North Andover High School - Knight Yearbook (North Andover, MA)

Page 29 text:

1 9 4 0 YEAR BOOK alar partners on the dance floor in school, and, as Jack so aptly put it, it didn’t always have to be on the dance floor, either. As we rounded a bend in the road, a sign labelled “North Andover Airport, Air. John Cassale, Mgr.” came into view and it dawned upon me that we must be in North Andover. Jack’s continual line of chatter had kept me so ab¬ sorbed. that we almost got completely by before I succeeded in getting out of the truck. After a word of thanks to Jack, I started up a short, dusty road which led to the airport. As I came to the top of a hill I came upon a modern and up-to-date enough place, but what seemed strange to me, was a dearth of airplanes and people around the place. Then I saw a large transport plane warming up a short distance down one of the runways. The pilot was leaning against the plane, so I went down to ask him where I could find Air. Casale, and you could have pushed me over with a feather when the pilot turned around, for it was an¬ other classmate, John Roche. He was the last one in the world that I had ex¬ pected to see under these circumstances, but he informed me that it had long been a secret desire of his to be a pilot. We didn’t have much time to talk, for he was due to take off then, but he directed me to the “beast,” as he called Air. J. Casale, and with that he was off. I soon found the manager himself, seated behind his desk industriously poring over the latest copy of “Ballyhoo” which he quickly put aside at my entrance. He welcomed me to the airport, and we had just settled down for a nice quiet chat, when another old classmate, Tony Giragosian, bustled into the room with the complaint that his ankle bothered him, and that he wanted to go home. He was delighted to see me, as I was to see him, and the ankle was soon forgotten. John told me that Tony was his chief mechanic, now that he had graduated from the aeronautical school. We didn’t have much time, however, to talk over old times, for just then the noon whistle blew and John invited me to have lunch with him. Just as we were leaving, in rushed Florence Petteruto. We exchanged very warm greetings, and later as we were on our way down town, John explained that Florence was chief labora¬ tory technician in the field laboratory, and that right now she was in the midst of a very important experiment concerning the further streamlining of wings in speed planes. As we passed Sutton’s Corner, I saw a large, prosperous looking fish mar¬ ket displaying the sign “Melnikas’ Fish Alarket — If it swims, we have it.” And sure enough, there was Vito out on the sidewalk drumming up business with that fog horn voice of his. He told us that even though he sold all kinds of fish, his main income was from haddock. As we turned to go, I noticed in a vacant lot across the street, a large billboard announcing to the public that Art Currier, the Titan of the Trombone and his Classy Cutups, featuring that sweetheart of the air ways, Kathy Long, managed by George Mattheson, would soon be in this vicinity. I turned to John in amazement. “Is that the Currier and Long I used to know?” I asked. And when he replied that it was, I said to myself, “Boy, oh boy ! What a difference between the Currier that played the trombone in the physics class and the Currier of today. And where had Kathleen been keeping that voice of hers all the time that I had known her?” And I thought to myself, “Will wonders never cease?” By this time 1 was almost caving in from hunger, so without further delay, John led the way into a lovely place, with the odd name of “The Green Lan¬ tern.” Here I was in for another surprise, for the hostess was none other than 27

Page 28 text:

JOHNSON HIGH SCHOOL Ed Doherty leaves on the back of an Army mule. Dot Kreusel wills her map of Lawrence’s night spots to Shirley Harrison. Mildred Margerison bequeaths her devotion for a sophomore boy and Florence Petteruto her love for a certain red-haired senior, to any girl de¬ siring them. Red Greenwood leaves an amazing ability to score baskets for his opponents to Scarecrow Willis who should prove adept. He also leaves us seasick with the waves from his hair. Eleanor Valpey bestows her business ability upon Ruth Atkinson. James Flanagan leaves to Charles Welch his indefatigable wind and spirit in cheering Johnson’s athletic teams to victory. Hazel Morse leaves her soundproof slippers, used for coming home in the early hours of the morning, to Marguerite Soucy. Thus, we, the Class of 1940, having bestowed upon our worthy successors what little we had in our possession, do affix our signatures to this worthy and legal document, in the year of Our Lord nineteen hundred and forty. Signed, WILLIAM F. MACKIE In behalf of the Class of 1940 CLASS PROPHECY EING thoroughly fed up with the big city, and with nothing to do, and all summer to do it in, I decided to take a trip up through New Eng¬ land. I wanted to do something different from the usual thing, so I decided to go by way of the fifth finger or the horizontal thumb or anything else that you want to call it. I mean bumming. I had hardly left New York, when I was nearly run down by a mammoth van, that, though called a truck, resembled a streamlined train more than anything else. The driver had stopped a little farther along and was waiting for me. What a break! As I climbed up into the cab, I saw a familiar face grinning down at me from behind a long dead and cold cigar butt. It was my old classmate, Jack Lanni. But what a difference! As I remembered Jack, he was the he- man athletic type, but now his fine big athletic chest had slipped down to a position half way between his shoulders and his knees. I noticed that he was driving a truck labeled Robinson’s Rapid Transit. — Nothing goes Rancid with Robinson. I could well believe that, as I remember how William Edward used to breeze around town during our high school days, but Jack informed me that this was only a side line with Bill, as he and that other Casanova of the senior class, Bob Hall, were the proprietors of the Enchanting Escort Enterprise. And I could see why this was so, for I vividly remembered the lists of names and telephone numbers that these two had. He said that their most popular escorts were Harry Bunker, Albert Hebb, and John Lamprey among the boys. I was surprised, for they were never exponents of the Terpsichorean art while in school, but Jack explained that that was all changed now, and also that Agnes McNab, Lillian Polichnowski, and Dot Costello, were by far the most overworked members of the fair sex employed by our auspicious business men. But this came as no surprise, for I remembered they were very pop- 20

