Millbury Memorial High School - Aftermath Yearbook (Millbury, MA)

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Deg ea eiesy: With the atomic bomb question now settled thoroughly and the U.N. O. well organized, it seemed that peace was here to reign forever. I decided that a nice trip through the peaceful land would be pleasant, even though I had to draw half of my savings from the bank to do it. As I had not seen all of the United States in my twenty-five years of existence, | planned to travel from Boston to San Fran- cisco before embarking for South America. My train ride to New York was to last for eight hours, after which I was to travel to Florida by boat. I left Boston on an early train and as I settled back to enjoy the view I heard a timid voice inquiring, “Peanuts, pop- corn, magazines?” This voice did sound familiar and as I turned, who should it be but George Brady. George and I chatted a while but he had to leave in ten minutes to renew his selling efforts. I began to think that Millbury High School graduates owned the railroad when down the aisle walked Tom Hamilton and Johnny Gauvin, who were widely known as the “singing conductors.” They liked their work, and as they went on down the aisle singing “The Chattanooga Choo Choo,” I thought th at their singing had improved slightly since high school days. The train on which I was riding ran out of coal and we were forced to stop at a small town named Youngstown for emer- gency refueling. This town, I later learn- ed, was named after their mayor, Anne Young, who had found her career in pol- itics and was proving very successful at it. The coal truck came with a load of coal and you can imagine my surprise when the driver turned out to be my former classmate, Kirk Anderson. To catch his attention, | opened the window and leaned out. When I finally caught his eye, the train began to move causing me to lose my balance. I surely would have fallen if two strong arms hadn’t pulled me back. I turned to thank my rescuer and saw that he was Roger Morin. Roger was now a movie producer in Hollywood, and he was then on his way to New York whence he was to fly to California. After meeting all of these ex-classmates, I decided to write their names down to keep a record of all I had met. My pencil broke, however, and so I went in to the dining car of the train to see if I could borrow a knife with which to sharpen it. I entered the car, but seeing no one there, I decided to go into the kitchen to ask the chef for a knife. The chef was putting the finishing touches on a beautiful cake paiesUbsteh labels (CM that must have measured all of three feet, and you can imagine my surprise when he turned around and I saw who he was. It was Donald Boucher, a former classmate and football star at Millbury High School. After chatting a while about old days at high school, he sharpened my pencil and I returned to my seat to add his name to my list. The train went faster and faster until finally it came to a halt in New York City, I stepped off the train and since I had a whole day and a half to wait for my boat to Florida, I decided to find a hotel at which I could leave my luggage while I went sightseeing. The information desk in the railroad station was nearby, so I strolled up to it and waited for the clerk to finish with one inquirer before asking her my questions. I stood patiently for ten minutes, twenty minutes, thirty min- utes, until finally my patience left me. I thought, “That clerk can really talk.” I called to her, timidly at first, then with such volume I’m sure everyone in the station must have heard me. Slowly she turned her head, and you can imagine my embarrassment when the clerk turned out to be Sylvia Rice. Well, I knew she was an able speaker but I never supposed that I would find her at this sort of occupation. After three hours reminiscing, I left to find the hotel that she recommended. The taxi I hired reminded me of the old Millbury school bus, in that they both rattled; both had a few cracked windows: and both proved most uncomfortable. I had my fingers crossed that we would sur- vive this dash through the heavy New York traffic, but evidently crossed fingers weren't enough. In the middle of Times Square the antiquated automobile gasped its last gasp and refused to move. Cars were packed tightly around us and the square was turned into a bedlam of honk- ing horns and accusatory remarks from irate motorists. A tall policeman made his way through the throng and in a loud voice demanded to know what was the matter. The loud voice—I knew I had heard it somewhere, and so I had, for it belonged to Calvin Hoyle. It’s a good thing I knew him or I’m sure I would have spent the next thirty days in a New York jail. He guided us through traffic with his motoreycle siren going steadily. I was riding, incidentally, in the wrecker that pulled the faithful old cab to its happy hunting grounds—the garage. I hadn’t even looked at the driver of the wrecker because I was so mortified I just looked down at my feet. When I did steal

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Beier eccab etl WE We UVF Parents, Teachers, Classmates, and Friends: We, the Class of Nineteen Hundred Forty-Six, are gathered here today to commemorate one of the most important events in our lives, our graduation from high school. Throughout our high school careers, we never co uld believe the saying that “our school days are the happiest days of our lives.” Today, however, as we relive our four years spent in Millbury High School, we realize that we shall never again find such friendship and happiness as we have enjoyed here. We wish to express our sincere gratitude to our parents for their unselfishness and devotion to us throughout our school years. With- out their interest and understanding, we might not have completed our education. We also wish to thank our principal and the mem- bers of the faculty for the guidance and encouragement they have given us. Therefore, I, in behalf of the Class of Nineteen Hundred Forty- Six, cordially welcome you to our Class Day Exercises. THomAsS HAMILTON, Class President Urgall ter Nee ether) etree) os Nb (Words by Emma Chapdelaine) (Tune: There’s A Long, Long Trail A-Winding) (Tune: Auld Lang Syne) There will be a trail of mem’ries Each hall we'll see, each bell we'll hear, That brings us back to this day, Every class we'll live once more; Even when our eyes are dimming, Each joyful cheer for Vict’ry’s boys And our hair has turned to gray. Wiil ring, as oft’ before. And we'll cherish all the friendships We'll hear the clear September call, Recalling good times gone by, And Freedom’s shout in June; As we wander o’er that trail of mem ’ries We'll hear, in distant fading tones, Back to Millbury High. Our voices, and this tune. (Tune: There’s A Long, Long, Trail A-Winding) On the trail of mem’ries ling’ring Are thoughts we’d hoped for and planned, And our happy cheers and laughter Is the music of the land. But within the music’s splendor A single sad note will mix— “Farewell to Millbury High School From the Class of 46.”

