West Boylston High School - Lions Roar Yearbook (West Boylston, MA)

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was nevertheless approachable. He had a smile and an encouraging word for everyone, and always, ALWAYS time to listen. There was sometimes something hushed and sacred, almost church-like, about his classroom, but he also had a wonderful sense of humor. Youthful mischief was no sin in those thoroughly honest brown eyes. “A little levity is permitted,” our Mr. Chips assured several generations of West Boylston students, recalling a favored story from Latin I which demonstrated that ‘‘Roger Bacon, underneath his academic garb, was a bit of a rogue.” In Mr. Cecchini’s classroom, we de- veloped what James Hilton called ‘‘the sud- den love of boys for a man who was kind without being soft, who understood them well enough, but not too much, and whose private happiness linked them with their own.” He was a humble man, utterly without pre- tense. Even after earning his doctorate from Boston College in 1965, he preferred to be called ‘‘Mr. Cecchini” rather than ‘‘Dr.” Pupils called him “Dominus” — roughly the Latin equivalent of “Sir,” but spoken with less formality than fondness. To everyone else — the cafeteria workers, for instance, whom he regularly helped wash pots and pans if he had a few spare minutes — he was simply “Nick.” He hardly ever had to be a disciplinarian, because misbehavior in his class might have been interpreted as personal disrespect, and that was unthinkable. And even students who had little interest in conjugating ancient verbs tried to live up to his motto — “Scholares Latini sunt semper parati . . . Latin scholars are always prepared” — because they did not want to disappoint Dominus Cecchini. Like the fictional Mr. Chips, the real-life Nicholas Cecchini was part of his school and its daily life, taking an interest in every stu- dent, every subject, every sport and extracur- ricular activity. And like Mr. Chips, he also enjoyed having students, past and present, drop by to visit him at home. He lived in Clinton, in a section called “The Acre,” which he often reminded us was a neighborhood where everyone knew and helped each other. Mr. Cecchini found great joy in life — in teaching, in working the soil, in playing the organ and accordion, in tinkering with machinery, in driving the trucks that fasci- nated him. Several years ago he took up jog- ging; able to go only a few yards on the track behind the school at first, he worked at it until he was able to run miles every day. He was in many ways an inspiration, a remarka- ble man. Nicholas Cecchini retired quietly after the school year that ended in June, 1979, with characteristic lack of fanfare. Just like Mr. Chips: “At his own request there were no more farewells or presentations ...” In early September came the disturbing word that he was in Clinton Hospital, under- going tests. It seemed somehow ironic that he should fall ill right at the start of the first school year in two decades of which he was not an integral part. Then on October twelfth came the stun- ning news that Nicholas Cecchini had died at the age of forty-nine. For this, none of his Latin scholars could possibly be prepared. But perhaps we should remember him by re- calling what the fictional Mr. Chips said on his deathbed. Overhearing a bystander whisper that it was a pity he never had chil- dren, Chips replied: “But I have, you know . . . I have . . . Thousands of ’em ...” Nicholas Cecchini had thousands of chil- dren, too, and we shall never forget him. Re- quiescat, Dominus. Good-bye, Mr. Chips. — Barry Lorge, Class of 1966 15