Somerville High School - Radiator Yearbook (Somerville, MA)

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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 I reached for my toga to rip a piece off, only to discover that togas went out of date long ago.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

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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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THE LOOSE PUCK Thomas McNamara 55 Ken Burke waited nervously for his turn to break in on the goalie and shoot; for this was his first time trying out for any or- ganized team, because he had just moved to Central City and didn’t know anybody yet. Finally his turn came and he picked up the puck with his stick and started to shoot; but he fell and he could hear the other boys laughing as he skated toward the bench. The Coach came over and said “Ken, I re- alize that you just came to Central City, but you will have to take a little kidding from the boys and stop acting like a little kid or you’ll never make this hockey team. After a week of practicing, the coach picked his team. Ken was a sub, and he wasn’t too happy because he knew that he wouldn’t get into many games. On the night of the first game they were out on the ice practicing as the arena was filling up. Central High won the game and although Ken didn’t get in, he told himself that there would be other games. Central High had a schedule of 10 games. Near the end of the season Central had won every game and this was their last game with Berkeley High for the championship. Early in the first quarter Berkeley scored, but Central came back with a goal at the end of the second period. The third period Berk- eley scored again and took the lead 2-1. In the last period with five minutes left to play, Central scored to tie. Then the coach said, “All right, Ken, get in there and get us a goal.” Ken’s heart was beating as he knocked the puck over to his wing. “Only one minute left to play!” he said. He skated in front of the Berkeley goal and let his wing bring the puck in. His left wing took a shot and missed, but the rebound came right to Ken, and he lifted the puck into the corner of the net to win the game. His teammates put him on their shoulders and carried him to the lockers laughing and cheering. Ken found his friends and was very happy. LITTLE BOY FOUND Louise Voishnis ’55 It was a crispy mid-November morning as my company and I were marching along a dirt road leading to Strasbourg. We were enroute to a French seaport where a ship would be waiting to take us back to the States. We had had tough going; many of us weren’t marching. Those were unhappy days. But I felt pretty lucky; scratched a little here and there, but not much. To keep those few scratches from hurting and to hide my lone- liness, I had a snapshot in my wallet of my wife Ann, and my son, Johnny, who was al- most eight years old. Before I enlisted in the Army about a year and a half ago, Johnny and I had quite a talk together. We planned fishing and hunting trips, circuses, rodeos, and all the things mothers love to see their husbands and sons do together. Yes, siree, Johnny was getting to be quite a regular fellow. Let’s see, the last time I saw him, his blond hair was turning brown. I re- member how it used to fall over his hazel eyes when he played. When I get home, the first thing I’m going to do is to take Ann and Johnny out on the town—or maybe I’ll be content to stay at home and spend a quiet evening with them near me. We were given orders to rest awhile before we went on. As I sat down and lit a cigarette, I heard some of the men excited about some- thing. When I looked up, I saw what it was. It was a fair-haired boy clad in dirty clothes. (Turn to page 11) Eight