Southwestern High School - Prospector Yearbook (Detroit, MI)

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Twelve B's Receive Far-Famed Heirlooms from Senior Wits Holtzhouse and Marie McDaniels, to Dolores Dahl- man, the songs our mothers taught us to sing, Thelma Andreas and Thelma Hood, the uncommon name we have in common, to Thelma Elliot. We hereby will an.d bequeath, as follows: I, Robert McGee, my position as editor of the Daily Slur, to Eugene Vesely-he sold out the entire publication before it was issued, Vera Chase, my old can of Dutch Cleanser- it chases dirt - to Mild- red Chase, Nelson Stay to Robert Price, the ability to make Mr. Seaver admit that 2 plus 2 equals 4, Mary Meye1', the ability to collect money from the girls, to Elva Johnson, Shirley Perry to Lois Baum- gardner, my famous gum cracking scene, Helen Vasilauski to Pierrno Pressotto, the sparkle of my jewelry, Mario Benedetti, my much borrowed finger nail file, to Norman Baetz the borrows so often that I might as well give it to himl, Lorrene Kieler to Violet Newman, my shoe-button earrings, Steve Lukas, my ability to look like a darling cherub in the front row of the orchestra, to Walter Missel, Marie Hale to Leona Kreger, my extra avoirdupois , Nick Macunovich, the twinkle in my eyes, to John Burgess, Melicent Nagle to Ella Benko, my thought- less moments. I We, the following, do hereby will and bequeath as follows: I, Harry Bagozzi, to Cadman Prout my so-called hair cuts , we, Goldie Molnar and Mar- garet Molnar, to the constantly fearful, the surplus supply of gooseflesh that we get while listening to mystery stories, I, Karl Radmacher, my deep in- sight into geometric principles, to Peter Kamarosky, I, Valentine Gallovich, to Leo Hoefiin, my ability to maintain that well dressed man-about-town appear- ance, we, Pearl Rakay and Margaret Sebes, our frequent lunch period squabbles to Mildred Jack- sey, I, Dan Barnabo, my pet monicker of Slug to Gordon Garner-use it to the utmost, we, Elfrieda Rotter and Eleanore Novak, our striking resem- blance to one another, to Gertrude Kerr, I, Hazen Hunt, my love for cherry pie, to Alvin Reinhardt, we, Agnes Nauseda and Josephine Svitkovich, our ability to debate in civics class, to Louise Ferguson, Frank Machercyzk to Bernard Win.ters, my Russian forehead. We hereby will and bequeath as follows: We, Lillian Kowitz and Lucille Kubitzsky to Mary Boris, our webbed feet, which have served us so faithfully on the swimming team, I, Stephen Massey, my musical feet, two flats, to Harvey Shimmel, we, Esther Ligmal and Mildred Ligmal, our family re- lationship, to Margaret Barkai, I, Louis Tyrna, my desire to teach all the good looking girls of South- western how to play the uke, to George Weiss, we, Elizabeth Kish and Dorothy Michniak, our 100 per cent history recitations, to Mae Thompson, I, James Page Twenty Kaman, the down on my chin and cheeks to Jacl-: Ruhlmang l, Irene Ravas, to Fay Woodford, my school of miniature tarzans, I, John Wanick, my restless manner when in the presence of the fair sex, to Zoltan Vincent, we, Virginia Reckling and Melena Brule, our spare chicken-feed to Dorothy Ruhlman, I, Ford Riopelle, my desire to know what happened when the lights went out, to Keghorn Kevorkian. We, Eleanore Damrow and Marjorie Benn. our senior dignity, to Lois Walter, I, Edward Narcissian, my soup strainer, to Stephen Steiner. I, Tas- well Cleveland, known to many as Comus, do here- by will and bequeath those holes in the side of my face known as dimples, to Alex Koteles, I, Steve Chaszar, my position as the male stenographerf' to Willard W. Wixson, I, Frank Pearson, my ability to grow a Whole set of whiskers overnight, to lVlr. Dolan, Stanley Bitely, my belief in Communism, to Elmer Lane and Archie Riviera tfifty-fifty on everything the other fellow hasj , I, Jack Evert, the air of perplexity that l have about me, to the entire 12-B class, I, James Matyi, do hereby will and be- queath the footprints upon the sands of time, as a warning to all who put things off until tomorrow, to all who think they should claim them, I, Ken- neth Recore, to any other luckless individual, the ability to do the wrong thing at the wrong time, 1, Ross Holland, do hereby will and bequeath to the entire R. O. T. C. staff, my position as terror to the rookies of Southwestern, I, Alex Vida, the exasper- ating effect my .sound logic has upon those who dare argue with me, to Bernis Bryan, I, N orman. Brown, to Orville Preiss, my bale of corn silk Qwatch out for the cowsj , I, Jack Hare, my ability to live and learn without learning, to Mr. Miller, I, Gerard Hebert, the collection I started for a nickel plated gavel for the future presidents of the senior classes, I, William Icenhower, my fatal charm for women, to any other handsome brute. E Signed and sealed in the presence of the class of fr-5 June 1931 CS1gnedj Mlllffhf Na e James Matyx Class Lawyers W: tnesses Grace G Goodrzch . . gl 13 Leslie vv. Mizzeff

