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

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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 )

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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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me to make some for them. After I had made two or three more, I decided mask modeling would be a good hobby and I have enjoyed every minute of making them. Most of the mask-making requires imagination to get real ideas for awful looking masks. Helen Shymonowicz, ’51 My Hobby and Its Meaning In my spare time I am an amateur photographer. I find it very interesting and in my basement I have built a darkroom. It consists of two tables, and a printing, developing, and supply box where I keep acids and paper. Photography is interesting in the way that it has helped in the scientific field to fight disease. In the war it made possible the mapping out of enemy ter- ritory without taking days of laborious handwork. In sports it has helped players find out their mistakes and to better themselves. In football it helps the coach find out the best man for the job and to benefit from past mistakes and to better themselves. In foot- ball it helps the coach find out the best man for the job and to benefit from past mistakes. Everyday crime is being defeated by photography by certain evidence that Charlie and Mike were robbing the city bank instead of being home in bed. If it weren’t for photography we wouldn’t have the movies, a common source of entertainment. More than thou- sands of the people of the United States wouldn’t know what the President looks like without photog- raphy. Photography increases a person’s knowledge by showing the size and shapes of different things. Because I know what photography does, I like it and have it for a hobby. James Cutter, ’51 My Hobby When I was just a little girl. Not more than eight or nine. My spelling marks were dropping Way below the passing line. So very many things I couldn’t understand. As how to spell such words. As band and sand and land. And spelling them was tough Because to me they looked the same; And the more I learned to say The harder the spelling became. I couldn’t understand Why lame and came and aim. Were all spelled different But sounded most the same. So to the teacher I went My problem to report She told me how to use these words. And helped me out, in short. She fixed up all these words. Such as cad and lad and bad. She put them into sentences. And a little poem I had. But with this little poem, I wasn’t very pleased; ’Till I made a bigger one. My mind was not at ease. Yes, now I am really interested. In those words I used to hate. For writing poems as a hobby. Turned out to be my fate. Barbara Thumith, ’52