St Matthews High School - Samascript Yearbook (Conshohocken, PA)

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The Model “A” DEFORE I had my license, when I was young and gay, 1 used to ‘swipe’ a car from the lot behind our house. I always thought that I was fooling my father, hut now I realize that I was mistaken. The car we used to sneak out was a four-cylinder Ford, commonly known as a model “A.” We christened it “Spot Job.” It was a sharp roadster job, with red leather seats, (we painted them red I. During the day, when the “boss” wasn’t looking, we put gas in the car. At night, under cover of darkness, we pushed it out of hearing distance before we started it. The only place we could go was “Conshy,” because we were afraid of the “cops” elsewhere. The model “A” had a top speed of 20 miles per hour. We would put the roof down and ride around, around, and around, that is around the next block, then two squares along the cemetery and two squares hack. Everytime we saw a police car we would stop, and be about to visit the grave of some lately departed friend or inspect an ancient tombstone. One day my father asked me why I always parked the Ford out by the back gate. I told him that it was parked out there so that nobody would sec it and want to buy it. He made no remark, whatsoever, so one afternoon when the printer was painting names on the side of a truck, I tried to imitate him, and I put my name, “Matt” on one side of the car, and McNamara’s nickname, “Toot,” on the other side. The car finally ended up with stripes and designs all over it. Still, Pop said nothing. We were always on the alert for a car with a radio in it, so that we could switch it to “Spot Job,” but we never found one. On a bright, warm Sunday morning, up popped a man looking for a Ford roadster. Within an hour, the “Spot Job” disappeared from my sight, and I have never seen it since. The separation was a tragic episode in my life. I was “mad” at “Pop” for awhile, hut he never noticed it. Now things are different, however. I have a nice new Chevrolet and an honest-to-goodness, authentic driver’s license, hut I fear that I will never again have the fun I used to have driving “Spot Job,” mv good old Model “A.” Matt Moore, ’43 “Blackout” ' I ’HE shrill sound of the sirens brought me back to reality. I could not imagine why all the whistles were blowing. Then it suddenly dawned on me — we were having our first total blackout. The air raid wardens came running out of their homes, putting their identification bands on their arms. They shouted to the people to get off the streets. I decided to make a run for home, but was very rudely stopped by a police car. The officer told me to take shelter at once. I crawled into a factory entrance. I had alwavs thought that I had a fair share of courage, but, being alone in a deserted door way made me shudder. I tried to think of all the pleasant things that had happened to me, but all I could imagine was what awful things might happen to me. Tensely, I waited and, then grew cold, as I heard stealthy footsteps coming close to my shelter. It proved to be only the air raid warden, hut he moved so quietly that he frightened me stiff. I asked him if I could accompany him, hut he only grunted something about my not having an arm identification. So I had to remain alone till the “all clear” sounded. Then I made a dash for the best place on earth to be in a blackout — HOME. Alice Hoy, '43 ——--------------------------------------------- THE MIRROR Twelve

