Emily on his last birthday, Richard finally ac- cumulated enough courage to say, You know Em, I’ve been thinking.” Emily raised an eyebrow and threw a glance in his direction. Oh?” You know, I think I need a vacation. We both have worked very hard these past few months and I think a change would do us both a lot of good.” He breathed more freely now that the worst part was over. He was able to elaborate now. Leaning back in his chair, he sighed heavily. Florida is wonderful at this time of year Emily. Ah I can see it all now . . . palm trees, blue skies, peace and quiet . . . yes, it’s wonderful . . . well hon, what do you say?” Before he could finish, Emily had bounded over to him, threw her arms around his neck and cooed, Oh Rich darling, I think that’s a wonderful idea, - - but gee, do you think you’ll be able to take care of the house while I’m gone?” ( 12 ) Frances D’Amico, ’49

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broken. She choked back her sobs and was just about to tell her uncle the entire story when a flash of white caught her eye. Peering through a small space between the bars, the sight she saw caused her heart to skip a beat. There in the corral, almost hidden by the clouds of dust he was kicking up, was her beloved horse, pitching, bucking, and kicking, his beautiful chestnut coat covered with sweat and streaked with dark red stains. Jean recognized the man on his back as Jed Steele, the toughest and mean- est cowboy on the ranch. He drove his spurs into Goldy’s heaving sides and cruelly whipped the horse until large welts appeared. All the helpless animal could do was to try to throw this merciless person off his back. But it was no use, for the ruthless cowboy was just as determined as the unharnessed spirit beneath him. When at last Jed dismounted and unsaddled the horse, Jean strode bravely over to the gate and waited for the cowhand to approach. When he did, she told him that it was not necessary to handle Goldy as he had done, but the proud cowboy just sneered and told her to mind her own business. Soon the hands left the corral, for it was time to go out on the range and round up the wild horses. Only Jean and her uncle remained. She remarked on the way Jed had ridden the young horse and her uncle replied by saying that he liked it no more than she, but because he was the best bronc buster of them all, he had been chosen to do the task, although it was far from finished. Finally her uncle also left to join his men and supervise the roundup, and Jean was left alone with Goldy. She whistled softly to him. He acted as though he did not hear her, and it was not until she whistled a second time and held out an appetizing sugar lump that he pricked up his ears and walked hesitantly over to the fence, stretching out his neck for the dainty ' tidbit. He nudged her for another sugar lump, and even though she had none, stayed close beside her. Suddenly a cry of pain swept through the sultry summer air! Quickly Jean ran into the ranchhouse and found her aunt awkwardly slumped in a chair, her face contorted with pain. She thought quickly. There were no telephones within walking or riding distance, and even if there were, there were no horses at the ranch, xcept Goldy, who was not saddle broken. The nearest doctor was in town, ten miles away. She commenced to call for help but hesitated, suddenly remembering that everyone was out on the range. What was she to do. In that one moment the final decision was made. She walked resolutely over to the corral and whistled softly. Goldy, upon whose speed and co-operation depended a matter of life or death, answered that whistle and stood quietly while she saddled him up — a job that four men had barely accomplished less than one half an hour before! Then, praying for the best, she mounted him and off they went. The horse which a grown man could not conquer by force was conquered with love and under- standing by a young girl! Goldy’s smooth, evenly cadenced canter fairly ate up the ground and in no time they had reached town and the doctor had been summoned. Just as Jean was walking Goldy in through the main gate of the ranch, her uncle and the cowhands rode up. Their faces expressed more surprise than any amount of words ever could hope to do when they saw this young girl fearlessly riding the bronc.” Simultaneously Jean’s father rode in, and upon hearing the entire story, told his daughter that if she would study especially hard at the beginning of next year, she would not have to go to scfiool this summer after all. Then Jean’s uncle, saying that he had a little bit to add, told his niece that he was presenting her with the horse she had always wanted. Everyone rejoiced at this wholehearted presentation, and Goldy seemed to understand, too, for he pressed his cold muzzle gently against the cheek of his mistress. To Jean, clinging tightly to Goldy’s soft neck, this certainly was The Dream That Came True! Norma Martinsen, ’ ' 50 Out of My Depth While ordinarily, I am able to grasp at least the basic