Old Town High School - Ye Olde Towne Crier Yearbook (Winston Salem, NC)

Page 32 text:

THE STORY OF MY LIFE I was the baby! Can you imagine the joy of my momma and poppa? After all, they had only eight children before me! All eight of ‘em had been fairly good looking, reasonably bright, and acceptably obedient. And then I came! The only difference between me and the ugly duck- ling was that he turned out to be a swan! Well, anyway, my family seemed to love me just as much as if I had been normal. At the ripe old age of six, I was dressed prettily in my daintiest dress and escorted to school. Then came the moment—my mother left me all alone with a whole roomful of strange children, all of ‘em white, too. How odd! I thought all children, except the ones in my family, were black like the little ones on our farm. My first month in school passed quickly. In that month I wore out enough clothes for an in- fant army, was constantly dirty and chocolate covered from my daily diet of ice cream, and above all I was a menace to the life and limb of my parents, my teachers, and my playmates. All I learned could have been lost in an atom. Then my momma decided that if I wasn’t an artist as she was, and I couldn’t understand figures as my poppa could, maybe I was musical. She couldn’t have been more mistaken. After my ninth consecutive year of piano lessons. I had retrogressed from “John M. Williams’ First Grade Book” to “Joe Doe’s Pre-School Music’’. But if I had not learned to play, I had gained much poise in appearing before audiences—each year I played in one recital. In my final year I had mastered two “pieces”, so my delighted, not to say surprised, teacher, said I might play both of them. I started with The Butterfly. Poor insect, he zoomed into the air with a great flutter of wings, and there he stayed. He fluttered; he flitted, he finally died there in mid-air. I deluged the poor little corpse with a flood of bitter tears, but even that could not revive him. Then I rend- ered my Minuet with all the gaiety of a funeral march but to my hearers it sounded like Chopsticks. Even my mother was at last convinced that I was not to be a musician. My summers were spent in camp where I didn’t fit in either. When I tried to swim, I sank like lead. I was too dainty to be husky, and too husky to be dainty, so I just cried until it was time to come home again, and then I cried to go back to camp. Then I decided to better myself by becoming a Girl Scout. Just as I was about to receive my tenderfoot pin, the visiting leader held the coveted award out toward me and waited with an expectant smile for me to recite the four line pledge which all the other candidates had re- peated glibly. As I gulped and groped for my lines probably sounded foreign. But again I gulped audibly, and again no words came. The leader’s pleasant smile congealed, she waited, I congeal- ed, I waited, she stared. I stared. The thaw set in gradually and I finally discovered my front decorated by the desired emblem. So it was and so it is. Mary was a mess; Mary is a mess. The only reason I don’t do some- thing about it is that J like it; it’s been fun. It has been so much fun that I shall no doubt go on being a mess all the rest of my life, and I'll tell you a secret—I don’t believe I could change even if I wanted to. —MARY AUSBAND

Page 34 text:

SOPHOMORE CLASS Left to right by rows—Gloria Lee Adams, Kenneth Allen Blakeley, Max Delano Briggs, Garland Patterson Cartner, Dorothy Jane Chadwick, Shirley Ree Comer, Jackie Lee Davis, Wilson Clyde Fine, Jo Anne Fowler, Daniel Goldner, Virginia Myrtle Haigwood, David Lee Jenkins. Eugene Jerome Jones, Jr., William Greg- ory Kurdian, Winburn Harry Lineback, Charles Russell Posey, Peggy Jane Ritchey, Jessie Frances Ronk, Iris Nell Shore, Margaret Ann Vaughan, Melvin Leroy Walker, Don William Whelan, Bettie Lou. Whicker, Barbara Jean Yates, Carolyn Ann Young.