Somerville High School - Radiator Yearbook (Somerville, MA)

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Stoned an J£ WHEN THE CAR BROKE DOWN Beverly Conn ’55 Jean was getting fidgety, and Frank knew why. He buttoned his collar up against the chilly evening air. It wasn’t so late, but he’d promised Jean’s folks that they wouldn’t be gone long, and parents just don’t seem to un- derstand that their kid’s cars actually can run out of gas, once in a while. He sat on the fender, and gazed at his antiquated jalopy. Suddenly it began to rock, and Jean’s voice came to his ears. “Come on, Frank,” she called from behind the car somewhere. “Maybe we can push this thing to the top of that hill ahead, and roll down. It’s a steep one, remember?” “I hadn’t thought of that,” he answered, as he joined her. It was quite a job to get the car rolling, and the rough bumps and the in- cline of the road made it even more difficult. “Just a little farther, Jean.” “Okay—” Gee, she looked cute with her scarf tied that way. “Get back to business,” he repri- manded himself as the car neared the top of the incline. “She’s beginning to roll—hop in quick, Jean!” “The hill’s steeper than I thought,” she shouted. Frank’s answering grin turned to a frown as he struggled to get in the door. “Put your foot on the brake!” “Which pedal?” “That one!” “Now hold the wheel while I get in!” Jean clutched the wheel, as Frank squeezed in the door. “Okay,” he breathed, and Jean sat back, a little dazed. “How did you like your first driving lesson?” “Don’t be funny.” But the worst part was over and she smiled. They were halfway down the hill and picking up speed again, but Jean didn’t mind the bumps. If something didn’t fall apart, they ought to be able to coast to the car tracks before long, and the 9:45 trolley was due in twenty minutes. She might be home in time, after all. Suddenly the wheel wrenched out of Frank's grip, and the car thudded into the banking at the side of the road. Frank looked awfully sheepish. “I don’t have a spare tire,” he said. Oh, well, it was a nice night for a walk. SNEEZER’S GAWLIC WAR Richard Howe ’55 I, Quintus X. Sneezer III, the mighty con- sul of Rome, having finished my consuling for the day, found myself heading home, whistling to the gay tune of “Little Blue Rid- ing Hood.” All of a sudden my chief scout came galloping down the street, his mane flying in the wind. He came up to me, breath- lessly shouting the ghastly news that our Gawlic neighbors were crossing the River Rubbercorn to declare war on imperial Rome! With great haste I ran to the home of our Army bugler and got him to toot the stirring notes of the call, “Assembly.” In no time at all, about three hours, our entire Army was together, 150 strong, and prepared to march against the Gawls. We piled into Army trucks, as pack horses were not yet invented, and buzzed off to the Rub- bercorn. We were soon in sight of the Gawlic troop. They were ready for us, however, and opened fire immediately. As we were being bom- barded, one of my lieutenants was heard to Six

