Stoneham High School - Wildlife Yearbook (Stoneham, MA)

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JUNE 1934 THE S. H. S. AUTHENTIC 13 doctors is Robert Holden, Harvard ’38. Bob has become a well-known figure in the field of surgery. (If I remember correctly, he always harbored a se- cret avocation for cutting up.) Betty Doherty is the superintendent of nurses and has an able staff assisting her. A few whom you will remember are Lucy Hines, Ruth Morrison, Shirley French, and Mary Kelly. Now the “See-ahead-o-graph” leads back to the Square and a tour of the city’s progressive business houses. First I see John Coughlin standing in the doorway of his large meat and grocery store. Rose Janigian is seen busily counting the pennies in the cashier’s cage. Next door Ken Prescott, the Boston Bruin’s star net-minder, spends the off season in his ice cream parlor, where incidentally, there is more than one booth. Upstairs is the Riley-Tole School of Athletic Terpsichore. Ethel has joined her athletic ability with Barb’s ability as a dancing teacher. On the same floor, bright gold letters announce the office of Dr. Edward F. Breagy, who is one of the world’s most brutal, painless dentists. It is be- fore office hours, and Eddie is sitting with his feet out of the window, reading Jane Strobel’s latest novel, “The Adventures of the Melrose Girls at Breezy Hill,” or “Why Are There No Sheep at the Sheepfold ?” The next office to Eddie’s is occupied by the “Frizzie-frazzie” Beauty Parlors, Inc., which is a coast to coast chain operated by Mildred Shay and Margaret Barton. A bit farther down the hall I see the “Winnie Mae” Gowne Shoppe, whose proprietress is none other than Winifred Norton. Winnie’s shoppe is patronized by all the leading debs, sub-debs, and In- ternational War Debs. In the same block, The Country Club, a combina- tion dining salon and golf school is conducted. At one of the tees the “pro” is giving a novice instruc- tion. I can tell by the way he swings the club that I have seen him before. As he turns around I recognize him as Bernie Orr, who is putting his knowledge of the Scotch pastime to good use in teaching Isabelle Kaulback the finer points of the game. Edith Downes is operating the dining room and has as assistants: Olive Lester, Mary Ford, Mary Ferry, Thelma Olsen, and Marjorie Logan. Across the street I see the Stoneham Academy of Music and Elocution. Shirley Estes, the well known concert pianist, and Cynthia Claflin, whose poems are now universally read at every breakfast table, are at the helm of this institution and have a large clientele made up of the children of the mem- bers of the Class of 1934. It must be the wanderlust, for the “See-ahead-o- graph” has again pulled stakes and now places its focus upon a large Eastern port. Here the liner “Seaweary” of the Robert Yancey Line (he always had a pretty good line) is tied up at the dock. On the bridge, pacing to and fro, is the Captain, Wil- lard Ames. On the passengers’ list I see the name of Carolyn Lewis, who has been traveling extensive- ly gathering material for her poems. The Stoneham Women’s Bridge Team, composed of Helen Coombs, Elizabeth Fama, Marion Keating, and Arlene Taylor, is aboard ship having just re- turned from the International Competition staged in London where they carried off the International crown. Seated in deck chairs are Nancy Markham and Esther Rounds, members of the Stoneham School Committee, who are returning from Europe where they have been lecturing on “The Progressive School in America.” Talking to them is Betty Knudson who is the hostess on the boat. Leaning over the railing, I see Herbert and Har- vey Bennett, evidently a bit seasick. They were leaders of an unsuccessful diamond hunting expedi- tion to Ethiopia, and are returning to their homes. And now we come to the last scene which the see-ahead-o-graph” has to present. In an appara- tus-cluttered laboratory, behind a pile of broken test tubes, sits John “Pete” Bowen, working tedi- ously on a new invention — the “learn-a-graph,” the plans for which Colonel Stoopnagle and Bud, who have now reached a feeble old age, have handed down to him. The “learn-a-graph,” when complet- ed, will do away with the necessity of schools, as it will learn everything possible for human beings — thus no other class will have to work like the Class of 1934. Alas, the “see-ahead-o-graph” has concluded its preview of the lives of the members of the Class of 1934, its visions fade, it ceases to work, it is out of gas. Whether the visions of the see-ahead-o-graph” which I have interpreted for you prove true or not, may the future be all that you hope it will be — may success, wealth, and happiness be yours, and may your lives ever be living exemplifications of the principles and ideals of S. H. S. PROPHECY OF THE PROPHET. It was on a crowded elevated train that my curi- osity was first aroused. Having nothing else to do, I was attempting to read the newspaper of a pas- senger who was standing but a little distance from me. As this passenger folded up his paper, I caught a glimpse of a picture on the front page; a picture of a man who, for some reason, seemed strangely familiar to me. However, the paper was

