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

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The Realm of Old Romance GRANDMOTHER sat in her favorite chair beside the window. The sun shone on her gray hair turning it to a shimmering coronet of silver. Her strong well-shaped hands that were not strangers to hard work, were adorned only by a plain gold wedding ring, a symbol of the forty-nine years she and grandfather have spent together; happy years for the most part although sprinkled here and there with tears. She was busily crocheting and, as I looked at her, I thought of the many times she had told me the story of her life in Conshohocken. It was in 1880 that her father first purchased a house on the corner of Hector Street and North Lane in Spring Mill. A few years later, he brought his wife and family there to live. Grandmother was thirteen at the time and she had an older brother and a younger sister. They all loved the house. “The memory of it,” grandmother often says, “is very clear in my mind today. It was a white stone house with green shutters, and was surrounded by a white picket fence. The back porch was so situated that it faced the main road, and, consequently, was the permanent meeting place of the family. A great oak tree shaded the back yard. Wisteria and trumpet vines covered the sides and hack of the house. Grape vines made a canopy over the yard. This house, however, was very useful as well as quaint and lovely, for it was in the “front room” of his home, that great grandfather Smith opened the first ice cream parlor in Conshohocken. He was the pioneer manufacturer and retailer of ice cream in our town. Every morning at 5 o’clock he would go to the creamery for fresh cream and be back in time to make eighty quarts of vanilla ice cream before noon. Each afternoon he went up and down the avenues, with his cart, calling, “ice cream.” He was, indeed, very popular with the children, and if they were good he would give them an extra dip, filling tile little dishes they brought to his “store on wheels.” THE MIRROR Five

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The House of Hoy IN THE midst of tlie quaint little settlement of Plymouth Meeting, resolutely facing the heat of summer and the hitter cold of winter, stands the Hoy house, remarkable for nothing but the size of the large amicable family which it shelters, six girls and five hoys ranging in age from five to eighteen. Members of the household pass in and out continuously, some seeking refuge within the sheltering walls when danger threatens and some searching for a sanctuary outside when housework is imminent. The architecture dates back to a period before the Civil War and the place has not been changed much since then except that during the past decade it has been repapered and painted. Throughout the house the floorboards are wide and the window sills are broad and deep. The sleeping quarters consist of six spacious rooms painted or papered according to the occupants desires. On winter nights the favorite gathering place of the clan, however, is before the open fireplace in the living room, and it is here that the joys and sorrows of the day are discussed. When the chores and lessons are completed, everyone indulges in his or her favorite pastime. The younger children play games and crack nuts on the hearth, while waiting for apples to roast. The older and more sophisticated minds turn to reading, knitting, or pinochle. Father plays the violin or piano and strains of “I'll Take You Home Again. Kathleen,” “Tales of Vienna Woods” and other old sweet melodies echo through the room. Mother sees that fair play is shown, and, at the same time, tries to enjoy the evening paper. Perfect harmony reigns until an over-enthusiastic member takes a game too seriously; then the room is in an uproar until my father catches the eye of the ring leader when the noise subsides instantly. Just before Christinas, Francis, the eldest, (Mother’s pet we all say) enlisted in the Field Artillery. Today, he is overseas somewhere. His going made the first break in the Hoy family, and while we all miss him, Bobbie, the youngest, is loneliest. He keeps asking, “When’s Bud coming home?” Mother’s eyes fill with tears, but her voice is always steady when she answers, “in a little while Bobby.” Before we disperse for the night we say the rosary, the five oldest each saying a decade. Francis gets a special remembrance now. and Hoys, big and little, pray that victory will soon he ours, that God will protect our eldest wherever he is, and that soon he and all other American boys all over the world may come home again to those who love them. We want Francis hack in his place at the fireside. Joseph Hoy, ’45 Morning rT ' RACES of night still lingered in the gray sky — to the west the town stretched away into shadow over the eastern hills hung a slender, fading crescent moon — a solitary pale gold star shot- wanly beside it...Through the clouds broke a tenuous line of rose that outlined the bare trees against the slowly clearing backdrop. The houses lay asleep in the cool, thin air. . .a sacramental silence shrouded the valley. . .Quietly, the convent door opened and the nuns — on their way to early Mass — emerged from the shadowy portal. Noiselessly, they hastened through the tranquil street — to keep tryst with the great Creator of day. Catherine Shaffer, ’45 THE MIRROR Four

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Grandmother, then a young girl, served the customers in the small parlor, and it was here that Joseph Botto, whom destiny had chosen to be my grandfather, first met her when she was a young lassie of eighteen. He had heard from different sources that she was “quite a girl,” and one Sunday he decided to investigate for himself. As an excuse he went to buy licorice, even though he was particularly allergic to it. In order to “stall for time” he bought the whole supply of the tiny shop. During the next few weeks he became inordinately interested in ice cream; in fact, it became the most important thing in his life, and he consumed vast quantities of it. This was the beginning of his courtship and a year later, in 1894, he married his girl. Rather than leave Spring Mill, the young people moved to the house across the street from the old homestead. “I liked my new home,” grandmother declares, “but it could never take the place in my heart that my childhood home had.” In the course of the years that followed, grandmother had twelve children, four daughters and eight sons of whom my handsome father is the eldest. Everyone of the children attended St. Matthew’s School. The name Botto has been, for many years, on the school register. Later, the family moved from Spring Mill to Conshohocken. The first break in the home ties came with the marriage of my father. One by one the others married, except my Aunt Catherine, who lives with grandmother and grandfather at their home on Fifth Avenue. Today, the youngest is twenty-seven, married, and has a family. He is a member of the United States Army, Medical Division. Only two of the Botto children live in Conshohocken, my father and my Uncle Albert. Grandfather goes to work every day at Norristown Court House while grandmother, with a little help from me, still attends to household duties. In January my grandparents will celebrate their golden wedding anniversary. As I look at grandfather and grandmother I am convinced that: “Hearts with equal love combined, kindle never dying fires;” and that, “Marriage is the mother of the world, and preserves kingdoms, and fills cities and churches, and even heaven itself.” Frances Ann Botto, ’44 Eight-Eighteen ON PASSING a jeweler’s store next time, take a look at the dummy clock which hangs over his front door. Almost certainly you will find the hands pointing to eighteen minutes past eight o’clock. Do you know the reason for this? One version of the story is that the man who first put up one of these clocks had just heard of the death of Abraham Lincoln and set the hands at eight-eighteen in honor of our martyred patriot. Lincoln, however, was not killed at this time; he was shot at ten minutes past eight and jewelers were registering eighteen minutes past eight on their clocks before Lincoln was assassinated. The truth of the matter is that jewelers, by setting the hands of their clocks at this time, have more space available on the dial for advertising. Today, however, these curious time-pieces are not so numerous as they were a few years ago; modern electric clocks have taken their place. If you should happen to see one of the old-fashioned kind, however, notice the hands; they will, in all probability, point to eight-eighteen. Joseph Foley, ’44 THE MIRROR Six