Wells River High School - Chatterbox Yearbook (Wells River, VT)

Page 9 text:

I thought, They must think Frank Sinatra is in town and I know where he is.” My stockings had caught and ripped as I left my of- fice, my hat was back on the baby carriage, and my left shoe had sped through the open window of a passing car as I sprang for the curb. My skirt I held a little way above my knees so I could run faster and my hair was streaming straight out behind. I held my purse so tightly to my side that I must have looked like Tom Harmon run- ning for a touchdown. But here I was at last. I knew the sign over the door would have read The Grey Shop” if I could have stopped to read it. Instead I raced in the door and up the stairs, then down the aisle and up another flight of stairs. I had been steaming the last few laps, and now I was about dead. It was only momentum that kept me going. I stumbled down two more aisles, making the last few yards on my hands and knees. I grabbed the counter, dragged myself up on my feet, and stood gasping like a steam engine. The disinterested clerk looked at me coldly. Is there something you would like?” he asked sar- castically. A pair of nylons,” I gasped weakly. You’re in luck, madam. We have one pair left out of a shipment just received from San Francisco.” Yes, I know, Joe told me,” I said, clutching at the stockings I had just purchased. Then I heard the crowd of Frank Sinatra girls stampede up the isle. I remember clutching at my nylons just as they hit me—then darkness. It is pleasant here in the hospital. The room is sunny and filled with flowers sent by the office force. The nurses are cheerful and I get good attention. As I lie here I am a happy woman, for on the table at the bedside is my pair of nylons. I am dreaming of the day, about six weeks from now, when the cast will be taken from my broken leg and I will be able to put them on. Boy, was I lucky! —Virginia Hamel ’44 7

Page 8 text:

MY DAY The phone jangled on my desk. I put down the bunch of papers I had been sorting and reached for the re- ceiver. Hello, Oh, Hello, Joe!” It was my brother, who drove a big truck for a large clothing firm in San Fran- cisco. Yes, I’m fine. What are you doing in town? You what! When? Where? ’Bye, Joe, ’gotta run.” I slammed the phone down on the hook and made the office door in one second flat. Racing down the isles past the rows of desks I heard someone shout, Hey, Ginny, what’s the rush?” This was no time to stop and pass the time of day. This was a race against time. Grabbing my hat, I went through the doorway. I was smashing all track records—both indoor and out. Superman himself couldn’t have caught me. I didn’t stop to find a taxi or take a subway; it would have taken too much time. I raced madly down the street, barely missing a fat lady pushing a baby carriage. I heard her send a string of curses after me—such language from a woman, and on the public street, too. But what did I care!—this was a race to the finish. Would I be too late? Could I possibly make it in time? It was a good thing Joe had told me. Just then I heard a whistle from a cop ahead of me. A husky voice with a decided Irish brogue yelled, Hey, Lady, pull over to the curb. Where do you think you’re going—to a fire?” Fine time for someone to get funny. Yeah, to the Chicago fire!” I yelled back, not slowing one bit as I passed him. Hey, you, come back here!” he called, racing after me. But he was no match for my running and I soon left him far behind. As I said before, not even Superman could have caught me. Soon I could hear a rushing sound of tramping feet behind me. I looked around and saw a mob of young girls in sweaters and skirts coming after me. Holy Cow”, 6

Page 10 text:

ESSAY ON WOMEN’S CLOTHING Have you ever walked down the street and looked at women’s clothes—their shoes, hats and dresses? Awful, isn’t it? You walk along minding your own business when all of a sudden, a woman, or at least you think that’s what it is, steps out of the store in front of you. You look at her head and gasp at the sight of it”. But you manage to stagger along in back of it”. You look at it”. Could that possibly be a hat on her head? Oh, no. A bird perched upon (what you think is) a plant pot. Ugh! What a sight! Are those shoes on her feet? You look again to make sure. Why it looks just as if she were walking on stilts. And those stockings! They’re making women’s hose out of fish nets now. What next? What a rainbow between her feet and head. You are dazed at the sight. An orange, green, blue and violet striped dress with red buttons and a yellow collar. Oh! You rub your eyes and look away in a hurry. It can’t be so! Slowly your eyes go back to the object. It really is a dress. What a nightmare! Dazed you look upon the peaceful sky, or perhaps sneak into a dark hallway to let the woman get out of sight. Slowly you find your way out to the street again and walk along, head bent, with eyes on the pavement. You then resolve to buy a pair of col- ored glasses before going on the street again. —RoseLee Hooker ’44 WITHOUT FREEDOM We woke up and started a typical day—school, work, play, whichever was to be our lot. Then it happened. A voice on the radio stated tersely that the Nazis had taken over the government. Stunned, we continued on our daily routine, not knowing what else to do. 8