Westerly High School - Westlyan Yearbook (Westerly, RI)

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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 £• -

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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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Tiif. Senior Year Book — 1945 tell me about her recent experiences. “C. T.” Barber, her perfect secretary with the ever-ready pencil, suggested we all go to the “Nangpoo Roller Skating Rinky,” established by Donna Brown and Mary Champion. Though it is the first one ever to be established in China, the girls feel confident it will be as prosperous as any in America. It was at the rink that I met Joseph Delaney, who has promised to pilot me to Italy. July 1, 1955: Italy. “Joe,” whose unequaled taste has not failed him through the years, pointed the way to the “Italian 21,” which is ably run by that trio of nonsense, Jean Stedman, Betty Stewart, and Mary Geary. The girls, who “just thought they’d take a little trip to Italy” a couple of years ago, found their powers of organization proved quite profitable. “The Trio” let me look in on Madeline Gouvin and John Grossomanides practicing new dance steps to the tune of Peggy Dawson’s sax; then promptly sent me otf to find John Lathrop, who is studying music at a fine-arts conservatory. Johnny, on learning my mission, took me to the art department, where, as may be expected, I found Sue Murphy, Camella Pellegrino, and Pauline Dinwoodie. This bevy of girls escorted me to my train and sent me off with many words of encouragement. France in the morning. July 2, 1955: France. Oo-la-la! France in the morning indeed! Jeanne Rainville, to my surprise, met me at the station, telling me she was acting as a committee of one to show me the sights. I was beginning to think my prowess as a “Romeo” was really coming to the fore, when she disclosed the fact that Sue, Camella, and Pauline had notified her of my coming. Jeanne, true to her promise, took me to a Paris fashion show, where she pointed out Constance Coon as one of the foremost models. I noticed Thomas Jursa, a representative for “Vogue” magazine, and Dick Owens, who is writing a book of eti- quette, were deep in conversation as to how much changing styles were affected by modern manners. Lucille Shader, accumulating data for her sketches on French society, was also there. No sooner was I through with this smart set, than I was whisked away to see Eileen Rea, a bacteriologist, reveling in the old haunts of Louis Pasteur. From there we dropped in to the Surete to meet Hercule Poirit’s new assistant, Esther Turco. Tonight I went to the opera to hear Angelo Urso sing Bizet’s “Carmen.” Joyce Woodfield, whom I discovered sitting beside me with her French count husband, pointed out that the pianist was Bob Beattie. I chartered a plane for England and have already seen the pilot, Esther Brown. July 3, 1955: England. Margaret Wilson was “Johnny-on-the-spot” at her landing field control tower. Yes, sir, “Willie” sure can bring ’em in on the beam. I started off on a walk through rural England and was promptly invited in to have a spot of tea with Perry Crandall, who is running a cozy little inn. Oddly enough he has on his register Robert Glazier, a teacher in history at the local school; Jackie Fox, who is gathering material for his series of short stories on girl escapades; and Hope Knerr, who is coining words for a new dictionary. This assorted company got their heads toegther and decided I would simply have to go to a basketball game. When I looked askance they said, “Why, haven’t you heard?—Sally Briggs is managing an international basketball team of which Mary Grasso is the captain. They’ve been making a tour and have introduced it to countries all over the world.” To add to the surprise of seeing a basketball game in England was the appearance of Frances Salisbury with her troop of cheerleaders clad in navy blue and white, reminiscent of the good, ole days. (Need I add that Mary’s team won the game?) Seeing that I was in such fine spirits after “our” victory, the boys thought it 18) --