Westerly High School - Westlyan Yearbook (Westerly, RI)

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The Senior Year Book — 1948 long skirts, which hang four feet below the knee. And now comes the Hopkinton City Band itself, with gleaming instruments. Rudy Bentlage conducts the new national anthem, “She’s Too Fat for Me with fiery enthusiasm. As the last of the parade disappears around the corner, we find that we are standing outside Robinson’s Miserly Trust Company. Peering through great glass doors we see the bank teller, Lenny Holland, thoughtfully counting new bills, while Artie Matteson sweeps the old ones into the street. Suddenly Eldridge’s great black limousine (with air-conditioning throughout) screeches to a halt at the curb. Gangsters! Guns! Fear strikes our hearts as Jimmy Roche, grim and forbidding, steps out of the car flourishing a rapid-action repeating St. Clair water pistol. With mighty strides he reaches Holland’s window, seizes the bills, and jams them into the pack of his confederate, John Fraser. At this point, Secretary Shirley Perkins, who has been tying her shoe laces, looks up and lets out a horrified scream. Ed James, the local bartender, comes to her rescue, flattening Roche and Fraser with one blow of his great fist. However, his triumph is short-lived, for Jack Eldridge runs in crying, “April Fool!” Tears of disappointment course down our cheeks when we realize it is only a joke. Sobbing uncontrollably we step into an elevator run by Mary Hickson Gavitt. “State three floors to which you wish to be transported, in the order of your preference,” she says quietly. “Second, third or fourth,” we stutter as the elevator shoots to the fifth. We step out and stroll down the long corridor, reading the names on the office doors. The name on the second door catches our eye: Lamb and Rosso—Ballroom Dancing. We fling open the door. Thirty or forty pupils are gazing rapturously at Jimmy Lamb, who is doing an Irish jig. Bob Buteau accompanies him on the harp with the “Irish Washerwoman.” In a quieter corner Rose Marie is leading suffering pupils in the two-step. “That’s terrible!” she cries suddenly. “These are my only bright pupils.” Gully and Cap blush rosily. We close the door quietly. On the next door is the simple legend, “Don’t Know, Do Ya?” Intrigued, we peek inside. Amanda Denison, Nona Geary, Catherine Brucker, and Maria Ligouri, public stenographers, are typing at a furious rate. In the center of the room stands Billy Hall with a fiendish grin. He has just fed Martha LaMarche into the jaws of an enormous adding machine. Eleanor Uzzi and Lucy Vuono are filing letters close by, unaware that the same fate awaits them. We start to protest, but Janitor William Autry stops us. “Leave Bill alone,” he says. “Just innocent fun.” At the next office Earle Travis greets us, beaming with delight. “I’ve just encased Evie in plastic,” he announces proudly. “My assistants, Monti, Martell, and Main, can hardly wait for her to jell.” We back out hastily, bumping into Gordon Greene. “I’m late!” he cries in a distraught voice and rushes down the corridor. “He manufactures alarm clocks,” volunteers Joe Gaccione, popping up at our elbows. Joe explains that he is going to the dentist in the next office. But already there is a long waiting line outside the dentist’s door. Joe points out Gene, a doctor. “He’s very successful.” says Joe. “Patients visit him only once.” Next in the long line of aching jaws is Betty Champlin, who runs Chow Foo, a Chinese restaurant; her cashier, Marge Edmonds, and several of her customers—Anita Gaccioch, Elizabeth Clarke, and Charlotte Potter. At the end is Tom Henderson, bent over double. “His little car gave him a permanent twist,” says Joe sadly. But who is this dentist? How does she attract all these people? Martha Biss, a crisp starched receptionist, opens the door. “You may all come in now,” she murmurs sweetly. In we rush, trampling her carelessly. The dentist is none other than Glennis Geyer. Don Barber and Grant Ralls, famous sign-painters, have just hung her motto on the wall—“Painless extraction or your money back.” In the chair is Loretta W’eston, shivering with fright. “Nothing to it,” smiles Glennis reassuringly, reaching for her pliers. Again we take our leave hastily. Deciding against the elevator, we patter down the stairs. At the foot is Charlie Peterson. I’m going to fix it so the stairs go up instead of down,” he chuckles. We step out into the fresh sunny air once more. There we see Joan Meyer, with her ice cream wagon. “I'm a Good Humor Man at last,” she sighs contentedly. “Good girl, Joan,” shouts Tony Piccolo from across the street. “He and Walt Nigrelli are expert telephone linesmen, because they’re so tall they save the trouble of climbing the poles,” explains Joan. We nod and move on. A great automobile warehouse comes into view filled with jet-propelled cars—Floyd’s Flashy Fort Fleet, obviously. Outside the warehouse stands a bright blue Model A. Alfred Kennedy and Artie Grills are shining the headlights; Lihou checks the air pressure in the tires. Underneath the car Mechanics Moore and Obermann are playing checkers. Floyd appears in a tall silk hat. “Want to come to a wedding with me? My chauffeur, Ken Panciera, will drive us.” We accept; Arthur Nardone opens the car door for us. Down the street we hurtle, narrowly missing Shirley West, who is herding Margaret Savy’s