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Page The Class of 9331 A SAGA by LOUIS GEORGE TYRNA O woe is me! O, woe is me! To write this kind of poetry! But poets are born and never made, And fakers in. the distance fade, And I was born, so there, you see, I'm licensed to write poetry. You've heard about our senior class, Of every senior lad and lass, They're famous people every one In this our class of '31, So here's a little rythmic game 'Bout those who to the foreground came. I'll tell you something of their fame, And you try guessing at their name. Two lads, both of them quite the same, High-minded and of equal fame, Both of them live in open air, Of that I'm sure you're quite aware. Now guess their name. Oh, yes, you can! Bill Degner and Phil Sheridan. A little fellow short and spry, Who cannot ever tell a lie- Who likes bananas, likes a pie, Likes the girls, but won't tell why, Don't tell me you don't know this lad! He's sometimes good and sometimes bad. Now think a little, use some force. Is it Monk Harris? Why, of course! Do tell me now who this can be, A son of sunny Italy, Who sleeps in walks and walks in sleep, Whose gaze is vacant, blank and deep, Who thinks .that sleeping is a duty, Barolo is our sleeping beauty. Four fellows here all quite unlike, And n.one of them is labeled Mike , One's an athlete, sage and wise, An Aristotle in disguise, The other is a handsome boy, Smiling, blushing, somewhat coy. The third is quiet as can be, Hardly ever talks to me. The fourth, however, that's the one That's always sharing someone's fun, His laugh is roaring, his voice is bass, The look's determined on. his face. Now tell me do you know these hicks? Bolog, Budnik, Boris, Briggs. A clever lawyer, full of Wit, Who in this world shall do his bit, Is this precocious scholar lad In learning's clothing richly clad. His ringing voice the crowds will hail, His arms express what words may fail, His manly head's a well-filled dome, In arguments he feels at home. Now, surely you know wnom I mean- James Emery Matyi-future dean. Twenty-two Allow me to present you now Two chums, who enter with a bow, You'll always find them side by side In every walk of life or ride, Who always have the greatest time Borrowing someone else's dime. .lf they had six and you had one, They'd borrow yours and then be gone. They never argue, never fight, And always share their apple bite. Now guess their names. O, sure, you can! They're Milkovie an.d Sullivan. And now, my friends, p1'ay do tell me Just who that handsome boy may be With smiling face and rolled up sleeves, Who through hard work his goal achieves, A true Adonis, Oh, Oh, Oh! Where he came from I do not know. Of swimming fame, a baseball man, Who plays and swims as no one can, The kind the girls keep dreaming of, In precious little dreams of love. Pray don't you know who that may be? It's Vincent Kadi, Q. E. D. Of athletes that have been and are, There's none so great from near or far, There's none that ever can compare, And none to ever do and dare As all of our athletes have done! And ah, 'tis sad! They'll now be gone To do no more for Blue and Gold. No more her banner to unfold On track, gridiron, diamond, court. No more to strive in their old sport, But they'1l be there, you bet they will, To cheer and shout and fight and thrill, Their names are only too well known, And fame is by their letters shown. Now I could tell you lots of things, A lot of funny, queer, strange things, About the other senior lads, About their habits and their fads. But then, in poems of this sort, Space is precious, time is short, And I must write a W01'd or two About the senior girls for you. Now there is Margie Schupiter, A clever girl if you know her. She reads and talks psychology- A Prima Donna prodigy, Who lives in songs, and that's the game That holds her future and her fame. And I think I'd do awful wrong, While speaking here of fame and song, If I should tell you nothing of Our Dorothy Welch's song of love- Her sweet and plaintive crooning voice Is certainly a young man's choice. CContinued an page 242