Page 30 text:

JOHNSON HIGH SCHOOL Mary Cary, who, John explained, was also owner of the place. John signalled for a waitress, and who should come gliding over to greet us but Lottie Huminick, who looked perfectly devastating in her trim, attractive uniform. While we were waiting for our lunch, I glanced at the copy of the morning newspaper that I had picked up in the cab of Jack’s truck. There on the front page in large, bold type was the heading, ARMY vs. NAVY. In the article that followed, it said that General Joseph Provencher, Chief of Army Intelli¬ gence, would debate this evening over the radio with Admiral John S. Ran- fone and Commander Joseph Jacobs on the topic “Resolved: that the Army can better defend the U.S. in case of attack than the Navy.” I made a resolu¬ tion that I’d hear this program. As we were leaving, I stopped to give a word of praise for the exceptionally hue meal that we had just eaten. But Mary was cjuick to reject all compli¬ ments that I tried to give her, saying that her dietitian was entirely respon¬ sible for all the menus and dishes that were served in the place. I naturally asked who this dietitian was, and who do you think she introduced by our old classmate, Elsie Lundquist. By this time it was way past the dinner hour and John had to get back to the field, so, as we approached the cashier to pay for the meal, who should look up from the arduous task of polishing her nails, but still another classmate, Dorothy Kreusel. I was so surprised that I al¬ most forgot to pick up the change that Dot laid out for me. It was here that John had to leave me, but I assured him that I could get along by myself. The first thing that I did was to get myself a new shirt. As I entered the establishment, the dazzling brilliance of the displays had a drastic effect on the eyes. This store carried the loudest and goofiest creations that Botany or Arrow or anybody else ever made. They reminded me somewhat of the kind of shirts and ties that a certain classmate of mine used to wear, and sure enough, the owner turned out to be Bob Miller. After buying one of his less boisterous shirts, I continued on my journey. The next place that I decided to visit was the high school. What a change there was in the old school! There was even a new building with all the latest conveniences and facilities. As I walked through the door labeled Principal, what a surprise greeted me! For with the new building they had hired a new secretary for the principal, none other than Janet Kershaw, who was at this moment making out checks for the athletic department. I leaned over her shoulder to find out who the new coach was, and I almost swallowed my up¬ per bridge when I read the name Arthur Greenwood beside the Coach and Athletic Director, and the name of Anna Mackie beside the title, Girls’ Coach, and I wondered which basket Art taught his boys to shoot at in basketball. This was shock enough, but when I walked into the principal’s office and saw Sam Messina seated behind the desk, it was five minutes before I could gather up enough strength to ask Sam to show me around HIS school. In the first room that we came to we saw Grace Driscoll trying to drive Pascal’s into the minds of a rather dim witted senior physics class. The next room was also occupied by an old classmate, June Crossman, vainly at¬ tempting to instill in the minds of a bewildered class a few simple rules of French. We went from there to the art room and here was Virginia Went¬ worth showing a very interested class how she got her A in art when she was in school. As we went past the auditorium, I heard what was supposed to be an orchestra grimly trying to play a classical masterpiece, but the harder they tried, the worse they got, and the worse they got, the more angry the inst ruct¬ or got, and if you have ever seen Betty James angry, you can sympathize with 28