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12 THE S. H. S. AUTHENTIC JUNE 1934 ing chorus of beautiful girls, including Kitty White, Jean Sullivan, Virginia Haradon, Jeanne Sparkes, Kitty Kelly, Cornelia Weeks, Eva Southall.” A fea- ture of the show is Wild Bill Dolan, the Hill Billy singer. The orchestra at the theatre is under the direc- tion of John McDonough, and includes Ed Mahoney, the slide-trombonist, ‘‘tearing music off by the yard;” Earl “Rudy” Gross, the crooning saxophon- ist, and William White, the dreamy drummer. Entering the theatre lobby for the opening per- formance, I see Donald Blanchard and Claire Wells, Mrs. Blanchard to you, and three little Blanchards tugging at their father’s coattail. Don is professor of French at Tufts now, but still makes his home in Stoneham. Standing in the lobby also is another well known S. H. S. couple, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Roach. Do I have to tell you that Mrs. Roach is the former Eleanor Brown? Hennie is the New York Yankees shortstop who has just recently es- tablished a new stolen base record. Ellie is a daily spectator at the Yankee Stadium where she sits and paints pictures of her better half in action. Standing in the lobby at the entrance to the thea- tre, garbed in a red and gold uniform bedecked with medals and tassels galore, and looking as important as ever, is Rayford Mann, graciously bowing and di- recting as he takes tickets. The head usher at the theatre is Paul Cunningham, who also makes an ad- mirable appearance in his trim uniform. But suddenly the theatre view fades away and next I see a beautiful new structure, modern in ev- ery respect, standing in the North end of the town. It is the new Stoneham Preparatory School for Boys. There in the headmaster’s office sits James L. Rich. Jimmy has been active in the education field and has completed several theses on modern education. Only recently he headed a vigorous drive against the modern Latin text book, edited by Viola LaPierre, th e old Latin shark herself, on the grounds that it was written in a foreign language and aided in spreading Fascisti propaganda. Through Stoneham’s State Senator, Emil D’Entre- mont, he has introduced a bill on Beacon Hill, car- rying the demand for a tariff on ablative absolutes. In the same district of the town I see the power- ful new broadcasting Station BLAH, owned by Don- ald Grundberg, the famous radio technician. Grund- berg’s advertising is handled by the firm of Doyle and Pinciaro, known to us in the old days as Helen and Rita. Let’s take a look at some of the talent employed at the station. Emily Dalton, known to her radio fans as Miss Millie, gives “Advice to the Lovelorn” daily from eight until seven. Clifford Jones, the creamy voiced tenor, is featured on the Lord Milk Hour, singing his theme song, “Love Thy Cows.” Mary Donovan, the children’s favorite, reads her own bed-time stories each evening under the sponsorship of the Palmer Chain Stores, Roy Palmer, president. Regina Mahoney lectures week- ly on “What Your Dreams Mean and Why.” Ade- line Newcomb, the famous astrologist, reads palms over the radio. Her announcer says, “If you wish your palm read send it to Miss Newcomb in care of the station to which you are now listening.” The scene is shifting again. The next view I see is that of the Harvard Stadium. It is a bleak No- vember day. The annual Harvard- Yale game is in progress and on opposite sides of the field I see the two coaches, Peter Savelo, Yale’s builder of men,” and Stan Brooks, Harvard’s “mussle maker.” Trav- elling again, I next visit the artists’ colony at Prov- incetown where I see on the sands, busily painting a waterfront scene, Jane Arnold, the eminent New York artist, who deserts her Park Avenue home each summer for the mosquitoes, sand-flees, and cod fish of Provincetown. The “See-ahead-o-graph” jumps once more and the next picture is that of the Annual Teachers’ Convention at Bridgewater. Among those present are Mary Anderson, head of the Boston University French Department; Jane Zemer, Analytical Bac- teriology Instructor at Radcliffe (where, incidental- ly, Betty Boos is head of the Art Department). Helen Lister has come down from Mt. Holyoke where she is teaching Psychological Zoology. Returning to Stoneham, the “See-ahead-o-graph” presents a picture of the new Stoneham Common, part of the recently completed Civic Center. It is afternoon and the Stoneham Civic Symphony Or- chestra, under the direction of George Panosian (Professor George Panosian, of the Panosian School of Music), is playing. Included in the orchestra are names familiar to S. H. S. music lovers: Iris Kel- man, Marjorie Munn, Wanda Konapacka, Helen Lis- ter. At one corner of the spacious common is a famil- iar figure, the great Carl Weiss. Taking advantage of the large crowd on hand, Carl has set up his time-worn soap box and is beginning one of his lengthy orations on the pros” and “cons” of Social- ism. Carl, by all appearances, has lost none of his old cunning and is talking as loudly as ever. Across the street from the common is the beauti- ful building of the Stoneham Dramatic Society. Drama in all its stages is taught here and all the types of plays, from the classics to the current fa- vorites, are presented. Colin Roberts and Phyllis Peterson are the directors. A poster outside an- nounces that “Hamlet” is to be revived tonight with Karl Frick in the title role and Richard Potter as the Ghost. Nearby I can see the Stoneham Hospital, a new institution in our city. Heading the staff of house

