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

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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

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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

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1940 YEAR BOOK those poor kids. As we neared the basement of the school, I heard a voice saying, “Save the line, don’t go over the line,” over and over again. It sounded like Mr. Vincent, but when we got down there, who should it be, but Alex Hay in the role of manual training teacher. This was the last room, so I thanked Sam and started back down town. As I walked along, I opened my paper to the sports page, and there in big type 1 read, “Miller Pitches Third Consecutive No Hit - No Run Game,” and there was a three column picture of Bing Miller. He was pitching for the Red Sox, who were now on top in the big league standings. Just after crossing the highway, I caught sight of a familiar looking figure in the uniform of a state policeman. It was Eddie Doherty, who had become a finger in the long arm of the law. But our conversation was rudely inter¬ rupted by a speeding car which Eddie had to chase. As I continued on my tour, who should I run into but Eva Hoel, who informed me that she was go¬ ing from house to house getting pupils for the kindergarten she was about to open. A little farther along, I saw a familiar looking salesman. As I got a little closer, I discovered that it was David Ritchie. He told me that he was the sole New England representative for the Little Duster Vacuum Cleaner. I sneaked away as David went into a lengthy discourse on the value and ex¬ pense of the “Little Duster.” Two new buildings had been recently erected in town ; one was the home of “The Keyhole,” North Andover’s latest newspaper, and the other one was the North Andover Clinic. I decided first to see the newspaper, and then the Clinic. As I walked into the building of the newspaper, whom should I see at the combination information desk and telephone switchboard, but Betty May, who was trying to convince a prospective customer that he should subscribe to “The Keyhole,” and I couldn’t help thinking that Betty could do a good job at convincing. She stopped just long enough to welcome me, and to direct me to the office of the editor. As I walked into the editor’s office, there was another classmate, Rita Camire, in the role of the editor’s secretary. The surprise of seeing so many classmates was wearing ofif, so I almost expected to see another one in the next room. Sure enough, there he was, Bob Cunningham, in the typical office position, feet on the desk, reading the latest copy of his paper. He was very glad to see me and offered to take me on a tour of inspection of the place. The first section that he took me to was the sports department, which was lorded over by a huge bulk of a man whose orders sent assistants scurrying all over. This man looked up as we approached, and low and behold, who should it be, but that versatile wit of the class, Billy Mackie. As Billy was in a bad mood today, we did not stay around there long. We then went to a little room that was set off from the rest. As we went in the door we were greeted by a loud snore coming from behind a large drawing board and a monstrous pile of used drawing paper. Behind this mountain, we found the comic editor of “The Keyhole,” Phil Kelly, sound asleep after completing the arduous task of drawing the comics for the day’s issue. We next went back into the news room and over to a corner set off for the woman’s page editor, but Bob explained that “The Keyhole” had two of them because of the quantity of women’s news in town. And there they were, the typewriting twins, typ¬ ing their column for the next day, Lillian and Helen Burns. We went from there to the corner set apart for the poet of the paper. This 29