Somerville High School - Radiator Yearbook (Somerville, MA)

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MY DIFFICULTY IN WRITING ESSAYS Paul Massigilia ’63 Thus far in the current school year my literary achievements have been confined to the nonexistent. This deplorable (as any self- respecting English teacher will agree) con- dition is not due to any lethargy on the part of my English teacher; on the contrary, to our class there have been assigned both an essay and a short story, neither of which I have turned in at the appointed time. My record, unequalled within the confines of my English class, is chiefly due to the man- ner in which I perform my assignments. I seat myself at a table with a ream of com- position paper at my left hand, a gross of well-sharpened pencils at my right, and a dozen erasers in front of me. Thus fortified, I remain seated for two hcurs while I draw isoscles triangles, and regular hexagons, letter my name in old English type, write the Lord’s Prayer in Ger- man, and construct magnificent paper air- planes. At the end of this time (when I have either run out of paper or become buried with the above-mentioned pastimes) I give up, ex- cusing myself by saying that I’m not very persistent by nature as that too much think- ing is bad for my health. Actually, my imagination has not lain bar- ren all this time. However, it works in exact- ly the wrong direction. For instance, if it is an essay which is assigned, I perform my calisthenics with the pencil while the plots of countless short stories run rampant in my brain. While thoughts of the ancient Romans, chiva'ry, charging Ghurkas, and gangsters manufacturing Swiss cheese with machine guns pervade my mind and I invent a lover to make Romeo seem like an empty beer bot- tle, I am totally incapable of having opinions upon anything. When a short story is the order of the day, conversely, I have profound thoughts upon all things, but I cannot think of even a bad plot, were I to fortify myself. My English teacher offered what seemed a solution when she suggested to our class that we should write whenever we felt so inclined. I tried this and found that laziness is one of my more dominant traits of character. I write these lines, not in any plea for sym- pathy, but I do hope that some philanthropic assassin will read them and undertake a cru- sade to stamp out English teachers. Just in case, I have English period I in room 245. THAT FATEFUL NIGHT Rosemarie Farina ’63 I remember those carefree days of long ago when, as a child. I watched my older sis- ter dress for a date. While I sat on the bed, with my eyes glowing, she very carefully ap- plied mascara, eye shadow and numerous other beauty aids. I dreamed of the day I would dress for my first date, (that fateful night). I devoured books overflowing with sweet princesses and kind-hearted fairies. I sat through movies that gushed with love and romance. I was a romanticist in the true sense of the word. I imagined my date as the epitome of all Prince Charmings. His clothing would be im- peccable. Brimming with personality and hu- mor, he would laugh through the night. A mental image of his car loomed before me. The glistening white paint dazzled my eyes. It sparkled from fender to fender. The plush atmosphere of the restaurant we would dine at delighted me. Soft music floated to every table. My common sense, dulled and clouded by dreams, was cast aside. As I approached my sixteenth birthday “the” night arrived. I treasured every long, elaborate hour that I dressed. And then the doorbell rang. I opened the door, gazed at his scuffed sneakers, patched dungarees, sport shirt, disheveled hair, and staggered back. Meekly I whispered, “Hello.” With a snap of his chewing gum and a grunt from him, we departed. Before I knew what had happened we were on a crowded bus, fighting for a seat. This was my Prince Charming? ? ? The plush restaurant was Joe’s Pizza Place! The wail from the jukebox shattered my ear- drums. Later, at home. I realized how childish and foolish I was. I was waiting for someone who existed only in books. It was a hard-earned lesson, one I will never forget. Twtnty-fiv©

