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

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While the rest of us were enjoying our were Elizabeth Hogle, Grace Hall, and Charlie Sippola. (We’re mighty proud of them, too.) If the spring fever bug: hadn’t already been around it was biting hard by May 17, for that was the date of our super-gala-prom. It was carried off to the theme of a garden which was complete even to the pools, and the bridge. Large May baskets were suspsended from the ceiling, holding balloons which were released during the evening. In the music room was a similar .scene but with a wishing well and all its accessories—yes, even the frog. But these days were not to last forever and before we knew it we were again being seated alphabetically, but now by Mrs. Kitchen in room 307. Then they called us seniors. Again Philip Puffer was elected president; Waynie Wheeler, vice president; Elsa Kesatie, secretary; and Grace Hall, treasurer. As soon as we came to, we realized that this was the year we had been waiting for since we were freshmen. Now was the time to get revenge on those poor scared freshies. We ruled with an iron hand so they were forced to squirm but not squawk as they removed their first layer of outer clothing and continued with their sentence. But “all’s well that ends well” and this ended well so we felt our cordial welcome had been appreciated. The Pilot Light was edited by Phyllis Herbel assisted by some other able-bodied seniors; namely, Elsa Kesatie, Kathryn Nelson, Ethel Palagyi, Esther Montgomery, Harriett Smith, Becky Wright, Grace Hall, Jean Louise Titus, and Waynie Wheeler. Can we ever forget the third and fourth periods on Friday when the Pilot Light came off the press. Typewriters were flying, the mimeograph machine was rolling, and the stapler was banging. Such a racket! We hope that next year’s staff can run it off as quickly as we were forced to do at times. vacation last summer, Charlie Sippola and Richard Bunnell were attempting to learn how to run the government when they were elected president. They were fortunate enough to be among those selected to attend Buckeye Boys’ State at Delaware. None of the other activities lacked our two cents, either. Where would those Rowe “champs” be without our representative in the all county basketball team, Duane Wheeler, and his friendly rival, Fred Hirsi-maki? Of course, there are our other let-termen, Phil Puffer, Charlie Sippola, and David Jacobs. The a cappella choir probably will miss next year the official tuner-upper, Christine Jones; Harriett Smith, Esther Montgomery, Mary Ring, Vivian Lane, Grace Hall, Ruth Walters, Phyllis Herbel, Elizabeth Baird, and Philip Puffer will also bid the choir adieu. Remember, too, how we used to try to keep in step with the music being played by the orchestra in assembly? Someone will have to take our place in there and in the band also. There was no need to get excited if you saw two flying figures dashing wildly down the hall at noon. It was merely the girls who sold candy. Those super-saleswomen included Kathryn Nelson, Rebecca Wright, Grace Hall, Evelyn Cole, Dorothy Rapose, Ruth Walters, Jeanne Philley, Christine Jones, Elizabeth Hogle, and Harriett Smith. It was rather dubious if we would be able to have a senior play but it was a “must” and so by the cooperation of all we did put it over. Just as quickly as the year had come, it was leaving. Nearly before we realized it, we were choosing our announcements and cards and making plans for class night, baccalaureate, and commencement. It is with regret that we say goodbye to all those who have helped us through the years—to the teachers, Mr. and Mrs. Hold-son, Mr. Torrence and all the others.

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Senior Class History September, 1931, saw a group of shiningfaced youngsters cautiously and shyly entering a school building; they were clutching at new pencil boxes and dolls, searching for someone who would guide them into the first grade. For us this meant four schools, located at Amboy, Farnham, Monroe, and East Conneaut. .Jane, Evelyn, and Libby know the true meaning of “the little red schoolhouse”; fond memories take them back to the one-roomed Monroe school with the double seats, one teacher at the controls, and early morning walks to a neighbor’s house for the daily water supply. Perhaps these recollections can’t be matched by the rest of us but nevertheless, we, too, have memories of grade school. Kate will never forget those daily escapades with the new fourth grade teacher as she was in the process of becoming acquainted with her. Those who saw the operetta here at East Conneaut would never have recognized cute Peter Rabbit as our own Phil Puffer. Charlie still blushes as he thinks of the time in the seventh grade that he was mistaken for a coat on the coat-rack by one of the girls who needed some support while she was attempting to remove her snow-pants. Ben and his speedy green convertible were a familiar sight at Amboy. Mary was the athletic star at Farnham in those days and she is still known for her skill in basketball. Somehow we managed to live through these days until “the day” came at last when we were ushered into the portals of Rowe High. As “green frosh” we found refuge with Mr. Curie until the fatal Friday arrived when we were to be initiated. That night nothing could save us, we figured, but by some miracle Betty Wright got “Your Are My Sunshine” yodeled out, and Shirley Brauch managed to push that peanut across the floor with her nose. The rest of us suffered as much but actually we felt like full-pledged Rowe freshmen after the party. Christine presided over us the rest of the year. Her helpers were Jeanne Conway, vice president; Jane Ross, secretary; and Grace Hall, treasurer. As sophomores in Mr. Saari’s home room we chose a newcomer—Harriett Smith, for our president. Bill McCrone was elected vice president; Dorothy Rapose, secretary; and Grace Hall, treasurer. That year we received our first real taste of high school life—term papers, posters, newspapers, and bookkeeping. We held a Thanksgiving party and were joint hosts with the freshmen at an April Fool’s party. Our receipts were netted chiefly by sales tax stamps and bake sales. But it was in our junior year that we blossomed into full bloom and buckled down to show “good ole Rowe High” that we wanted recognition. Our class was divided for the first time in our school life, but in this case the house was not divided, against itself. This time our home room teachers were Miss Hunnell and Miss Drown. Our “chief” was Phil and a good one did he make; to aid him were Bryce Bryant as vice president; Christine Jones, secretary; and Ruth Walters, treasurer. Our first success of the year was our junior play, “The Black Derby,” a double-barreled mystery which revealed many surprising things to its appreciative audience. The eleven reasons for our play's success were Jeanne Conway, Phyllis Herbel, Grace Hall, Jean Louise Titus, Dave Jacobs, Kenneth Roberts, Philip Puffer, Bryce Bryant, Richard Bunnell, Miss Drown, and Miss Hunnell. Because of a shortage of war materials ours was the first class to receive school rings when we were juniors, thus breaking an old tradition. But this only added to our pride—being able to show the famed Viking head a year early. Jewelry was coming our way, not only in the way of rings but also in pins—eleven of us received a cappella pin, one a Pilot Light pin, and many received library keys. Little did we know that we were fortunate enough to have the great man Ben Franklin—alias Charlie Sippola—in our class until the radio play was presented over WICA. The “Honorites” selected for the National Honor Society representing the juniors, 13 ►