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The Senior Year Book. — 1948 a glorious one. We were proud of a wonderful team of “Pic,” “Gene, “Nig,” “Dody,” “Henry,” and Jim who won the Class B Championship and the State Championship. W. H. S. can never forget such fine sportsmen and Coach Jim Federico, whose hard work and expert coaching have produced championship teams. It was questioned whether a senior play would he given, for we were Without a supervisor and director. Mr. Patrick Visgilio, a professional actor, was chosen for the position. The comedy, “Junior Miss,” was chosen along with a very fine cast. The play was an hilarious success. Much credit must be given to Joan Meyer and Bernard Matthews, editor and co-editor respectively for the Barker,” and to the entire Barker staff for the work they have done and for their perseverance which made possible the maintenance of the paper. The band continued to progress in leaps and bounds under the direction of Mr. DeBenedictis The head twirler was Betty Ferrigno. The receiver of the D. A. R. award was Jacqueline Kenyon. The valedictorian and salutator-ian chosen were Joan Meyer and Elly Heyder. Joan was also a finalist in the nation-wide PepsiCola contest. The date for graduation was set for June 16, 1948, the day of farewell to Westerly High. To the Entire Faculty: The class of ’48 gives you many thanks. You have been understanding and lenient in many ways. You taught us much and made our days l'ar from prosaic. We have placed a great value on the guidance and advice you have given us. We shall miss each and every one of you. To the Class of ’48: Our carefree days are over. We have had fun, we have worked hard. We shall miss the friendship we have known for twelve years. These are the memories we shall treasure always. Our high school days, our happiest days, the never-to-be-forgotten days! We face a serious future—one of maintaining peace and security in troubled, unsettled times. We must face these problems with careful forethought, responsible reasoning, and decorum always. May we always cherish within our hearts these fond memories of these joyous school days at W. H. S. and may the realization of the importance of the companionship we have known grow with the passing years. MARY COZZOLINO, Historian Class Prophecy Put on your hat and straighten your shoelaces; in our gorgeous time-machine we’re going places. This astonishing machine was concocted by Matthews, Payne, and Pete Grills—eminent (if mad), scientists, and was painted in maroon and gold stripes by Elly Heyder. Carl Brooks supervised the construction and the placing of the dials. Now Assistant Cherenzia throws the master switch. Lightning flashes! Thunder crashes! The air is filled with the acrid odor of “Tabu”! As the haze clears away, we find ourselves among strange people—our classmates. We seem to be in a bustling metropolis— llopkinton City. Only the New Look can be seen; across the street is a long black skirt, Bobby Welch. Screaming with joy, she rushes toward us. and trips on the white line. Zoom! Squash! “Charlie Cunliffe’s road is patterned with the people he has flattened!” screams Chief Azzinaro, local constable. “She’s still good,” says Jean Harding. “Charlie can use her for a drumhead.” An ambulance screams to a halt; out bounds Doctor Finster, who scoops up Bobby with a spatula. Sighing, we watch Interne Prosser drive her away. Then we step into the peace and quiet of Joseph Nicholas Cugini's Flower Shoppe, but we’re stopped short by another noise. Clank! clank! Professor Den-Den Barber trails past the flower shop window, laboriously dragging his green lunch pail. Joe explains that Ed Murphy has opened a new Boom Bridge Naval Academy and employed Den-Den as Dean. Hannah Whaley and Don Champagne are in a corner of the shop nursing a small wilted petunia in an onion patch. A few customers are standing in the center of the shop, sniffing ecstatically. Despite the blissful expressions we recognize two lovers of beauty—Donald Munger and Phyllis Cambra. “Viola le chrysanthemum,” says Phyllis. A blare of bugles! Throbbing drums! We rush out of the shop to see a gorgeous parade passing in review. Leading are Rosalie Moor-house and Jean Lanphear on white chargers. Behind them follow three twirlers—Betty Ferrigno, Dot Davis, and Connie Grills—with shiny gold batons. Occasionally they trip over their new

