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

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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.

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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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Gredliotaven) 5 My boat for South America was delayed for a whole week, so I decided to make a tour of California. I hired a car and started my tour by investigating some orange groves just outside San Francisco. Pm not too good a driver and so the inevitable happened—I ran into a large orange tree. The owners came dashing out to see what had happened and, even though I was dazed, I was glad to see who they were. Celina Perry led the group, followed by Rosalind Richard, Eleanor Tolman, and Geraldine LaBreck. My luck seemed to be good, for they failed to charge me for the mutilated tree. The car, however, was badly dam- aged; and, as | knew no one in the con- cern from which I had rented it, I was forced into a court in San Francisco. I chose for my attorneys the firm of Kotel, Mooney, and Moss. These names sounded familiar but whoever heard of women lawyers! Nevertheless, that’s just what they were—Genevieve Kotel, Elizabeth Mooney, and June Moss. The opposing attorney, I learned, was that great lawyer, Donald Moe. How could I lose, surround- ed by all those former classmates; and, believe it or not, I was acquitted of all charges. After that trying experience in court, I decided to have a rest. My sailing date was still three days away so I had plenty of time to go to the beach for a couple cf days. This time I went by bus. The hotel I stayed at was right on the ocean- side and so I went for a swim. I had al- ways been a good swimmer but I guess i overestimated my ability. Quite a dis. tance from shore | began to sink. To my rescue came several people, among whom UMISSIUNS AN While traveling on an important re- search expedition through the wildest, darkest jungle of Africa, I found myself deserted by my safari and helplessly alone without food, water, or adequate shelter. Sitting dejectedly on a large rock and longing for the comforts of home, I was suddenly startled by a rustling of the leaves in the large vine-covered tree under which I was sitting. Frightened by the thought that some lurking wild beast was preparing to spring on my back, | quickly jumped to my feet in time to see a lithe, leopard-clad body swing dizzily from a long vine and land on the ground directly Per Ue alte I saw Elinor Fleming, a store executive there for a rest; Margaret Donnelly, a beauty consultant there on business; and Robert Lucas, the lifeguard of the beach. After the commotion had died down, I went into a restaurant to eat my lunch. Sitting next to me, a person said, “But, Betty, if you did that, John would have too many wives.” I turned to look and saw Betty Johnson arguing with a man. He turned out to be William LeClaire, script writer for Betty on her new radio program. After chatting with Betty, I found that another schoolmate of mine, Ada Cowan, had gone into radio. She was the sound-effects woman on Station KORN. I talked to them for awhile and as I rose to leave I accidently knocked over a bowl of soup, spilling the contents all over the lady next to me. I heard her scream; and, when I turned to look, there sat Shirley Fitton. Luckily for me, she wasn’t too angry. At my suggestion, we went next door to a hardware store to get some spot remover for her suit. The sign over the door said, “Fjellman Hardware Store, Doris Fjellman, Proprietor.” We went inside but instead of seeing Doris who was away on business, we met Bernice Crockett and Loretta LeClaire. These last two were junior partners in Doris’ store, which seemed to be a very profitable business. The time arrived for me to leave on the boat for South America. I got as far as the dock but I never did board the ship. After meeting all of my former cla ssmates, South America seemed to have lost all of its former attractiveness, so my tour be- gan and ended in the United States. RutH Moore Pivie SLla Na in front of me. Upon looking closer, I recognized the person to be the famous Queen of the Jungle, Tabu. Imagine my extreme surprise and pleasure when the queen turned out to be my old friend and former classmate of Millbury High, Ruth Moore. Ruth, I learned, had become disgusted with the monotony of life in a small town, so she had come to Africa to make her home. She also informed me that an un- known tribe of natives had made her queen and ruler of their small village, where she lived in a grass hut, had twenty servants, and lived a life of leisure. Goria J. HUNT