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CSAS ato a glance, I almost screamed for joy, for it was Martin McManus, another Millbury High School graduate. In such capable hands I felt relaxed and we had a pleasant chat of old times. When we reached the garage, he called to his partner, Bill Fall- strom, who came out of his luxurious office to greet us. The cab driver, in the mean- time, was very puzzled. He didn’t seem to understand how so many people could know so many other people. I left the McManus-Fallstrom garage and finally reached the hotel where I was to stay. I walked in, strode up to the desk, and rank the bell. The owner came to check me in, and I was amazed to see that it was Fred Carter. The hotel was beauti- ful and I learned that Fred had designed every detail himself. Leaving my luggage in my room, I went to the dining room to eat my dinner. It was only 6:00 p.m. and I had just start- ed to eat when the head waiter made an announcement. It seemed there was go- ing to be an entertainment of some sort and so I settled back in my chair to watch. First of all came a blast of trumpets and out on the stage marched that great magician, Al Lacouture, aided by Virginia Tubbs. I remembered our high school days when Al used to have a knack of making homework disappear, and Vir- ginia used to be very good at helping people. Their act, consequently, was very clever and well received by the audience. As soon as these two left the stage, three girls known as “Town Trio” walked on the platform. Two of them I recognized as Norma Fontaine and Shirley Bertrand, but the third one I did not know. After their act, I went to their dressing room to see them and suddenly I saw who the third one was. It was Marie Anne Gaulin, and the reason I[ didn’t recognize her was that she had grown so tall. We were in the middle of our conver- sation when a scream was heard. This scream was followed by a dog’s bark and people shouting. The noise came from the elevator shaft where a car was stuck between floors. The fire truck was called and everything was in confusion when the firemen walked into the room. The fire chief turned out to be Roland Gibeau, who went right to work directing the men. When the elevator finally came to the floor, out walked two thoroughly indignant people. First came Lady Beatrice (Gillert) Pomfrett followed by Sir Alfred Gasco. These two, it seems, had both married members of British nobility—hence the titles. After talking with them a while, I Ps lai lO pels Vea dt 15 ey noticed that they had both acquired a definite British accent. We had a great time talking—the stage performers, the fire chief, the nobility, and I. After leaving them, I went to my room to catch some sleep before leaving the next day on the boat for Florida. I would have gotten some sleep, too, if it hadn’t been for the terrific racket in the apart- ment across the hall. As the night wore on, the noise got louder until finally at 2:00 a.m. I could stand it no longer. I went next door, and loudly knocked. Some- one opened the door and we stood there blinking at each other, for it was my old school chum, Mertie Angell. I asked her what all the noise was about, and she told me that it was a party in honor of Edward McLaughlin, who had just discovered how to put the atom back together again. In addition to her regular teaching duties at Millbury High School, Mertie had found time to act as Eddie’s assistant. It wasn’t long before I had joined in the merriment and I thought, as I returned to my room, “I didn’t feel like sleeping anyway.” My list of encounters with former school- mates was growing rapidly, and I had plenty to think about when I prepared to go on board ship the next morning—or should I say that same morning. The boat was to sail at 8:00 a.m. and at 7:59 a.m. I arrived at the dock. Breathlessly, I climb- ed up the gangplank to stand panting by the rail. The whistle tooted and the gang- plank was just being lifted when a group of shouting women came running toward the boat. The last screaming woman got on and the boat began to move. Suddenly, around the corner sped two more women, probably part of the party that had just climbed on board. The boat was about six inches from the pier when they jump- ed, in an effort to land on deck. One of them made it but the other missed and landed with a great big splash in the ocean. The one on board was yelling, “Gloria, Gloria, hurry up; we’re leaving— help—man overboard!” I looked at the one by my side and found her to be Betty Braman. The one floundering in the ocean was, to be sure, Gloria Hunt. Gloria was rescued by the ship’s crew, and when she was in a talking mood we held an interesting conversation. Betty and Gloria, it seems, were part of an ex- pedition of women who were on their way to the swamps of Florida seeking butter- flies for a collection that they were about to exhibit at the Millbury Art Museum. Included in this butterfly group were Marjorie Anderson and Dorothy Larson.