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ABODE OF MEMORIES CRADLED in the hills surrounding Spring Mill is a comfortable, old vellow house of Revolutionary vintage. Encircled by the ancient Barren Hill Road and Hector Street, it gazes down on the Schuylkill River worrying along, twisting, and winding through the valley in the distance. A stone wall, broken by a flight of marble steps, flanks the vine covered porch. The house is outlined against a hack-drop of motley colored hills terraced with graceful white birches, and faces a silver stream that winds its solitary way through meadows and fields, passes an ancient stone mill, crosses under a modern, highway, and ex-! pands, finally, into romantic Bubbling Springs. It is a well-built old house with thick walls and the sloping roof so characteristic of the period. Six heavy doors with iron locks and bolts give access to it. Why anyone needed six doors remains a mystery to this day. The entrance reveals a hall ■which extends the length of the house, southern fashion. There are fourteen rooms in all. They are airy and spacious with high ceilings and deep window sills. Every window frames a picture: dense forests of green clothe the hills; wheat fields, touched with dabs of gold, glimmer in the sun; the river becomes a stream of liquid fire, in the setting sun; and blue swallows dart about under the dusty rafters of the crumbling stone flour mill. A colonial staircase affords a view of old-fashioned bedrooms on the second floor, and an enclosed stairway leads to the third floor, where the busy drone of bees and the domestic chattering of birds can be heard under the friendly eaves. On the ground floor the large, airy living rooms have an air of charm and hospitality. White doors and woodwork and an antique mantle-piece lend the place colonial atmosphere. THE MIRROR To the rear of the house, but with no connecting door, is a small square room known as a smoke-house. Here meat was cured and tobacco ripened. Even today the strong odor of tobacco fills the room. Next to this is a kitchen with a big copper sink, deep cupboards, and a Dutch oven built into the wall. Beautifully wrought black iron doors keep in the heat when a roaring fire blazes beneath the oven. Great black pots resembling witches’ cauldrons, speak eloquently of our forefathers’ love of good fare. Tradition has it that Washington gave the house to Lafayette, who had grape vines brought from France and, before he returned to his native land, cultivated a vineyard which covered many acres. The deep purple wine produced from these grapes was well known around the countryside. Even today a few straggling survivors remain of the once great vineyard. Many fruitless attempts have been made to uncover a tunnel which leads from the cellar to the river. In the pre-Civil War days this tunnel was used as an underground railroad by runaway slaves. It extends from the river to the house, and from there to a network of subterranean passages which lead to Plymouth Meeting three miles away. Through this maze of channels, slaves escaped to safety farther north. The house has a witchery all its own, for the cobwebs of antiquity are woven into each corner of it. W’e inherited it, and for three years now it has been to us a haven of love and peace. Our family is large and the big rambling place suits us. We have all our old furniture and the things we like best around us; and these things combined transform the old house into a true and happy home — “the spot of earth supremely blest. A dearer sweeter spot than all the rest.” Patricja Dobbin, ’45 Eleven

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LITTLE islands, rising like mountains in the sea, were slowly fading from sight, as I sailed away from the Emerald Isle to America, the land of hope, a few years ago. Visions of the land I love were lingering in my mind, as 1 kept looking hack from the fast moving ship and wondering when I would return to Eire. It was a September evening and the brilliance of the sun casting playful shadows over the lofty roof tops of the many quaint buildings of Queenstown, was a contrasting background for the white foaming waters of the turbulent sea. As I watched, the lofty houses on one side seemed to rise straight out of the water like a wall concealing the richness of natural beauty which is found not only around this harbor hut in all parts of Ireland. On the other side of Queenstown, I could see the roads lined with beautiful trees which formed arches over them; the numerous abrupt turns of the narrow roads winding their way like harmless serpents, to some lone white cottage; the manv - shaped weather-beaten rocks, overhung on the sides with moss and green foliage; the bold cliffs and over them white sea gulls with bosoms of snow hovering with motionless wings, beneath a pale and peaceful sky. I was in tears when the green valleys of Erin faded from my sight and, as the ship glided swiftly from the shore and the land faded into a hazy mist, my inner vision grew stronger, and I remembered the mountains with their THE MIRROR dreamy and holy memories; the melodious ripple of the little streams trickling down the hillsides, the woody paths with the faint rays of the sun showing through the leafy branches of the trees, robins twittering on the fairy hawthorns, and fields of corn, swaying in the breeze like lakes of gold. I envisioned silent brooks flowing through ferny woods and highways, wild flowers growing on the banks, the hollow glens, the cows on the flourishing pastures, and the roads free from hurried traffic. I thought of the happy hours I had spent watching the pure white swans which are so beautiful a part of the water life of Eire. They delight in wading in the shallow, inflowing fresh waters, and picking up delicious tidbits from admirers. All day they are out foraging, and when the little ones are weary they climb upon their mother’s back and she folds her comforting wings about them in such a way as to make a little nook for them to hide in to their heart’s content. As night steals on, the mother draws placidly away to a cozy little corner, in search of shelter and rest. Nor could I forget, the sheep in the tall meadows, the coziness of the white-washed thatched cottages, with the wealth of roses clustering around them, the potato fields with beautiful pale lavendar blossoms, the vegetable garden mingled with flowers, and the rolling hills and fair fields which in summer are dotted with daisies. Thirteen