Venango Christian High School - Saga Yearbook (Oil City, PA)

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This is a sophomore. He is the contradiction who is snubbed by seniors, haunted by juniors, and admired by freshmen. He is pres- sured by teachers, reserved only when under surveillance, and a mystery to adults. What will this amazing character be in the future? He may be presi- dent; he may be the greatest scien- tist that ever lived. But no matter what he is, he’ll be a sophomore that survived. He’ll be fantastic. JOSE, CAN YOU SEE? Jane Singer, Dan Goodman, J. McGinty, C. Lamberton, R. Frawley, J. Hibbard, R. Hartle, J. SchefchunasLinda Campagna, Carol Hall, Wilma Kokai, ]. L. Zacherl, J. M. Zacherl, Rose Marie Andres, Doris Buczek, Donna Koziara, Jane Krawiec, Kay Gatesman, . . . AND IN THE PEANUT GALLERY Gierlach, M. Skiba, N. Andrews, L. Karg, L. Vol- oshin, V. Loll, S. McCarthy, C. Keating, K. Set- tlemire, V. Hazclton, J. Lauer, J. Wishnok, L. Karg, S. Lukasiak, T. Schill, B. Edwards, Jm Krawiec, J. Gilliland, S. Alter, J. Zaccaria, J. Kresinske, J. Kresinski, J. Garmong. 12 SOCIAL CLIMBING SOPHS M. McGuckin, E. Zimoski, R. Mizwa, T. McGreevy, C. Clifford, J. Mott.

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OUT OF LINE M. Yaeger, G. Hawk, B. Kaweski, M. J. Siebert. Having fashioned a place among mankind for the sophomore, only one puzzle is left unsolved: Why is the sophomore what he is? Sugar and spice and everything nice. Is that what sophomores are made of? Parents, teachers, and mankind in general would rather say, Snakes, snails, and puppy dog tails, THAT'S what sophomores are made of. The sophomore may have his own ideas about the chemistry of his makeup, but neither he nor his critics will deny that he is activity, disturbing perseverance, and justice on a stick. He is the knee-bumping, nose-chafing, peanut-pushing gal- lant who will submit to trial by ordeal for the sake of a senior's approval. Add a dash of mercurial good humor and that is a VCHS sophomore a la carte. Unfortunately, the sophomore of today is hardly content to settle down to the humdrum, workaday con- cepts of activity, perseverance, and justice of established storybook characters or adults. And he'd be good at his own kind if it weren't for the female shriek, or muffled giggles of less dexterous cohorts that give his plots away and force him into isolation to devise new, more devastating schemes. ILLEGAL PICKFT Mazzetti, B. Karg, P. Keating, J. Stover, S. Swacha, T. Rogers, T. Heath, R. Carter, Eaton, B. English, T. Proper, J. Strus, Riddle. SHERWOOD SORORITY A. Hibbard, L. Best, M. Coyne, P. Wydro, K. Fitzgerald, P. Guyton, S. Owens, M. Ward, P. Blackhurst, S. Morgan, P. Karnes, T. Brown, K. Gressley, C. Gur- esny, C. Moran, M. Fischer, D. Henderson, R. Faunce, S. Leta, J. Logue, B. Mizwa, G. Nalepa, S. Masson, M. Schneider. 11

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HONEST DADDY-(Cont. from p. 8) not a white dress. It's dirty and ugly, she said. 'It's not dirty I said. I said it so loud I wondered why Granma didn't hear me. I pulled out the dress from the box and held it up to show her how white it was. 'It is too white I said, 'all white and clean and silky.' 'No she said, she was so mad and red, 'it has a hole in it I got more madder. 'If my mother were here she'd show you I said. 'You got no momma she said all ugly. 1 have so.' I said it loud, Daddy, real loud. I pointed my finger to Momma's picture. 'Well, who can see in this stupid dark room?' Mary Jane said. I pushed her hard and she hit against the bureau. 'See I said, 'look at the picture. That’s my mother and she is the most beautiful lady in the world 'She's ugly, she has funny hands Mary Jane said. 'She has not I said, 'she’s the most beau- tiful lady in the world.' ' She is not she said, 'she has buck teeth.' I don’t remember what happened then. I put the dress over my hands. I couldn’t see anything. I couldn't hear anything except buck teeth, funny hands, buck teeth, funny hands, even when no one was say- ing it. There was something else be- cause I kept hearing someone say, 'Don't let her say that.’ I couldn't hold on to the dress, Daddy, honest I couldn’t. I just put it over Mary Jane’s head and held it there. Granma took me away from there I guess. She was screaming, 'God help us, please help us.’ I don't know why. She pulled me all the way here to my room and locked me in. She won't let me out. Well I'm not scared. Who cares if she locks me in a million years? She doesn't have to even give me my supper. I'm not hungry anyway. That’s all that happened, Daddy, honest. Was I bad? By Daniel Callahan Sol gathered up his papers into his briefcase and slammed the lid shut. In his angered haste to leave the Committee meeting he collided with Ed O’Malley, his young aide. You really took one on the chin, Mr. Cohen, he remarked; You’d think those cussed southern die- hards would know when a good plan came up, but somehow they always manage to scrap every idea but their own nonsense. Sol said nothing as he walked into the gloom of a Washington winter, dirty snow and constant rain marking his mood exactly. Ed took the wheel and drove him down through town and back to the Agriculture Department office build- ing. He nodded curtly to the greet- ings of his staff as he spat to his secretary, No calls, no visitors this morning. He slammed the door behind him, and glanced at the gilt nameplate: SOL COHEN, UNDERSECRETARY OF CLERICAL AFFAIRS. A wry smirk crossed his dark face. He took a seat and had almost forgotten his annoyance when his secretary buzzed through the intercom, Mrs. Cohen on the phone, sir. Hello, Mara, he sighed wearily; No, I'm not forgetting about dinner with Senator Mansfield. I think I’ll be home about six, dear. Goodb—no, I didn't forget about my tux, Mara. Look, don’t worry about it, O.K.? Goodbye, dear. He swore silently under his breath as he tossed the phone onto the cradle. Running through his mind were the words that he was dying to say, I don’t give a damn if he is the Majority Leader of the Senate, woman. Later in the day he paused in the midst of his heap of paperwork to light a cigar, and his mind slipped back to the leaner days, to the period when he and Mara were new and green to the endless whirl of Washington events, especially the circle of proper people, places, affairs. Sol had been happy in his own mediocre way: poker with the fellows, Saturday nights at the theatre, and beer after supper. But Mara became a little more con- scious about the old ways. She chattered about keeping up appear- ances. He found himself being host to top-drawer figures in the Capital, and he did not notice until too late that the old ones, dear to him, were forsaken in the harsh light of swank parties and upper- crust associations. The shrill ring of his telephone shook him from his lethargy, and the intercom said, A Mr. Hayes, from Austin, Mr. Cohen. Shall I put him on? Sol grunted an affirma- tive and eagerly snatched up the receiver. Milt, you old millionaire, how are you? he bellowed; Have- n't heard from you since the Cit- adel days. So now you're a cotton magnate and you get written up in Time, eh? Well, what can I do for the salutatorian of the class of ’47? His face took on a serious air; he lost the smile, reminiscent of his college days, when he list- ened to the brief story of his old friend. To say the least, it calls for a little consideration, Milt. Yes, we'll make it tomorrow for lunch. I'll surely think about it. As the Undersecretary sat at din- ner with his wife and the Senator Mansfields, he mused about the 13