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to sneak out with the wagon, they had left that behind. It was a cloudy night, and the moon could not be seen. They had been traveling several hours, and it was now almost midnight. No sound was to be heard except the yapping of coyotes and the hoots of owls. It was then that Turlow, listening care- fully and intently, heard the snap of a dry twig. One of you do that?” he whispered to Joe and Nancy. Not us,” they replied. “Net so loud! Was it any of the horses?” Wasn’t my hoss,” whispered Nancy. “Mine neither.” said Joe. “Mebbe it was just a coyote,” Turlow tried to reassure himself. He stared at the Mountainside above for a full minute before he caught a glimpse of the two figures running wraithlike. He didn’t have to see the long black hair, the rawhhide boots, the breechclouts, or the glittering wolf- like eyes in the broad cruel faces to know that the two runners were Apaches. No one else could move so swiftly and yet so stealth- ily. And they were moving in Turlow’s direc- tion. Real quiet, you kids,” he whispered, one peep, we’re dead!” He eased his Colt from its holster and cocked it slowly. Turlow knew only too well that a shot might bring a howl- ing horde of warriors down on them. But he might soon have no choice. The Apache scouts moved steadily closer. Now he could hear them talking in low gut- teral voices. He leveled the Colt. Joe’s horse let out a snort. The Apache scouts whirled around. He walked swiftly toward the place where the two children crouched with fear- wide eyes. Turlow swung the Colt around to follow the scout. Now the Apache was only a hundred yards away. Turlow could distinguish his squat fea- tures. It was only a matter of seconds now—. Suddenly the Apache shrugged and turned around then they both headed down the mountainside in another direction. Turlow was conscious, for the first time, of his wildly thundering heart. As soon as the hostile scouts were well out of sight, he turned to the children and chuckled, Well you two can start breathin’ again. Let’s get moving!” The sun had risen once more, and the posse had re-discovered Bob Turlow’s trail with the aid of Manuel Turquino, Sheriff Mac ready’s ace halfbreed tracker. Turquino pushed his sombrero up from his eyes, and got up from the horse tracks, over which he had been kneeling. Si, boss, no doubt now, these outlaw heed into Indian country. He not live long there, I theenk!” One of the deputies muttered agreement. He’s goin’ into Cochise Country and the Apaches ’re sure to get him! I don’t wanna go chasin’ into there! — ’sides, I got a store to keep.” Finally, Sheriff Dan Macready was moved to agree. “All right, boys, if that’s the way you want it, I’ll go back. We’ll never catch him now, anyway. But I sure hope the Apaches get him—alive! Faro Banks was my friend!” Hey! Sheriff! Look there! It’s a cloud of dust! Might be Apaches.” All eyes turned to look. But it was not an Apache war party; there were only three riders. Soon they were close enough so that the posse could see the riders were a man and two children. “It’s Turlow!” one of the deputies yelled. Colts came out of holsters and rifles emerged from scabbards. So did Turlow’s Colt. But Turlow did not aim and fire; he threw the re- volver into the dust and raised his hands. For a second a brief smile cracked Mac- ready’s sour features. What made you come back, Turlow? Apaches on your trail? Who’re the kids?” Couple kids I met up in the hills,” Turlow answered. “Had to bury their folks.” “Well, mebbe you figured turnin’ good Samaritan to save your hide.” Macready spoke grimly. “Well, it won’t. You killed a friend of mine and we’ve got a tree limb and a rope waitin’ for you back in Tucson.” I kind of figured it that way,” was Tur- low’s only answer. He realized that he had just gone to his own hanging; that his act of mercy had just cost him his life, but somehow it did not bother Bob Turlow. In fact, he felt strangely happy. Twenty-four

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THE DESPERATE TRY Cordon Norman '63 Being only five feet, five inches tall, Don Norton thought his chances of making the basketball team were very slim. But he was determined he would make it. Having prac- ticed faithfully all summer, he was now ready. One Friday the news came from the loud- speaker that all candidates for the basketball team should report to the gym on Monday. Don made a note of it on his pad, and con- tinued with his studies. Monday arrived. He had just finished tie- ing his sneakers and trotted onto the gym floor. In the midst of comparatively gigantic boys was little Don. “Oh no!,” he thought to himself, “I’ll never make this team.” One of the taller boys turned to his friend and said, “That short boy over there hasn’t got a chance.” The coach, completely overlooking Don, picked some boys for a scrimmage. “O.K., I’ll see you all tomorrow,” said the coach. After a few days, the group was slowly de- creasing, but Don was still eligible. The coach had to cut one more boy from the squad. Although Don was trying his best, it looked hopeless. The final scrimmage before the last cut. This was it. Playing guard, Don was nervous. Because of this he dropped a pass which led to a basket for his opponents. He was sure now his chances were exhausted. Then, with a minute left, he plunged for a loose ball, recovered it, dribbled to the basket and made a beautiful lay-up, winning the game. Lining up for the final cut. the boys all prayed silently that they wouldn’t be the one cut. With sixteen uniforms in his hands, the coach approached the boys. One by one he passed them out, coming to Don, he handed him a uniform and said, “Congratulations. You played a fine game. It was now the night of the first game. As the players pranced upon the court, among them was Don Norton, who looked ten feet tall. JEWELS OF THE SEA Elizabeth Glines ’63 Collecting sea shells is now a nation-wide hobby. There are some 100,000 species to be found, not only those along the beaches, which are brought in by the tide, but in rivers and ponds. Their variety in shape, color and size is amazing. Many classes of shells occur in the animal kingdom, varying in size from minute organisms to large formations weighing 500 pounds. The outermost layer of a shell is a hard skin. The middle layer is the thickest. The innermost layer is thin and has a porcelain gloss. This part of the shell may gleam with a pearly luster, glow with a delicate pink, or glisten with peacock blues and greens. From this layer comes the mother-of-pearl used in buttons, jewelry, tool handles, and orna- ments. Here the true pearl is formed. Within the shell of a mollusk there is a soft body, a heart, stomach, liver and kidneys. Sea mollusks breathe through gills. They often have delicate senses and a keen sense of smell. Without dissecting these creatures, we can- not distinguish the male from the female. They can be very much like flowers, which are commonly male and female at the .same time. Flowers may also be all male or all fe- male. Mollusks may be made up of any of these strange arrangements. Certain shells are so beautiful that they are worn as jewelry by many people. Shells also travel from one country to another by means of scientists and museums who trade them. If we would just walk along the shores and pick up a few of these shells, we would come to realize all the other beautiful things God has put on this earth for our enjoyment. A most fascinating fact is that they are un- limited in quantity and without cost. Twenty-six