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SHOULD EIGHTEEN-YEAR-OLDS BE GIVEN THE VOTE? Betty Short ’54 If a youth of eighteen is obliged by law to serve in the armed forces of this country, with the possibility of sacrificing his very life, is it not just that he should have a voice in the management of the government he is obliged to serve? You say that he does not have enough knowledge or experience in such serious matters. Yet today’s eighteen-year- old, in most cases, has a high school education (more than many adult workers can boast); and through his part-time work, he has some experience in the business world. He has learned the procedure of voting in his studies dealing with civic functions, and he has had his dress rehearsal for voting by participat- ing in his high school elections. Having lived eighteen years in this present age means that enough worldly experience has been acquired for the youth to be able to distinguish between good and bad, right and wrong. If he is unable to make these dis- tinctions at eighteen, it is doubtful that he will ever be able to make them. Therefore, it is logical to accredit him with the ability to discern between candidates, and to vote wise- ly. Since he has the ability, let him use it —give him the right to vote! Then, you argue that as a voter you have to pay taxes. Ask any eighteen-year-old what you will about taxes. “Oh, yes,” he’ll tell you, “I know about taxes. I pay them, don’t I?” He pays them, and in most cases, having no dependents, a larger percentage of his wages are taken for taxes, than is taken from most adults. Any person earning $600 in a tax year is subject to taxation, in- cluding eighteen-year-olds. Since a large ma- jority of them help to support the govern- ment, they are entitled to have their say as to how their investment in the United States should be used. Most states sanction marriage at eighteen. The older folk will undoubtedly agree that marriage is no joke. It has more than its share of responsibilities. Good judgment and common sense, along with compatabilty and affection are required to make a success of it. The younger generation is doing an ex- cellent job in this department too. If they are mature enough and levelheaded enough to run a modern household, usually complete with television and family car, they are cap- able of voting. If an adolescent violates the law he is taken to a juvenile court and branded as a juvenile delinquent. If eighteen-year-olds vio- late the law they receive the same treatment as older people, and are punished as the law prescribes that an adult man or woman should be punished. When they have done wrong, they stand as men and women in the eyes of the law that judges them. Must they break laws and become criminals to be recog- nized as an adult? Of course not, you say. Then why aren’t they recognized as young adults intelligent enough to discuss world affairs, to take interest in their surround- ings, to vote. Between the adolescent of eighteen and the adult of twenty-one lay three short years. Physical growth will continue for a few years after eighteen; mental growth never stops; but moral growth has usually been estab- lished. The number of pounds a man weighs at eighteen and at twenty-one may differ; the opinions he has at eighteen may have changed or been revised at twenty-one, but his ethics and morals have remained constant. The time is ripe, and the young men and women of eighteen stand prepared to vote, awaiting only the green light. It is the just measure to be taken and the inevitable one. (The staff welcomes more student ideas on this subject.) THE BAND If you have attended any of the football games, you certainly have been impressed by our band. Bandleader Arthur Bizier has brought new life, new maneuvers, and many changes. Two new bass drums have been pur- chased, and the Art Club has painted the symbol of the band on each. And, believe it or not, at last the new uniforms have been purchased! According to the contract they will be ready for the Thanksgiving Day game with Waltham. Five

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say, “Vir, specta haec saxa-haila insans!” or “Man, dig these crazy hailstones.” While the Gawls stopped to reload, all sev- enty of us collected together, and planned an offensive. However, after the second round of shots from the Gawlic guns, all twenty of us deemed it more prudent to plan a defens- ive. We turned and ran towards them thar hills, only to find ourselves surrounded on all sides. We decided to hold our ground. All five of us knelt down and opened fire. Upon hear- ing four men gasp beside me. I, the mighty Quintus X. Sneezer III, decided to surrender. I reached for my toga to rip a piece off, only to discover that togas went out of date long ago. Before I could remove my suitcoat, I felt a sharp sting in my belly. I took my Chlorophyll tablets out, but it was no use. I was sinking fast. As I lie here, dictating these words to your reporter, I get weaker by the minute. Good- bye Lucy! Goodbye Uncle Milty and Marilyn Monroe!. . . .Quintus X. Sneezer III will soon be deceased! I feel cramped . . . gasping for breath . . . oh, to stretch out .... give me rom to breathe . . . boy, those poor sardines in the Editorial Room have nothing on me! DAY DREAMING Mary Lydon 55 As I gazed idly out of my window through the slowly falling snow, my eyes paused re- flectively at the enormous gate of the old Pemberton High School. I began to daydream of the junior year I spent in dear old P. H. S. Especially that day back in December when the snow was falling in its lazy way. I was waiting for Kay, who, as usual, was late. Then all of a sudden something hit me right straight in the face and everything went black. As I came to, I was gazing into a pair of big, soft, brown eyes. “My name is Andre Ouilette and I am very sorry I hit you,” he said. “Oh, that’s all right,” I said “I didn’t need the eye anyway. I am Mary O’Brien. Pleased to meet you, Andre.” “Gee whiz, Mary, I am sorry. And boy, is your eye turning black and blue. Could I help you home or do anything for you?” “No, I’m all right, so don’t worry over spilt milk.” I answered. “I am waiting for a friend. Here she comes now, late as usual.” “Hi, Mary! Goodness gracious! What hap- pened to you? Did you walk into a wall or something?” “No, Kay, just a snowball. Oh! Kay, this is Andre.” “Hello, Andre, how are you?” “I’m fine, Kay, and you?” “Oh, I’m all right, thank you,” answered Kay. “Mary, wasn’t that the new boy from Can- ada, who is supposed to be an all-round ath- lete?” “Yes, you dope. Now put your eye balls back in their sockets and let’s go home.” “How did you meet him? Come on, Mary, tell little Kay. She is all ears.” “Wait until we get home, and over a cup of coffee I’ll give you the low down.” After that day Andre and I became very good friends and went to all the school dances, plays and the prom, but the school year ended all too fast and when the last day was here, I said “Bon voyage” to Andre who was going back to Ontario and his girl. Seven