Rowe High School - Viking Saga Yearbook (Lakeville, OH)

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...SENIOR CLASS PROPHECY One bright day, May 28, 1950 to be exact, I was sitting in my cubby hole of an office marked, “Miss Bristol, Superintendent, Rowe Memorial Hospital ' dreaming of days long since past when there came a knock on the door. Bulling my legs off the desk and parking my gum under the chair for future use, 1 bellowed, “Come in! In walked a student nurse, Mildred Turner, who having gone through three colleges, Princeton, Harvard and Yale disguised as a man had finally found her true profession, holding her patients’ hands. “ upey, she cried, “there’s been an accident out front. As we dashed out with stretchers across our backs, I supposed that that lazy janitor and ambulance driver, Floyd Batchelor, was sleeping again as he used to do in study hall at Rowe High. Once outside we found Keith Anderson, buried beneath the debris of his ancient 1928 car, “Hayrack,” with his girl friend the glamour girl of the screen, Hedy L. Brown or if you prefer, Dorothy Jane Brown, beside him. After lugging these two into private rooms, I stopped in to see Mrs. Howie Mast who was visiting her three children who had pedicurus, a new disease of the feet. Mrs. Mast had been our farmer Faye Stack until a wintry day in 1942 when she had said, “Yeah, man. The day’s work had tired me so I decided to go to a movie. As 1 passed out the door 1 gazed again at the plaque,“This hospital donated by Edward Stevenson to his native city, Conneaut. Ed had become a multimillionaire you know. At the show “The Fleacatcher,” I saw Richard Taylor-ed pants playing the leading role of the hero and his heroine, Patrio Nelson. Patrio or Patricia had continued her stage life after her tremendous success as Elaine in our senior play at Rowe. The film story of “The Fleacatcher had been scribbled off by Willard Puffer. Mr. Puffer had written two best sellers, “What Happens to Bed-Bugs When You Step on Them and “The Case of the Crook With B. O. After leaving the theater I stopped at the “Ye Olde Browne-Brady Cookie Shoppe where Dorothy K. Browne and Naomi Brady had gone in cahoots and were chiseling people by using sawdust instead of graham Hour in their cookies. I asked Dot what had become of Audrey Cline and Hazel Kirkwood and she told me to take a gander out in the kitchen. There to my amazement I saw Hazel parked on a chair kneading dough with her feet and with great tears rolling down her cheeks. She kindly informed me that Nick and Dote were too broke to buy salt for the bread so she had to supply it with her salty tears. Audrey Cline was standing on her head drilling holes in bread and drawing out the insides to use as biscuit dough. Leaving the four chiselers I sauntered along Main Street when I saw a sign above Peltons marked “Come in and see Vera Blakeslee from Broadway ballet dance and receive a lollipop free. By the Sugar Bowl I met the former Muriel Quinn now Mrs. H. Todd dragging three tots by the arms. All were screaming for ice cream, including Muriel so 1 invited them all inside where we found Harold “Dutch Wiley and his wife Shirley running the joint. Muriel whispered, “He must have learned the business hanging around here so much in his senior year at school. Departing hence, I traversed toward the City Hall where our old pal, Russell Knauff was sitting on the mayor’s chair. Russ was puffing on a vile smelling se-gar and had a prop under his stomach to keep it in place. Remembering how Russell would dash in the room fifteen seconds before the tardy bell would ring, I wondered how in the world he ever got to his meetings on time. I went in to speak to him and his two secretaries Mona Ward and Laverna iHelmbrecht. Mona and Laverna were still old pals and they went to their work each morning in their plane, which was now parked on the top of the city hall. Leaving the sitting hall I strolled into the park where Robert Frame, home on furlough from the Navy was sitting in the fish pond teaching the goldfish to use a periscope as they swam. As we stood talking, along came Leonard Blood and Charles Devereaux swinging their billy clubs. Yes, in these two mighty graduates of Rowe lay the hope of 18