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Senior Class Prophecy I could hear the first robin singing the evening of April 21, 1955, when I laid aside my book, “Gigglin as a Fine Art,” which had been written by those two supercolossal authors, Jeanne Philley and Dorothy Rapose, and decided it was about time to scramble off to that mel-o-dramatic musical, “The Alexandrian Feud.” As you might have guessed from the title, the name of the composer and star in electric lights over the marquee is Christine Flagstaff Jones. As I left my cleverly decorated plastic studio, designed by Helen Clank, and rounded the corner by the drugstore, my eyes were attracted by a “Scrubo Shampoo” sign. Going closer for a better view and for confirmation of my hunch, I saw that the model was Rowe’s glamorous, golden blond, Rebecca Wright. Leaving the show window, I hurried to my destination and arriving there I was greeted by a poster which announced the coming appearance of Beatrice Taylor, premiere danseuse of the American ballet. Dashing into the last available box seat, I saw the curtain rise for the first act. One of my ambitions had been to attend an opera and at iast it had ibeen realized. Pushing my way through the record-breaking crowd, I hastened to Christine’s dressing room, but it was so crowded that I got only the autograph of the wardrobe girl, Evelyn Cole. Among other things she informed me that Christine’s manager is Paul Irish. Leaving the opera house I was struck down by a reckless driver and rushed to a hospital by a kind passer by. Who do you suppose was at the hospital to greet me? None other than Muriel Eric.xsen, acclaimed by a Gallop Poll as the No .1 nurse of 1955; the secret of her tremendous success is the fact that she reads jokes to her patients. I thought, “That’s Murial for you.” I asked her about the other girls who had had ambitions to become a nurse back in 1943. She told me that Harriett Smith had passed her course but the only way she can cure her patients is to hold their hand and sing them lullaibies; as for Donna Mae Clark, at present she is masquerading as ■ a man and studying for her doctor’s degree as a veterinary, at Harvord. After three days of convalescing I decided to strike out for the old home town, Conneaut. On boarding the AA plane, I was greeted by the hostess who turned out to be Kathryn Nelson; on the trip, we swapped bits of news about the old gang and it was from her I learned that Grace Hall had been a June bride and was now feeding Bob her all-bran muffins. Betty Wright, too, is now a very successful farmer’s wife—must be she also took a hint from P. O. I), class and learned to make her own bread. As for Gordon Stoker, he has just been proclaimed the world’s champion corn husker. Ruth Jane Walters would iby now be a rich woman due to her large celery and carrot farm but, alas, she has eaten all the profits and is now 'bankrupt. Since Kathryn had to attend to the demands of her passengers, I asked her to turn on my individual radio; she tuned in to the “Hit Parade” and who do you suppose the tobacco auctioneer was? None other than Kenneth Roberts, the cutter-upper of the class of ’43. The East Conneaut City Airport came all too soon and, after biding Kate good-by, I hailed a taxi and made a beeline for the school. When I had opened the north door, I was sorry I hadnTt brought along some cotton batting—I wondered who in the world could be making such a racket and on sneaking up to the music room door I saw Esther Montgomery teaching a music class and I thought , “No wonder.” My eyes then wandered to the home economic room and its teacher, Elizabeth Hogle. She beck oned for me to come in and began to give me the low-down on the class of ’43. Lawrence Best and James Quinn had gone into cahoots and due to the strict rationing of cow’s milk were successfully raising nanny goats. Elizabeth Baird is down in Washington, I). C., scribbling down shorthand and has just received her golden jubilee four-star medal at three hundred words a minute. I thought it no great wonder considering the way she had gone to town in Mr. Deevers’ shorthand class. The chimes ■ ► 15