Paxton High School - Reflector Yearbook (Paxton, IL)

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of my class. In the aeronautical engineering department, I had the surprise of my life! (Before I explain, I’d like someone to tell me why an engineer needs a secretary!) As I live and breathe, there was Marilyn Peterson, with a pencil poised over a shorthand notebook, taking down notes as dictated by Mr. James Jayne. Only—he wasn’t a mister any more, he was a captain; and she probably wasn’t a Miss either. Anyway, that was the situation when we walked in. In the other room were his three assistants, John Trickle, Hubert Piper, and Adrian Johnson, probably waiting to speak with him. Well, I was getting nowhere fast. A guy can’t very well take over the body of someone he knows or has known, and I was beginning to feel discouraged. Mr. Jordan provided an instantaneous lift for my spirits by suggesting that we take in the benefit show to be given that evening. He gave me a clipping advertising the event, and believe it or not, it featured Barbara Davis as the vocalist with a big name band. Included in the dancing ensemble were such notables as Esther Spung, Dorothy O’Hare, and Frances Salvage. After the show, we visited thq famous “Dirty Thirty” game rooms, a branch of that fabulous gambling syndicate owned and operated by Richard Cottrell, with Kenneth Dougherty as his able assistant and partner. (It had been okeyed by President Roosevelt as a good diversion for soldiers, since they don’t have to pay income tax.) Stopping at a restaurant for a little snack, we scared two waitresses, Anna Marie Plackett and Lucille Vaught, out of a year’s growth, and left several customers minus some food. I recognized a few faces, one of them being Maxine Kirsche, who was evidently married to the civilian instructor sitting across from her. A table of nurses included Mrs. Robert Short and Mrs. James Purtill, whose husbands had been drafted, and the misses Doris Swanfelt, Ruth Stearns and Mary Margaret Graham. Soldiers certainly have all the luck—and me without a body—what irony!! Next to the restaurant was the Carleton Bowling Alley, owned by Harold Carleton, and managed by Delbert Beckstrand. I recognized John Farley and Wilmer Smith at one of the alleys, and I gathered from their conversation that they owned a chain of grocery stores in partnership with an old friend of theirs. (Even that hadn’t kept them out of the army—Uncle Sam gets them all!!) A group of girls, including Patty Fuller, Mary Hendershott, Ruth Anderson, and Irene Nelson, were using one of the other alleys. From their chatter, I learned that they all had jobs as stenographers in various departments on the field, and, from appearances, they were doing right well. Their bosses included the familiar names of Ebert Siddens, Robert Duggins, and Harry Johnson, who had advanced rapidly since their induction into the army. I also learned that Barbara Adkins now operated a well-known beauty shop, ably assisted by her school chum, Marian Pearson. Her fiance was drafted, you know. Juanita Douglas was now Mrs. Virgil Naugle, successful undertaker, an affair which dated back to her high school days, if you’ll recall. Robert McDannell was well established as an army doctor, with Betty Hollister as his special nurse. Evelyn Weidner had worked only a short time, and was now married to her boss, a captain. Audrey Frette had taken the position left vacant by his romance, with Kathryn Gustafson as coworker. All of which goes to show you what can be learned from listening. But I still hadn’t found a body, and, although I had enjoyed finding out what had happened to all my schoolmates, I felt some concern on my own behalf. My troubles were solved the following evening. Mr. Jordan and I attended the championship bout between Louis Joseph and Simon Abeson, and I had no sooner seen that Joseph physique than I knew that my search was over. Naturally, Mr. Jordan agreed. Wbat man wouldn’t? Five seconds later, I was Louis Joseph. But there’s still one thing that bothers me, and that’s why I said, by way of beginning, that I was a bit confused. The point is, now that I’m Louis Joseph, does anybody happen to know what happened to the original? Mr. Jordan disappeared before I could ask him. Adopted from the movie: “Here Comes Mr. Jordan,” with my most humble apologies.

