Paxton High School - Reflector Yearbook (Paxton, IL)

Page 21 text:

I, Wilbur Kelly, will my sober expression to Margaret Tappen. I, Mildred Kuntz, will my friendly manner to Dean Tieman. I, June Mattingly, will my love of square dancing to Dottie Parker. I, George Merrimac, will my four letters to Chuck Rutledge. I, Jane Merrimac, will my muscle to Mr. McKinney. I, Robert Miller, will my set of traps to Kenny Ogle. I, John McCabe, will my rugged charm to another Ludlow boy, Paul Graham. I, Wayne Natterstad, will my blush to James Swinney. I, Stanley Nelson, will my interest in farming to Robert Rasmus. I, Evelyn Ogle, will my skill in shorthand to Wanda Anderson. I, Patrick O’Hare, will my unruly forelocks to Stanley Tagg. I, Franklin Oyer, will my card business to Mr. Ohmart. I, Mary Piatt, will my ability to concentrate in study hall to Jack Elfson. 1, Robert Plackett, will our back row seats in the Paxton theater to Truman Swan. I, Vera Reynolds, will my innocent appearance to Rita Arnold. I, Howard Rhodes, will my one-track mind to Jean Kingren. I, Mary Rich, will my art of minding my own business to Mary Lou McDannel. I, Maurine Rutledge, will my band-box appearance to Erma Jean Van Derryt. I, Vernon Saldeen, will my little feet to Stanley Cornelison. I, Richard Smith, will my hair tonic to Violet Adams. 1, Donald Smith, will my bashful manner to Betty Good. I, Mona Stagen, will my fighting spirit to Bob Olson. I, Elizabeth Stanford, will my bottle of peroxide to Ruthie Palmberg. I, Lee Swanson, will my hitch-hiking route to John Edwards. I, John Swinney, will my interest in cheerleaders to John Lee. I, Evelyn Sypult, will my meek manners to Jimmy Adams. I, Howard Thompson, will my out of town interests to Beverly Hartman. I, Phyllis Tieman, will my soft gentle voice to Bill Henry. I, Harold Van Derryt, will my speed (or lack of it) to Charles Tagg. I, Doris Watson, will my fondness of after-school snacks to Pat Milos. I, Evelyn Weburg, will my short stature to Delmar Ehmen. I, Robert Yates, will my chair in the band to Joan Frederick.

Page 20 text:

 7«4e 1941 Will We, the members of the Senior Class, of the City of Paxton, of the County of Ford, of the State of Illinois being of sound mind and memory, and considering the uncertainty of the frail and transitory life, do therefore make, ordain, publish and declare this to be our last Will and Testament. Therefore, we desire to leave our outstanding traits to those who are com- pelled to remain behind us. I, Louise Anderson, will my hash-slinging ability to Margaret Harrington. I, Margaret Anderson, will my secure future to Joan Stagen. I, Larry Blue, will my trips to the YMCA to Doug Given. I, Norma Boyer, will my easy-going manner to Shirley Bonnen. I, Beverely Brison, will my flirtatious manner to Mary Ann Cookson. I, Jean Burklund, will my bracelets to Bette Thomas. I, Lemuel Burklund, will my interest in females to Darwin Baker. I, John Cameron, will my political ideas to Miss Bear. I, Kathryn Carson, will my poise to Gene Van Antwerp. I, Patricia Cleary, will my polished shoes to Hershel Zahnd. I, Robert Cottrell, will my alarm clock to Janet Chappelle. I, Edward Dickey, will my dependability to Norma Hollister. I, Jo Ann Griswold, will my tumbling ability to Barbara Redenius. I, Irene Gustafson, will my giggle to Cynthia Swanson. I, Patricia Hamm, will my wild parties to Joan Stevens. 1, Joanne Hapenny, will my ability to love ’em and leave ’em to Janet Weaver. I, Wayne Hileman, will my reputation as the strong, silent type to John Samuelson. I, Julia Horridge, will my steady heart to Beverly Hamm. I, Helen Huber, will my passion for cutting my hair to Vernon Walker. 1, Virginia Ingold, will my long braids to Alyce Sheehan. I, Julietta Jayne, will my attraction for Buicks to Beverly Kennedy. I, Donald Karr, will my pictures of Joy Lundberg to Francis Larimer. He doesn’t need to return them.

