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

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Story of a Boy, His Girl, and His Country THE DAY had come, and Jack was going into the army, hy way of Selective Service. As he and Betty, his best and only girl, sat together in the little railroad station in their home town, they recalled their school days, which they now realized were the most joyful of their short lives. “Remember when we first met, Betty? I came running down the school steps and knocked a load of hooks from your arm. 1 helped you pick them up, and insisted on carrying them for you. You weren’t so happy about my generosity, because you didn’t want to be seen with a mere six-teen-year-old child with freckles on his nose. I bet you thought you were big that day, just because you were seventeen a few days ahead of me.” “Yes, John,” Betty answered. “Do you remember our first date? I was afraid to order a double chocolate malt in Sally’s Sandwich Shop for fear you might not have the money to pay for it. I heard the ‘gang’ ‘ribbing’ you the next day. ‘John, darling, the baby’s crying; would you mind walking him? I have been over a hot stove all day.’ ” “And our first Christmas! You gave me a tie and I gave you a bottle of good five-and-ten perfume. That night 1 got into a fight with one of the ‘gang’, because he said the perfume made you smell better.” “John, how about the night of the senior prom? We didn’t go together because of a quarrel a few days before; but we did come home together.” “Then, graduation, we were both so proud of our diplomas after four years’ bard work. Here comes the train, Betty. Don’t forget to write every day. With your encouragement, I may be a hero yet.” As the train slowed down to a halt, Betty and John exchanged an almost silent farewell. For a year Betty wrote every day and received a letter almost as frequently. Every once in a while, John was home on leave. In his last letter he revealed that he had been promoted to Master Sergeant and that he had had a chance to go to officers’ training school, but had refused it because he wanted to get into the fight as soon as he could. Shortly afterwards, John wrote that he was going overseas. For weeks afterward Betty scanned the papers. She jumped each time the telephone rang; every footstep on the porch made her hasten to the door. She lived for news of John, hut none came. It was raining very hard the day that Betty was called over to the home of John’s parents. When she arrived, there were no smiling faces to greet her. John’s father handed her a communication from Washington, D. C. The message was short and decisive. Two sentences stood out in searing words. “The Distinguished Service Cross for service beyond the call of duty posthumously awarded to Sergeant John Aloysius O’Hara. Killed in action.” William Jerome Johnson, ’43 Memory I HAVE a memory of a cool clear pond with a wall of rock and a green field beyond; of maple trees with branches bending to rippling currents through meadows wending; of ducks gracefully swimming along and robins singing their carefree song; of fishes darting here and there to catch part of their daily fare. All this with heartbreak I remember, as I start back to school the first day in September. Thomas Tammany, ’45 THE MIRROR T wenty

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t The Smoking Habit MANY a time as I contemplated Grandfather knocking the ashes from his ancient pipe, I observed that at the conclusion of the ritual of cleaning it, he refilled it with fresh tobacco and continued puffing as before. His efforts to keep the pipe lighted always intrigued me, for he burnt more matches than he did tobacco. Now, I do not smoke so I cannot rhapsodize about the joys of the weed, but I find the idiosyncrasies of various addicts quite interesting. In these days of alphabet classification, I think it best to identify the smokers according to the current fashion. There is the smoker of class 1A — the fellow who has a touch of perfection in knocking the ashes into the tray provided for the purpose. The 4F smoker is he who simply lets the cigarette burn away until there’s nothing left hut ashes — on the floor. Just the other day I noticed a young gentleman who was smoking, and he handled the cigarette with such a light touch that I could think of no other name to call him except M. P., Mr. Perfecto. He used a crystalline holder that was the quintessence of elegance. Noted wherever he joins friends in smoking, is the Y. D. B. or Yankee Doodle Boy, who instead of riding to town on a pony, uses a “Camel.” He claims, “These Camels give me a lift when my nerves are all shattered.” The most common smoker, probably. is the young gentleman who enjoys all brands, but never owns any of his own. I refer to Mr. O. P. B., the lovable chap who prefers Other People’s Brands. Many smokers are the C. C. T. or the Choo-Choo Train variety. They are “huff-huff impressarios,” who constantly obscure your vision by pouring forth smoke in any and every direction. I also get a “kick” out of the stylish smokers who use flashy cigarette lighters, for nine times out of ten, their lighters are minus the “flash.”i Older men often use a “Chew as you go” plan; they chew most of the cigar pausing now and then for an occasional puff. One day, my Dad was enjoying a Philly cigar in this manner when Uncle Frank entered our living room and, with an inquisitive stare, exclaimed, “Say, John, your chew’s on fire!” The case against smoking as far as I am concerned, is an open-and-closed affair. I cannot imagine why so many are slaves of the habit. Grandfather tells me that I do not know what I am talking about. He says, “Smoking is a manly habit. You never need fear a man when he’s smoking.” Well, I do not contradict him, but I am convinced that I could not enjoy seeing my money go up in smoke. Perhaps there’s some Scotch in me. Joseph McGuican, ’43 THE MIRROR Vin«t«eit

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A SUBTERRANEAN HAUNT On a gently eloping windswept hill with the surrounding knolls for its only companions, lies a lonely heap of white ruins. This pile of ruhble is all that remains of an old farmhouse which was once the proud possession of the late George and Linda Corson of Plymouth Meeting. At the foot of the hill, a creek rushes crazily through a rocky gully, and two quarry holes, believed to have been formed by an ice glacier, flank the stones and add a note of mystery and remoteness to the surroundings. Close to the ruins, is an old stone cave which is reached by a short flight of moss-covered stone steps which go down into the ground. The cave itself is circular and has a fireplace in the rear with a round opening in the roof to allow the smoke to escape. This cavern was formerly a favorite rendezvous for the boys of the neighborhood. Here they met for their pow-wows, and here they spread their banquets. An ancient somewhat rickety horsehair sofa, the only furniture in the cavern, was the seat of honor reserved for the chieftain of the “Skull and Crossbones Club.” Before a roaring fire, these refugees from menial household chores, sat and swapped stories, while potatoes roasted under the glowing coals and pork and beans simmered in an old frying pan held over the fire by a red-faced boy. A feeling of camaraderie prevailed at these meetings, and the club members resented the intrusion of any alien note such as the voices of their sisters and little brothers calling them home to supper or some other phase of their ordinary routine. I often watched them leaving the cave, enveloped in an air of mystery, and I wondered what magic realm they thought they were forsaking as they cautiously crept up the old steps and reluctantly trudged to their prosaic homes. Today, the cave is rapidly deteriorating, and the boys are abandoning it for safer places. Many of those who once held rendezvous in the old vault are with the armed forces all over the world. As they sit down to army pork and beans, I wonder if thoughts of feasts in the glamorous old cave ever intrude upon them? Dorothy Strycharz, ’45 Remembrance Between the yellow pages of a diary I found a tiny rose; its petals faded and crumpled; its fragrance fled. I recalled our parting when in a poignant hour from your golden hair, in a gesture of love you took that lovely flower. It came as a precious gift to me for you were fairest of all 1 knew. I promised to keep your token forever; then you left me and I had only this to remember you. I know that often, dearest, you've given a flower from your hair to the “one you loved best,” but do you think the other “fellows” preserved theirs with such care? Robert Aigner, ’44 Twentyon THE MIRROR