fundamentals of a conversation, I always am far over my depth when the conversation swings to that favorite topic of American Youth: generally cars, more specifically hot rods.” Though I do not consider myself a complete idiot, that seems to be the opinion formulated by my auto- motive knowledge. And because I don’t light cigar- ettes with spark plugs, or use motor oil for sun tan cream, I become classed as that lowest of the low, that untouchable miscreant, the pedestrian. Oddly enough, however, the conversation starts off with almost a semblance of sanity, which disproves even more what is to follow. Generally it starts with a simple innocent question such as Whose car were you in last night?”, Who owns that black Ford?” or some similar seemingly innocent question. Then however, the diabolical hold which the auto- mobile possesses and easily maintains on the minds (ll)

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The Drip The first time I saw him was on the night that father brought him home for supper. It was cold that night — cold and rainy, with the wind moaning around the house. I was getting the coffee ready ahead of time to save Mother the trouble when she got home. I heard the car pull in and a few minutes later Dad and Mother came in. Dad said, Look what I brought home to help with supper.” I looked at the short crooked arm that my father held. I looked again and to my sur- prise, saw that the arm had no hand attached. How could father hold his arm like that. Why didn’t he hold out the other — I looked again. Why, this newcomer had only one arm! He had a short, fat, body, which reminded me of a barrel. He was completely bald and had a glassy stare which haunted me wherever I went. I knew that he didn’t like me and the feeling was mutual. I can see him now; watching, watching, never missing a thing. He never spoke to me all the time I knew him. That wasn’t very long, for the next day when I came home, he was sitting in the middle of the kitchen staring at me. Why do you always stare at me. Why can’t you stare at someone else?” Why? Why? Why? I lunged at him. He fell against the stove and spilled the coffee all over the place. His little body was smashed in a thousand pieces and I was glad. Now I could use our old aluminum percolator in- stead of the new silex with its glassy stare. Norma O’Neil, ’49 The Green Years This year while no one was looking sixty-eight little creatures stole into the high school. All were a bit green and were very much lost. These were the freshmen. There were thirty-five girls and thirty-three boys. Among the girls there were seven stunning brunettes, nineteen beautiful brown mops, and nine lovely blondes. The boys were as follows: Six rather bewildered black, curly heads, fourteen brown cowlicks, eleven blondes and two fugitives from a carrot patch. You may think the freshmen are small. They are. But a few are exceptions. Take for instance John Korsman and Leland Davis. Most of the girls are small or medium sized, but look at Irene Mariani and Patricia Meister. There were six much needed additions to the foot- ball team, including such stars as Adam Mancini and Jackie MacDonald. Six girls went out for field hocke y and we have potential stars in Irene Mariani and Barbara Mitz- cavitch. I think that if we add the giants and midgets, athletes and non-athletes, black-haired, brownettes, blondes, and redheads all together, we’ll have a fresh- man class that Maynard High can be proud of. Norm,” ' 49 itt Mask-Making Everyone loves to masquerade — to disguise, even for a short time, his everyday appearance — and live in another role. This explains the popularity of Hal- lowe’en, and masquerade parties. In theatres and for decorative purposes masks are used frequently. The first step in the process of making a mask is to model the mask in clay. To do this, we need a flat board about twelve inches long and six inches wide. This serves as a guide for the mask model. A long nose and drooping mouth give that sour look or discontent. Broad, flat noses and thick lips are used to make the faces look better and funnier. When the final touches have been applied to the model, then it is set aside to dry naturally. Mask-making is simple once you start. For various occasions different masks are needed and if you don’t want to fashion them out of clay the only materials you need are some paper and varnish to make it hard. Then cut holes for the eyes, mouth, and nose. To make the mask look better I use different colors. On day I was invited to a masquerade and not having a mask I decided to make one. I studied my face in the mirror for a while. Then I decided to make my forehead slant the wrong way, so I put a large bump in the middle. The eyebrows were made bushy and the eyes were cut in a slanting way. The cheeks I puffed out. High cheek bones were put on with red and blue colors. I used a long nose and a drooping mouth. Everyone was amazed at my mask and when they asked me where I got it and I told them I made it, they immediately asked ( 13 )