Page 22 text:

Ptiapitecy Legs! Legs! Legs! That’s all I’ve seen for the past two days. I’m a penny and I’m now lying on a sidewalk in New York. It is located in front of a model- ing agency. Say, those legs look familiar. Surely it’s Elizabeth Stanford and, judging by the mink coat she’s wearing, she is doing quite well. Maybe she’s a show girl in that new Broadway hit, in which Robert Cottrell is playing. He has the lead of “Augie” in The Station is my Hangout. Costume supervision for this production is by Leo. Those are the initials of Lois Evelyn Ogle, and she has introduced some revolutionary changes in dress. Say, here comes a good-looking grin followed by a fellow. He just stepped out of the shop over which is written “McCabe’s Muscle Molding.” I wish somebody would pick me up. Oh! There’s an intelligent looking per- son. He should see me—at least he’s peering intently at the sidewalk. It’s that famous detective, Don Karr. I emember him because I was in a garter-money belt that he recovered. Darn, he passed me by but here comes a truck. The driver keeps brushing the long strawlike hair out of his eyes and now I see that it’s Harold Van Derryt. He has a big, black cat sitting beside him. Gee, the cat was there. Suddenly it let out a blood-curdling yell, made a vertical ascent of three feet, and hit the ground with its legs in a rotary motion called running. Yes, you might know, it’s that old familiar figure, John Cameron, the cat hunter, flitting along. That reminds me of the time I went with Wilbur Kelly, the elephant hunter, on one of his trips. He threw me to the natives off the coast of Liberia, but, funny thing, a native didn’t pick me up. It was Pat O’Hare, whom 1 later heard tell Staney Nelson, a missionary, that he was just fulfilling some of his secret desires. Say, somebody is picking me up. I don’t know who it is, but I can tell that I’m in a pocketbook, and, from the noise, she must have boarded a streetcar. She’s talking to someone with a low tone. It sounds familiar. Listen! “Joanne, you look all worn out.” “Yes, I am, Virginia. I’ve been downtown all afternoon, and I have to hurry home because my two future Dodgers are coming home at four o’clock. “One is called “D” and the other, “J.” How is your braiding business coming along?” “Just fine. We call it “Ingold’s Twisting Shop.” Oh, this is where I get off. “Bye.” “Goodbye.” Virginia steps off the car and pulls me from her purse to pay for a New York Herald. I guess she was attracted hy the headline “Fifth Avenue Socialite Tops Elsa Maxwell.” It refers to Patti Hamm’s latest party in her swank penthouse. The columnist says that Robert Miller’s concussion band provided the soft, dreamy, mood. Say-there’s a story about two somewhat cracked scientists by the name of Eddie Dickey and George Merrimac, who were severely injured in a chemical explosion. They were experimenting, and George said, “Go on, pour it in, Edward. It won’t explode.” Say, the guy, who’s running this paper stand, surely looks familiar. He has the same distinguished sideburns—and yes, there’s the sample calling card on the counter. It’s Frankin Oyer. This is a busy corner. I wonder why that crowd is across the street. Oh, there’s the cause of it all. Maurine Rutledge is modeling the famous S and R nylon swimming suit. The S stands for Vernon Saldeen, who supplies the chemi- cal formula and the B is Lemuel Burklund, who has charge of all lady customers. Speaking of swimming suits reminds me of Wayne Hileman. He manages the New York Y.M.C.A. and can now swim without shirking any of his duties. He’s