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served, provided she and her dandy use them only when Hube and I are busy elsewhere. I, HAROLD BELNAP, transfer with joy to Richard Bunnell all of my beautiful blue “dan-Dees” and red “Fines” in chemistry. I, HELEX-ON-THE-LAKE FOGG, bequeath my rights during school hours on Richie Wheeler to Robby Puffer with the agreement that he keep all the girls away from said Richie. To Phillip Puffer, I, JOHNNY HOLDSON, will my throne—a dirt mound—and as king of the Hillbillies, I command him to keep the future seniors from feudin’ too much during meetings at noon. To Bernice Hershey, I, LOIS WILLIAMS, bequeath my ultra-modern hair styles, which have led me to fame—did I say something? Here is the formula, wash it once a month, curl on one and one-half inch strips of bright red and green cloth, allow to dry, comb into curls—come to school and let the boys pull it out—result: hair-do of the future. I, RICHARD TAYLOR, hand that unde-finable “something” which makes me the Robert Taylor of Rowe to Gene Spieldenner. To Bernadene Yusko, I, RUTH SCULLY, leave all my excursions to Yankee Lake with the agreement that it is to be Phil who takes her there, as Richard of Jefferson did me. So that the tradition of having at least one sailor in the Senior class, I, CHARLES RILEY, award this trying assignment to Fred Hirsimaki. If he maintains this tradition faithfully I shall give him another prize possession that he should appreciate— that of postponing appointments, but “Re member Pearl Harbor.” I, MABLE SMITH, lavish on Delores Davis exactly forty-one pounds and ten and one-fourth ounces as I have heard she needs a little excess ballast and I really don’t need it—or do I ? I, ALBERT HUBBARD, impart with my many dates with “overtown” girls to Archie Buie. May he have as many classy times as I—you see I must settle down to just one •blond, two brunettes, and one redhead now. To Betty Jack Wright, I, AUDREY CLINE, donate my original tittering as I must be a lady from no on out in the cold, cold world. May it get her into as much trouble as it did me. I, DORIS BUNNELL, turn over to Harriet Smith my bespoken honor of having all the mirrors I need. But in investigation she is conceded the wee sum of 15; one in each book, one in every coat pocket, two in her locker, and three in her purse. To Grace Hall, I, HAZEL KIRKWOOD, offer my chemistry book in hopes that she will open it more than I did. If she carrys out this trivial mission faithfully, I am sure Mr. Ward will appreciate it. To Christine Jones, I, ELOISE EVANS, grant my high rank in the United States Navy, provided she leaves the sailor with a label “hands off” alone. Beach is reserved for me. I, WALTER CHAMPLIN, bequeath my technique of being the blushing senior of Rowe to John Mononen. If he loses this trait, he must turn it over to someone else more adept at the business of blushing. To Esther Montgomery, I, “Big” DOROTHY BROWNE, will my graceful art of ballet dancing. On an after thought she had better practice every day, but be sure to do this on the ground floor. I, MONA WARD, bequeath exactly 4 and 1-2 inches of my waistline and 3 inches of my height to Betty Hall, I am positive she doesn’t need it. To Ida Mae Jones, I, FAYE STACK, surrender my willowy figure with the stipulation that she has to drink one pint of milk every noon plus one orange, and at least one candy bar, and stand on her head in the northeast corner of the gym. I, MARIAN COLE, will my talent as the Bette Davis of Rowe to Jean Conway—May she participate in as many activities as I have. To David Jacobs, I, JUNIOR ASHBY bequeath the position of the Nelson Eddy of the Senior class, I hope they don’t laugh at you as much as they did at me when I sang. I, VIRGINIA SPENCER, bequeath the enjoyable (ha, ha) job of writing the Senior class will to everyone who thinks he is unfit for the undertaking. In Witness Whereof, we have hereunto subscribed our names this 28th day of May in the year of our Lord Nineteen Hundred and Forty-two. SIGNED: Class of ’42 Attorney—Virginia Spencer WITNESSES SEAL 17

