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

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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.

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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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Papal igre) oo Dot, it seems, really was going after some big butterflies, for she carried a shot gun. She told me, though, that she had heard of some big snakes in the Florida swamps and she was taking no chances. Margie, however, only carried a bowie knife. This group got off on the northern coast of Florida but I remained on the boat to the southern tip of the state. I landed at a small Florida town, and as I was walking up the pier I tripped over some- one’s fish poles lying in the way. I fell on a fresh catch of fish that was piled near the poles, and I was ready to scream when I saw who owned all this regalia. I looked up from my odious position and saw Allan Ojerholm, Walter Tebo, and Richard Jor- dan, who were known in that region as expert fishermen. Since the fish did not furnish a pleasant landing place, I welcomed my arrival at a spacious hotel near the ocean. It was only 8:00 in the evening when I entered the lobby of the hotel for a period of relax- ation. I had no sooner settled down when a crash resounded throughout the hotel. Some poor man couldn’t pay his bill in the dining room, and, after an exchange of words with the waiter, he was knocked unconscious by a chair. Panic reigned un- til an ambulance screamed to a halt out- side the hotel. In dashed a young doctor whom I recognized as Byron Angell. He quickly revived the financially embarrassed man and sent him on his way. Byron couldn’t talk long as he was in a hurry. Bob Johnson and Robert Young, two fam- ous speed drivers appearing at the Florida Arena, had just had a slight accident and Byron had to go to their aid. He had, however, the help of two capable nurses, Ruth Boutilier and Blanche Caron, so the job wasn’t too difficult. The next day my stay in Florida came to an end, and I boarded the train for San Francisco. The train on which I was riding was not a through one and it seemed to stop at every conceivable town along the way, regardless of size. We stopped at one town called Yoonamit, Texas, where it appeared some man was trying to get off. I heard him yelling, “Let me off. I’m supposed to meet some- one here.” The train was going to stop anyhow for a few minutes, and I thought I would like to see just whom he was go- ing to meet. The man got off and was immediately surrounded by girls. I had to take a second look, for those girls seem- ed very familiar. Sure enough, there was Emma Chapdelaine, Barbara Mains, Florence Sharp, and Beverly Baldwin. Pe H UES Ties tes tas They looked different in their cowboy suits, and when they turned their backs to me, I saw the reason why they wore those outfits. On their backs in large letters was spelled, “Millbury Dude Ranch” with their four names listed as proprietors. At least, they hadn’t for- gotten the good old town of Millbury, even when they were far away in Texas. The train didn’t stop long enough for me to talk with them and we were soon on our way again. Before long the train stopped in another town, so small that I can’t even remember the name. The weather was rather warm, as Texas weather is, and so this stop was going to be long enough for the passengers to step off the train to visit a small soda fountain nearby for a soft drink. I decided a coke would taste very good and so I went to this soda spa. I no sooner got inside when two females dashed out from behind the counter. Yes, it was Mildred Konkol and Betty May, partners in the soda fountain. The name of their spa was “Doncreap’s” after those famous Millbury fountains, Donovan’s and Crepeau’s. The train moved on, with its frequent stops, until it finally pulled into San Francisco. I got off the train, found a good hotel, and sat down to rest. Sud- denly, I started, “Where did I leave my pocketbook?” I decided that I must have dropped it on the way to the hotel, so I dashed off to the police station to ask for their assistance in looking for it. I ran hurriedly up to the desk of the first sergeant and almost forgot what I came for when I saw who it was . I had never seen a woman police officer before— particularly one who turned out to be Patricia Lindsey, my former classmate. When I finally told her the trouble I was in, she summoned some of her men and put them right on the job. The she sug- gested advertising my loss in the news- paper. So off we went to the largest newspaper in San Francisco, the San Francisco Scoop. The word “scoop” had a familiar ring, and well it should have, for the editor turned out to be Grace Welch. We were having a great time when in dashed an excited reporter with a hot tip. He was none other than Vernon Brown, ace reporter. Well, when the time came for me to leave, I reminded her of the advertisement regarding my lost purse. She called in her chief ad man, Dick Fairbanks, who immediately went to work. I returned to my hotel that evening, feeling sure that my lost article would be returned, and so it was, the very next day.