Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

Page 24 text:

Well, the old grey boat is gone at last. During the night a northeaster blew in the rising tide, and the storming waves lilted her Irom the high ground on which she has rested these many winters. Now she lies over in the marsh, her side torn asunder, her ribs sticking out like the carcass of last Sunday’s turkey. My father built her himself up at Quincy High School during the winter of 1910. He made the pattern from the boat of an old Swede, I think his name was Swenson, a natural-born fisherman and lover of the sea, who gave my father many valuable hints. Cypress for the sides, oak for the prow, yellow pine for the bottom, and nothing but brass screws, copper nails, and galvanized fittings would do. Then, finally, painted a shiny, battleship grey, she was placed on exhibition at the end of the school term, along with other articles turned out by students. Somehow, grey seemed to be her color and we never varied it. She always seemed happiest just to lie out there in the water without drawing too much attention, and. thereafter, she came to be known as “the grey boat.” Yes, she was quite a boat and she had mam admirers. First, of course, was my father, her creator, and then, in time, my brother. Even in the cold grey hours of winter dawn, when the snow was thick and ice stiffened the anchor rope so that it had to be laid lengthwise along the gunwales, these two would steal out to some fog-covered island and pile great masses of seaweed on the rocks for a blind. Then, with their guns in one hand and a brace of ducks in the other, the conquering heroes returned, cold and ravenous, to a glowing fire and a steam- ing pot of savory victuals. From early spring when the flounders first came out of the mud. until late fail when the smelts swarmed in schools along the edge of the eel grass, someone was out in her. I guess it was love from the first time I sat in her and liked the feel of the swells. As I grew up. I learned to row and. funny thing. I just knew that nothing serious could happen in that good old sturdy, flat-bottomed, grey boat. Maybe it was a mysterious vovage to an undiscovered shore in search of buried treasure, or a merry picnic on a distant island at which we children would bask in luxurious thoughts and dance with joy for days in advance. The old grey boat almost came to life and enjoyed the pastime as much as we. I remember well those lazy afternoons snoozing under an old straw hat to the deep rolling lullaby of the long, drowsy swells and the steady quiver of the undisturbed fish line, or even a frolicking water battle when no one could possibly emerge without a sound ducking or hearts splash. Never once did she mind our rocking or abuse; she seemed to love every moment. But now. she’s gone and 1 shall miss her. I never knew what was considered a decent end for a boat. Somehow. I always thought of a boat lying out there on the beach, filled with shifting sands and slowly disintegrating as lime and rot and beating waves carried it into oblivion. Guess I'll just leave the old grey boat where she lies. Some child seeking driftwood will come along and take parts of her home, and the stove or open fireplace will glow blue and green and red from the copper and brass and salt in her. She won’t mind or think she has come to an inglorious end, because she has given us memories and to us she will always be the symbol of freedom, youth, and adventure. Marilyn Soithwicr page twenty :

Page 23 text:

2)°m 2), 'ear Doggy chews a slipper, doggy knows he’s bad, Doggy pulls his cars back and looks real sad. Bones in the living room, clutter up the floor, Doggy’s in the kitchen, dragging in some more. Water’s ready, towels handy, bath time arrives, In the nearest closet, our knowing doggy dives. Company for dinner, doggy’s right handy, Doggy begs prettily, and gobbles down the candy. Doggy scratches at the door, vows he will be quiet. Doggy meets a pal outside, and then they raise a riot. Doggy loves all sailors—his lovely fur so white Clings to navy uniforms and makes them look a sight! Doggy’s bad, and doggy's naughty, doggy’s pretty queer. Would we change him? Not for worlds! He’s our doggy dear. Shirley Sherad Yjoctumai y4scent “3 o’clock in the morning . . ,” creak, creak, thumpity thump, scratch, squeak . . , “and all through the house not a creature was stirring . . ,” except you! There, got the door closed, now to attack the stairs. “If you step on the nail heads, stairs won’t creak. you had read somewhere. Easy does it, how many more stairs, this must be the last one—now just across the hall and into your room. CRASH. BANG !!! Lights, mother, father! That wasn’t the last stair !!! Mai gave t Johnson page nineteen

Page 25 text:

Sortie Ii was the 2‘lth of March in Foggia, Italy, at the air base of the 463(1 Bomber Croup. Hie day was only three and one-hall hours old and was damp and very muddy. The black, shifting smoke from the 100 octane gas fires burning in the makeshift stores of the te nts gave an appearance as in Pittsburgh. I'lie Colonel, on his rounds, was wakening the fellows scheduled for the day’s bombing mission. Presently, he earner to I’-.SO where he found silence but for the bustling around ol my two pups, Battle Orders and Stand Down”—from orders ol the clay: Battle Order being snow white, meaning we would fly because of suitable weather. “Stand Down” being jet black, meaning we would stand down on ac- count of bad weather. There were seven of us in this six-man tent, but we made out nicely by building extensions, making tables, lockers, and chairs, acquiring some candles, and tigging up a radio. Five of us belonged to one crew, and the other two on another, but they weren't scheduled to fly. We were quite easy to waken as we had anticipated a rough mission today. There was some kidding as usual, but it seemed to be hiding a tenseness due to the secrecy ol the sortie. Without chaos, the gunners took their turn at the wash basin a steel helmet mounted on a sawed-oll 100-pound practice bomb casing. We lilc-d out. grabbing our mess kits from our cots. Soon we were sitting down to our usual breakfsat of dehydrated eggs, after sweating out a brief wait in line. As we walked back to our tents, the sun was rising, turning the sky blood red. The fifteen minute s before briefing we used putting our tents in good shape. At the- briefing room, we quieted down right away. The Major, a heavy-set moustached man of around forty, was ascending the steps of the platform, fol- lowed by his two aides. The room was quiet except lor the footfalls of these three. page twenty-one