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Conneaut. Their main duty was to help beautiful women over the curbs. As I walked on I saw Mable Smith and her third husband wheeling a baby carriage. Her latest husband came from Springfield I was told. It seems that most of my Rowe High girl friends were married. Speaking of marriage I remembered that my old pal Virginia Spencer was also married and lived down on the bank of Lake Erie. Bob had built her a home high on the hill and had given her a telescope for a present so that she could watch for his boat. Because she loved candy so much (remember her candy bars at noon?) he had had a candy factory built next door for her. Hearing a great noise above my head I looked up and read in sky writing, “Fly with John Holdson at the Municipal Airport.” John was an old bachelor, having lost his faith in women. No wonder! How Dorothy K. Browne used to bat him around during the noon period! Getting into my kiddy car (cal's having gone out of style with the war) I heard a boat whistle. That reminded me that Charles Riley and Albert Hubbard were captains on their own ships. It was rumored that they were jealous of each other and that every time their boats, “The Suzy Q” and “The Big Apple,” met they bumped each other. Say, speaking of men in uniform, Robert Gaus became the toughest sergeant in the U. S. Army. They called him “Leatherneck” behind his back. Walt Champlin had rapidly made his way up in the world by marrying the captain’s daughter. They created a new post especially for him called Co-Captain. In my kiddy-car I turned on the radio to hear my favorite program “Let’s have faith,” by the Reverend Paul Whipple and his wife June Ring, who had told us many times in her senior year that she was going to marry no one but a minister, but she couldn’t quite give up the farm so she and Paul lived on their farm in Silent City between their engagements. Tuning in on station R-O-W-E I heard the crooning voice of Doris Bunnell who, after putting Jimmy asleep in his own little room, exercised her vocal chords by hog calling over the radio. After Doris had finished there was a debate given by Eloise Evans and Marian Cole, both running for president of the U. S. The president that we had had when we were seniors had left a will stating that the next president should come from Rowe. Not wishing to disappoint him these two girls had volunteered to run. Of course the whole world cheered when they did so. Stopping at “Pierre’s Beauty Parlor,” (or in plain English, Jimmy Walters’) for one of those new coiffures called “Swing a gig,” I met Dorothy Kopp and Audrey Hazeltine, now both farmers’ wives, Dorothy living in Sandy Creek and Audrey in Monroe Center, her old stamping ground. As I sat near the window, Ashby’s dairy truck went past. I could understand why Junior had gone into the milk business. Making the round collecting, he’d be shore to meet some pretty gals! Just outside the window stood a woman on a soapbox yelling, “Women of America, keep your toe nails trimmed and save the peelings for defense. Leaning out to tell her that the war had been over for five years, I saw that it was old “Skull,” Ruth Scully. Knowing that it would be useless to argue, I withdrew my head afraid that it might be hit by some of the rotten tomatoes being thrown around. Across the street was the dress shop, “Take It or Leave It,” run by Rose Prolong and her manager, Flora Huckleberry. These two madamoiselles obtained their latest styles from the greatest designer of all times, the one and only Helen Fogg of New York, Paris and Boston. I never purchased my gowns there, the styles were too extreme. I had heard that one of their customers had left the shop with one of their purple, black and orange gowns on and had instantly been run over by a truck. The driver thought she was a stop sign. As it was becoming dusk, I thought that I would scram back to my shack in the flats, designed by Richard Springer, builder of new homes, and listen to “Butch” Belnap under the management of “Sis” Williams, fight Joe Louis for the third time. “Butch’s motto is “Never Say Die.” Cruising up Route 20 by the Gulf Station I hit a bump. I sighed as I thought of what Mr. Hershey used to tell us in class, “What this town needs is new blood.” And now, my creaking bones told me that the town was still the same and that our class, no matter how great and famous it had become, had still neglected to fix the bumps. Prophet, Katherine Bristol. 19