Westerly High School - Westlyan Yearbook (Westerly, RI)

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The Senior Year Book. — 1945 Class Prophecy Alex Houston sat, a relaxed and thoughtful figure, oblivious to all the goings-on about him, and looked into the future. It was his graduation night, and in his lap reposed a group picture of the Class of ’45. Upon these good and worthy people his thoughts were now bestowed. “What,” he murmured to himself, “will happen to us all? I wish I l.nsw.” An occasional puff on his pipe failed to arouse him from the reverie which enveloped him, but seemed rather to be a relevant part of the scene. He found the disconnected crackling of the fire and the placid purr of the cat served only to settle him deeper into the well-worn hollow of his chair. With a drowsy sigh, he turned his al-tention to the lonesome, minute sparks that meandered up the chimney flu- . Where,” he wondered, “did they go?” With naughty, flirtatious movements, they pirouetted in front of him, till at last, with a weary nod, his head reclined contentedly against the chair back. Alex Houston was asleep. The sparks danced merrily into the further recesses of his mind, and whispered to him to follow in their path. “Where will you go?” he said. “We shall take you ten years hence, they replied, “and show you where your classmates are.” Against his better judgment, Alex quickly consented to this plan, and pursued their wicked beckonings far up the chimney and out into the cool, safe darkness of the night. “We’ll take you to South America first,” said the sparks. “South America?” asked Alex puzzledly. “South America,” repeated the sparks. “Just follow in the wake of our path now, and we’ll be there safe and sound in a second.” Down the coast of America sped the sparks and Alex, and, indeed, in less than a second they were set down lightly on a picturesque bank in Brazil. At this point the sparks produced a leather-bound volume labeled “Diary of My Travels,” and placed it in Alex's lap saying, “You are to record ail your findings in this. When the proper time comes we shall be ready to take you back home.” With these few words of guidance, the sparks vanished, and Alex was quite alone. Now if we could tell you every detail of Alex’s adventures, we would gladly do it, but time and space do not permit; so instead we shall look into his diary and discover what we may. We must remind you first, however, that Alex is now endowed with strange, mystical powers which enable him to travel from place to place in an amazingly short time. In fact—we shall be very frank--be surprised at nothing you see from this point on; for after all, Alex is from the Class of ’45. DIARY OF MY TRAVELS By Alexander P. Houston June 24, 1955: South America. Arrived in South America last night. Joseph Andrea, who is a driver for the South America Cab Co., headed by Doris Bradshaw and Camella Capalbo, took me to my hotel. Joe said some of the other drivers were Joan Clark, Phyllis Cutter, and Doris Rathbun. Marilyn Frechette is down heie, too, doing a little mechanics work on the side. This morning I took a stroll over to the laboratory across the street and found Norma Frazier working as a technician there. She kept looking up from her work to report some new formula to Nancy Rathbun, her secretary. Dorothy Wright, Norma’s guest, says she is just starting - 8{ i6j5»

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Tin; Senior Year Hook — 1945 one, for we are enjoying ourselves thoroughly. I, Vera Parry, generously consent to will my genius for top marks to any one of the Junior girls who feels she can read movie magazines in class and yet carry on the tradition. It’s nice work if you can get it. I, Mary Geary, will my job as ticket manager for the operetta to anyone drafted for the position. (Go light on the aspirins; they’re habit forming.) We, Dot Grispino and Camella Pellegrino, leave our ability to get a ride to school in anything from a Cadillac to a milk-wagon to any Sophomores capable of accomplishing this task. We, “Jeep” Keegan, Sally Briggs, and Joe Murray, leave our devotion to the Democratic party to all the fine, upstanding youngsters who are brave enough to feel as we do, midst these scores of enemy G. O. P. rooters. I, Adele Eusebio, will my referee’s whistle to Anne Clarke, hoping she won’t have to blow it as often as I have. I, Doris Bradshaw, breathing a sigh of relief, joyfully leave my constant bickerings with Mr. Buckley to “the poor kid sister.” We, Dot Murray, Dot Hurtado, and Claire Klemish. bequeath our sales talks, guaranteed to sell the unsellable, to Jean Clarke, Lois Brown, and Esther Bernas-coni. I, Phyllis Cutter, willfully leave my task of picking up any papers on the gym floor to Ruth Collings. May she perform the task as well as 1 have. We, the members of a very successful Senior Board, hereby bequeath our beloved publication to the Juniors, trusting that they will conduct meetings with irreproachable decorum, give their undivided attention to the editor, and pass all material in before the deadline, as we have done (?). I, James Sposato, leave the privilege of spending every spare moment with my little girl friend to anyone who can find a willing partner. We, the Class of ’45, leave to the world our sincere regrets that we couldn’t have been rich instead of having all these brains. We, Rose Gengarelli, Dot McClure, Joyce Woodfield, and “Kit” Greene, bequeath our friendly “chats” with Mr. Stevens to Mary Ellen Tyler. We, of the East-West Club, leave to our new members the task of ironing out difficulties between the Orient and the Occident, and hope, too, that they will be able to stabilize the price of eggs in China. We, Simon Majeika, and Putsy Turco, leave our rare collection of disreputable news publications to any masculine member of the Junior class who enjoys, now and then, a bit of “spicy literature. We, Doris Rathbun, and Theresa Slattery, because of the present housing situation, do hereby lease our much-used “doghouse” to any tenant willing to pay the price. I, Shirley Sisson, leave my undisputed title of “office bench warmer” to my kid sister, Claire, as I have a horrible feeling that she is just a chip off the old block. We, the members of the Dramatic Club, leave only fond memories to our fellow schoolmates who have had the privilege of witnessing our many fine productions: productions celebrated for their depth of thought and artistic finish. After signing this, our last will and testament, we painfully take leave of the greatest high school in the world and the nicest people on the face of the earth. We’ve had quite a struggle in the past three years and, at times, it has seemed that all the odds were against us, but now, looking back, we clearly see the good outweighing the evil, and we do hope our poor, baffled faculty can bestow a friendly glance on our retreating faces. To all the future classes of Westerly High School we leave our love and friendship, with a true devotion for the “old building.” Goodbye for now. Everyone, and all the luck in the world! ELINOR GRAY DORIS RATHBUN JEANNE RAINVILLE PHYLLIS CUTTER —e{

