Old Trail School - Vestigia Yearbook (Akron, OH)

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Alma Mater Nestled in the hills of Fairlawn, Reared against the sky, Stands the School we love so dearly W'ith its aims so high. Alma Mater, Alma Mater, glorious May we always show the honor That is due to you. Though the days be sad or dreary, We shall always be Striving to make life more cheery For those dear to thee. Alma Mater, Alma Mater, glorious We will always bring our tributes Dear Old Trail to you. 12 and true and true

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Retrogaect Have you ever wished that you could turn back the calendar and relive the events you like to remember? Most of us don't save tour-year old calendars, but there are some things which none of us can forget. Take for example, Seniors, your Freshman year. lireshies are always silly, scared, and skinny. You broke no rules there. But what Freshies! You eyed the eligible males at Reserve with superior contempt, and they eyed you with just plain con' tempt. But you managed to bear each other at dancing school. At Candlelight, most of you were off- key, of course, but you still grinned proudly at Mother and Dad during the recessional. Big Sisters were wonderful, but if they were going to make you shine their shoes, they could at least have paid for the shoe polish. May Day and Graduation came so fast that you couldnt believe that the Seniors were leaving. Some day I'll be a Senior, you said. You were so surprised to have passed Freshman year that you didn't know how to behave as Soph- omores. But the Sophomore Prom threw you into a spin, leaving no time for day-dreaming. You were sure no one would come, and then said you knew it all the time when the Quonset was packed. The Home-Nursing course showed you how to avoid Latin on test days. But the Geometry projects were so fun that you waited until after fifth period to complain of subacute bacterial endocarditisf' A few of you were in Glee Club now, and would smile condescendingly on your less fortunate class- mates, not knowing that the music director was smiling condescendingly on you. But oh to be Seniors! ln junior year, source themes, the Yearbook, the prom, and -w oh yes -- schoolwork, kept you busy every minute that you weren't using your new drivers' licenses. You thought more seriously about col- leges now, the main requisites being a school at least six hundred miles from home, and nine boys to every girl. During the trip to Columbus, you noticed several mistakes which Governor Lausche had made, but you were too considerate to embarrass him by pointing them out. Although your journalistic experience had heretofore been limited to Rex Morgan, M.D. , you counted columns in the news- papers faithfully every night while Mother washed the dinner dishes. Source themes were the hub of your wheel of existence, and you were more than a little scornful of those who had never heard of an lbid., much less an op. cit. The year was over before you knew it. At last, the culmination of your most fervent hopes and dreams - Senior year! Now that you had reached it, you felt a little like a four-year old dressed in her mother's old clothes. It seemed only last week that you were tucking your curl-forbidden heads under little green caps. But there you were. So you dived energetically into the task of being school leaders. The Masked Ball was fun, especially the costumes. But the bouffant net-and-fluff affairs which you wore to the Charity Ball were far more practical. Anyhow, you liked a dreamy waltz better than a chorus line. For Androcles and the Lion, you took to grease paint like veterans, and it took to you like glue. Candlelight will always be remem- bered, if not for the sentiment, then because it was the first time in four years that you stayed in step. The last semester went quickly, except for the two decades you spent one Saturday on College Boards. So now you're leaving behind you four years of your life. Perhaps when you and that creep you had to drag to the junior Prom are sitting around the tire reminiscing, you won't remember these years at all. But it's doubtful. For you won't be able to forget your years at Old Trail any more than we, the ones who remain, will be able to forget you. Barbara Haddad, Editor-in-Chief 14