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P is for Prophecy I’m a bit confused. . . . Two days ago I was speeding along in my 1941 (latest model) Pontiac at the advised rate of 40 miles per, listening to my favorite radio commentator, Frederick Causey. He’s an old acquaintance of mine, class of ’42 of P. C. H. S. Now what happened after that is a bit hazy, but the last thing I. can remember is a huge red truck with “Everett Fields, Inc.—Farm Products” in big white letters on the side. The next thing I knew I was standing (or maybe floating is more descriptive) on some fleecy white clouds, arguing with a fellow named Mr. Jordan, who apparently was the chief magistrate in Heaven, as to whether I was dead or alive. A checkup of his casualty lists proved that they’d been a little hasty—I wasn’t due to arrive ’til the year 2012! So there I was, very much alive, but minus a body, to say nothing of being quite some distance from my earthly habitation. This Mr. Jordan readily admitted the gravity of the error committed, and realized that, in all fairness, he had to find me a new body. And it couldn’t be just anybody! No sir—’cause mine had been a perfect physical specimen!! Well, anybody knows that the only place left to find such perfection is in the U. S. Army camps, so, right away Mr. Jordan decided to go to Kanute Field, the largest and best known of them all. Ten seconds later, we were slipping past the fellows on guard at the entrance. I looked them over, and suddenly realized that I knew them! They were none other than Gordon Johnson, Paul McCabe, and Max Niccum, and, standing with them, was Jeannette Lundeen, in one of those nifty army nurses’ uniforms. I thought it was rather strange that they didn’t recognize me, until I realized that they couldn't even see me. That’s the strangest feeling, to be a ghost, and yet not be a ghost, if you see what I mean. Now this Mr. Jordan knew much of human nature, as was to be expected of a man in his position, so he suggested that we visit the nearest U. S. O. center. All in all, it was a darn good idea, because the first thing I laid eyes on was a neat little number in one of those blue uniforms. Very becoming!! The only thing that disappointed me was the presence of two rings on her left hand, and, as she turned around, I recognized loan Wirth, or more than likely, Mrs. Robert Moline. She was giving instructions to two of her hostesses, Jeanne Whitcomb and Jane Nuss. However, such delightful diversions weren’t exactly helping me find a suitable physique, so we meandered over toward the mess hall. By this time, I was on the lookout for old school pals, and I wasn’t disappointed. I almost knocked down a major, no less, who proved to be our old football captain, Stanley Peterson. Seeing the look on his fact was worth being minus a body; but then, can you imagine bumping into thin air? You’d probably be slightly amazed at yourself, too!! We left him mumbling to himself and entered the mess hall, which was jammed to capacity, naturally. We didn’t waste much time in the main room, but made a bee line for the kitchen. Even ghosts get hungry, I guess. I had no more than swung open the door than I recognized the head dietitian on duty—Bonnie Brison. She always did want to major in home economics, I remember. I’ll bet she wondered where some of that food went, but we didn’t wait to find out. While strolling rather aimlessly along, munching Bonnie’s stolen buttercakes, we heard some shooting, so we headed in that general direction to investigate. We went quite some distance before we came upon some squadrons at target practice. The instructor was really letting them have it when we came into earshot, and I recognized the voice of Devore Killip even before I got a good look at him. He hadn’t changed a whole lot. I can-remember the days when I saw him walking down Market Street with one of those shot guns of his cradled in his arms. I wonder if he’s married. We watched for only a short time, and then made our way to the engineering division. I wasn’t a bit surprised when I saw Captain Bill Eagan bossing a crew of electrical engineers, including two old friends of his, Bob Kenney and Glenn Burklund. I was pretty sure by now that, before my visit was over, I should have seen all the members

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The Reflector is one of the oldest traditions of P. C. H. S. The older alumni will remember when the Reflector appeared as a monthly pamphlet, and, still later, as a semi-annual journal. The present form has been the accepted pattern since 1926. Regardless of the type of publication, the purpose remains the same—to record your happy memories for future reference. When you’ve reached the grand old age of thirty, think what fun you’ll have, glancing through the Reflectors of your school days! And so, we, the Reflector Staff of 1942, do hereby present to you, our successors, our humble efforts toward making your memories permanent. We sincerely hope they will mean as much to you as they do to us, the graduating class. THE STAFF Editor........................Barbara Davis Assistant Editor............Juanita Douglas Organization Editor ..... Marilyn Peterson Sports Editor ....... Devore Killip Photograph Editor ..... William Eagan