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The Sexior Year Book — 1945 out on a world tour. She took me to a chewing gum factory on the outskirts of town, where Jean Phillips is the president, Shirley Campbell is the treasurer, and Stella Gencarelli is the secretary. They recently employed Gladys Ralls as a tester for their product. This afternoon I took advantage of the glorious sunshine and drove down to the Brazilian Golf Course. The first person I met there was Vera Parry (now a big politician on vacation here), who comes down to play a round every afternoon, i started a game with her, and though it was a fairly exciting one, she stopped every other minute or so to shout a newly conceived idea to her secretary, Robert Ulles, whose job it was to follow her very heels. Tonight I went to the “Chic-a-Boom Chic Club,” where Shirley Palmer and Lane Krause are dancing partners. Saw Theresa Slattery there with her newly acquired husband. I have a reservation on an Africa-bound plane. Sherry Taylor, the pilot, tells me there are several of our class members flying at the same time, so perhaps I can add to my “collection.” June 25, 1955: Africa. On the plane over I met Caroline Bis-vvurm, a “Good-Will” worker between America and Africa; her secretary, Robert Rathbun, had taken the previous plane. When I arrived Sherry took me to an MGM location where a tropical picture is being filmed. Ellen Wilcox, adorned in a sarong and what have you, was an eyeful playing opposite Shep Disillier, who reminded me of a second Sterling Hayden. I found Jane Balentine strolling around the set with her interpreter, Catherine Greene, close behind her. Seems she’s working over here in the interests of the American people, too. This afternoon Jane took me over to watch Florence Caswell painting tropical flowers. She has quite a distinctive style with the brush and plans to publish ail her drawings in book form. Lois Clarke’s publishing company has already paid royalties on the coming project. June 29, 1955: Persia and India. After visiting Africa, I went by train up into Turkey and down into Persia, where, I had heard, Sarah Maggs had recently become a Shah. I tried to get into her court, but to no avail. (She must have thought I was another suitor for her hand because she merely said, “Pooh! Off with his head!”) Rose Fusaro, correspondent for the “Westerly Moonbeams,” met me just as I was retreating from that inopportune spot, and obligingly gave me a list of old class members to look up in India and China. Thankful for this bit of information, I squired her to a concert (she had passes) by the renowned Mademoiselle Marie Fer-endo. Arriving in India this morning, I proceeded to the Baroda Public School No. 54, where I found John Gomena teaching from the new World History” book by Dorothy Grispino. More in my line was Virginia Tyler’s radio station, to which I was directed by Richard Maines, whom I engaged in conversation when I saw him hanging little sailor suits out to dry. June 30, 1955: China. My first ride in a ricksha reminded me a little of a wheelbarrow being run backwards: but at any rate, it got me there— “there” being Dot McClure’s Hospital. Dot, who didn’t in the least object to my not being used to calling her doctor, took me on a grand tour of her hospital. First she had to show off her charming secretary. Hank Nowak. Then she let me catch a glimpse of Doris Payne and Priscilla Pine, deep in concentration over a new chemical to cure spring fever diseases. Thomas Salimeno, the dietitian, let us have a taste of the nutritious lunch he was preparing, then shooed us out into the corridor, directly in the path of Mary Toscano, the head nurse. Some of the nurses under her supervision were James Sposato, Eugene Turco, and Merton Matthews. Oh, to have an ailment! Doris Wood, a Wave doing peace-time work in China, popped up unexpectedly to 17 £• -