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14 THE S. H. S. AUTHENTIC JUNE 1934 folded and placed in a pocket in such a way that the photograph was no longer visible. All that I had learned from that one glance was that the pic- ture reminded me of some one whom I had, at one time, known. As I was leaving the station I heard someone call me by name. I glanced toward the doorway and saw, much to my surprise, the very man whose pic- ture had stared at me from a paper earlier in the day. As I walked toward him, I studied his face and again I wondered where I had seen it before. Suddenly, it came back to me like a flash! Why, that was Bob Callahan, one of my old classmates back in Stoneham High. I hastened my steps and grasped his outstretched hand. “Bob Callahan, you old reprobate! Where have you been keeping yourself? I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age. How are you?” , “I’m O. K.,” Bob replied, “I seem to be getting along. How about yourself?” “Oh, I’m all right,” I said. “Where are you going now? How about coming with me?” Sorry, Clarkie,” he said, “but I’ve got an impor- tant board meeting. I’ll have to be hurrying along.” “A board meeting?” I put in. “Say, what kind of a job have you anyway?” “Why, I’m a silent partner in one of the largest banks of the country,” Bob offered. “Besides that, I own the largest newspaper business in the whole state. I distribute more papers than all my com- petitors together. How about meeting me here to- morrow night at the same time? We can talk over those good old days spent in Stoneham High School.” “Tomorrow night it is,” I agreed, “don’t forget.” “I won’t,” he promised, “I’ll be here right on the dot.” The following evening I returned at the appoint- ed time. Callahan had not arrived so I sat down to wait. Time passed with no sign of Bob. After waiting a little longer, I decided to leave. As I headed for the door, I noticed a day-old paper lying under a bench. Again, I saw the same picture of Bob looking up at me. Being very curious, I picked the paper up to read the article. Before I had completed two lines, I was struck with amazement. Here is what I read: “Callahan Still At Large. — As yet, no trace has been found of Robert Callahan, who last night escaped from the Danvers Asylum. All authorities are notified to keep a lookout for him. He is not harmful but has a habit of pretend- ing to be a man of great importance.” This was enough. I read no further. Poor Bob! Who would have expected a thing like that to hap- pen to him? A GRADUATES DILEMMA Way down in the dim, dark, deep depths of my heart I feel a wee pain of sorrow. At precisely the point v here an imaginary line drawn from my right ear to my left eye would intersect another imagin- ary line drawn from my left ear to the part in my hair, is a small area of my brain which is full of doubt. Revealing itself in my firm lip and my tightly clenched hand is a restless wave of grim de- termination. It all started last Sunday when Aunt Mamie came in dragging little pig-tailed Cousin Carrie with her. Aunt Mamie came over to get one of my pictures. That would have been all right, only t hey arrived just as we were finishing our dinner. Being a gallant young creature, I got up and offered Aunt Mamie my chair — after being requested, coaxed, and final- ly commanded to do so by my father. That would not have been so bad, but then I had to be polite and as my mother suggested, share my strawberry shortcake with freckle-faced Cousin Carrie. After Cousin Carrie had eaten all my shortcake, there was so much on her face that she looked as though she had a bad case of the measles — we ad- journed to the front room where everyone sat around in a circle as though it was a Spiritualists’ meeting. It was no voice from the dead which we heard — it was only Aunt Mamie, who began, “Well, Oscar, what are you going to do next year?” Be- fore I had a chance to answer, she continued, “You know, your dear Uncle Elmer always said before he died that he hoped you would be a horse doctor. He first got the idea the day he saw you fixing your new hobby-horse with a hatchet. Of course, there aren’t so many horses now but that is all the better for the horses.” Just then my father boomed in, “No son of mine is going to be a horse doctor. What do you think I have worked all these years for? From now on I expect to sit back and be supported Why, he could get a job as a Fuller Brush man and make some real money as well as meet a lot of nice peo- ple.” This was just enough to encourage my mother to add her bit. So, in her best brogue she said, “Now, and by gorry, don’t be after puttin’ none of those high an’ mighty ideas into his head at all, at all. I guess if bein’ a cop was good enuf for my father, it’s good enuf for my son.” While this argument as to what I should make of myself continued, gaining more and more heat as it increased, I sat quietly on the side-line waiting for the final down. Finally, Aunt Mamie remembered that she had to put Cousin Carrie’s hair up in curl papers and made a hasty departure. Cousin Carrie wore her hair in