Weaver High School - Portal Yearbook (Hartford, CT)

Page 9 text:

Let us resolve that on New Year ' s Eve, 1960, we will drink a toast to the class of 1947. We will remember our¬ selves as we were in 1947 and then look at ourselves as we are in 1960. Then we will scan the years which have passed in between. Let us make sure that we can view the interim with genuine, well warranted satis¬ faction. Recapture every warm moment” As we were in 1947

Page 8 text:

White dresses — dark suits — a few speeches — clapping — diplomas — and it ' s all over. Three years of high school suddenly take off and drift away to become a thing of the past — three years of Weaver to be held only in memory, to be thought of only with fondest nostal¬ gia. . . . And what have we left behind us? That in its entirety would be impossible to include in the Portal. We could not hope to recapture every warm moment, every familiar happening. Yet we feel that in these pages we have made permanent a part of our Weaver. It may be only a very small part, but we hope that as you finger through these pages in the future, these few glimpses will but stimulate your memory and bring flowing back the countless other glimpses we could not portray. If every sketch we make recalls three to mind which we have omitted, then this book will be a success. And what of the future? The class of 1947 has passed through Weaver under unusual circumstances. When we were sophomores, our country was yet in the midst of war and the gold stars in the lobby were an ever-present reminder. As juniors we tasted peace and with it the bitterness of muddled confusion and seemingly endless discord which always follow war. As seniors we have seen the possible end of that discord in sight. We have cracked through our protective eggshell and a proposition lies before us. We can lapse back into the faults of the past and survive in a world of hate and intolerance. But that is against our fundamental nature, and the principles embodied in us scream out against it. Rather our natural course is to strain forward and grasp that ray of light which spells the end of discord and the beginning of harmony.

Page 10 text:

The breathless student dashed down the hall, papers flying from his books, fingers fran¬ tically searching for evasive coat buttons. The man behind the lobby desk observed silently, smiled knowingly, and said to himself, Too late! Moments later the tired student was back before the desk, signing the familiar little blue slip. That tardy pupil was you — and you — and you, but the man behind the desk was always Jasper, a part of our Weaver. Yes, Weaver would never have been the same without Jasper, the smiling giver of the blue slips. Remember him carefully weaving his way through the crowded corridors at the end of third period, striving to keep intact some teacher ' s lunch tray. Remember him with keys hanging from his pockets and a flashlight in his hand poking through the school during a Saturday night Lookout session. Remember him shooting up and down in the elevator, much to the envy of students, and boarding the after-school bus, his much used suitcase in hand. Remember, on every war bond application, the obscure name Jasper Howard, which insured safe delivery. In peace and war Jasper was Weaver ' s embodiment of McKinley Kantor ' s true handyman. We heard of him long before we entered Weaver, and we will remember him long after we have left.