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Tiif. Senior Year Book — 1948 25 children across the street. The car begins the wobble—a flat tire! We halt, dismayed, but Muscle-Man Brainard comes to our rescue. Holding the car up with one hand, he removes the tire with the other. His wife Lila stands by wringing her hands in terror. Marie Pignataro runs up and inquires whether Charlie would like a handkerchief with which to wipe his fingers. Once more we proceed on our way. Now we arrive at a magnificent church. From within come the melodious strains of Browning’s Sonata, sung by Myrtle Stapleton. Rosalyn Giardino accompanies her on the organ. Biswurm and Boris, the altar boys, have burnt their fingers on the candles. The Reverend Father Joseph Abosso stands at the altar. Down the aisle bounces Fluffy Lenihan, strewing rose petals. Slowly, sedately, Chick and Jack Harrison, the happy pair, trip down the aisle. Owen Scott is obviously best man; opposite him is Doris Simpson, maid of honor. Behind them Gordon Burrell and Doug Clark support a pillow bearing a fifty-carat diamond. Eagerly we scan the faces in the crowded church. In striped tails and cutaway is Louis Ferendo, the local lighthouse keeper. Next to him, dressed entirely in green, is Ann Lamb, society editor of Cozzolino Blah, the morning paper. Three rows back, Jacky Kenyon is standing on her head. “My feet are tired.’ she murmurs. The wedding proceeds smoothly until Rev. Abosso says, “IF there be anyone with objections let him speak now or forever hold his peace.” “I object.” cries Catherine Gencarelli. “On what grounds?” demands Rev. Abosso. “I saw him first,” she declares. The church is in an uproar. Lawyer Malagrino soothes her. “Remember, you’re already engaged to George Quat-tromani, Ernest Paterno, and Nat Gabriele.” “That’s right, I forgot,” says Catherine thoughtfully. The noise subsides. Jack kisses his bride and the wedding is over. Outside the church we wave gaily at Marge Dinwoodie and Nancy Hazard, who swoop by in a helicopter, singing at the top of their lungs. Across the street is a billboard. Raymond Ritchie, Kenny Brightman, and Richard Hinch-liffe are busily pasting a great sign on it. Vote for the honest letter-writer—Moby Dick for President !” Several onlookers are cheering wildly. Overcome with emotion, Helen Sposato faints, and is promptly revived by Georgiana Fenner, who pours water over her briskly. “My hairdo is ruined,” wails Helen, wringing herself dry. She hastens down the street toward Theresa Cayer’s Beauty Salon. We follow and watch Terry welcome her. “Give me the works!” cries Helen. Immediately Dot Salimeno seats her in a leather chair and cranks her up. Terry gets the curlers. Betty Taylor, who has been quietly swinging on the chandelier, drops down and begins to manicure Helen’s fingernails. We hear snatches of gossip. “Did you know that Madeline Rossi and Lucille Palmer have a new car with the steering wheel in the trunk? Makes the front seat lots more roomy.” “Jane Rae was elected water commissioner yesterday. She’s going to rearrange all the water pipes.” “Dot Marra’s little boy swallowed three tacks this morning. Lea Dobson, the child nurse, had to shake him upside-down for three hours before he would spit them out.” “Ooooh, look!” At this point all the girls scramble to the window, sighing yearningly. Bob Turco is passing by. Bob Turco—the greatest basketball star of them all; 108 baskets in his last game! Opposing teams sob like babies when Bob strides onto the court! Bob Gauvin, twirling four golf clubs at one time, conducts Peggy Emerson, Dot Adamo, and Margaret Algiere in a rousing cheer. “Yea! Rah, rah! Bob!” Clara Colbert leads us all in a hilarious jitterbug down the street. Finally we collapse gleefully on the curb, still cheering madly for Bob. Lois Terranova, R. N., passes out cough drops to us hoarse cheerers. We’re very hot and dusty; all at once the same thought strikes each of us. Down we race to Melissa Fenner’s swimming pool where we find all our old classmates have gathered. “Last one in is a hard-boiled egg!” screams Mike Gardella. But at the very edge of the diving board we halt. It’s time to return to 1948. Regretfully we wave goodbye to everyone and reluctantly climb back into our faithful time machine. Lightning flashes! Thunder crashes! We’re back in ’48 again! After this prophecy your faces have brightened. Could it be that you’ve been enlightened? We’ve visited the future, and are not to be scorned; When 1960 comes, don't say you weren’t warned! JOAN MEYER BERNARD MATTHEWS JACQUELINE KENYON IAN ST. CLAIR