Windsor Locks High School - Herald Yearbook (Windsor Locks, CT)

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THE HIGH SCHOOL HERALD 21 When John came home, I told him and he didn’t say anythin’. He understood, too, I guess. Wh ?n I tole Letty, she acted the same way. She ain ' t a bad person after all. Well, now the whole street knows, but the old man doesn’t know we know, and he’ll never know becuz we may be a bit gossipy at times, but when it comes down to it, we re pretty human after all, too. So the old man goes on tellin’ people different things his wife says and does and nobody makes fun of him and nobody wonders why they never see the old lady becuz we all know he’s jest livin’ in his memories. Geraldine Cagnulari ’45 WE MEET AGAIN ’’Hurrah! Hurrah!” The roaring crowds formed one mighty voice. It was the end of the eighth inning and this would surely be another ’’perfect game” for Mort, a burly, left-handed pitcher. This game marked the close of a successful season for Mort. Since he had pitched all no-hit, no-run games, Mort had become the baseball idol of millions. The stadium was packed with thousands of people who had come to see Mort’s final game. It was the second half of the ninth inning and Mort’s opposing team was up. Toby Tamasko was at the bat. Mort pitched. Strike one. Another pitch. Ball one. Mort wound up for another pitch and — ’’crack” — the ball went whizzing through the air out into center field! Toby’s short legs carried him to second base! It was a hit! The first hit in Mort’s career as a pitcher. This time the crowd didn’t send up cheers. They were as astonished as Mort. Even Toby, the five foot, four inch shortstop, was amazed. ' Well, it was only luck.” That’s what everyone said at first. But was it? Toby was up for a second time, and a third, and—he did it a g a i n —he got a single. Now, the spectators were shouting, What happ ened? Mort’s pitched a perfect game’ all season and a little shrimp like Tamasko has to break the record.” The game had certainly turned out quite differently from what was expected. On the way to his hotel Mort thought of the game. Now, it seemed as though the entire season had been a failure because of that one inning. ’Nothing was more important than . . .” Mort stopped short, for, as he looked up, there was a poster—Uncle Sam pointing his finger and saying, ”1 W’ANT YOU.’’ Mort regarded the poster more closely. He read the message thereon, but the deter¬ mined look on Uncle Sam’s face was enough to set him thinking. The more he looked at the sign, the more he realized that, after all, there were things in this world that were more important than a baseball game. Mort decided, then and there, that he would go to his hotel, take a shower, and the first thing the next morning he would enlist in Uncle Sam’s Army. Mort was sent to Camp Shelton, and you guessed it, he spent his free lime, what little he had, playing baseball. Baseball was just in his blood. One fine afternoon several months later the fellows were assembled on the grounds to watch a game between Camp Shelton and Fort Houston. Mort, of course, was Camp Shelton’s pitcher. The game was going along smoothly until the umpire made several faulty decisions, as far as Mort was concerned. Mort walked off the mound toward the ump to complain when, lo and behold, the um¬ pire took off his mask, and who should it be, but Mort’s old friend,” Toby Tamasko, a Sergeant, stationed at Camp Shelton! Erma Olivi 45 CO CN Page

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20 THE HIGH SCHOOL HERALD John never likes to argue a point if he can help it becuz he always gets too hot under the collar. So he just closes his lips tight-like when he gets mad, and Letty knew better than to say anythin more. She d clashed with John before. The next day, that was Monday, I did my washing real early and was gettin ready to bake a cake, when the idea hits me to send a cake over to old Mrs. Evans seein ' that she wasn’t able enough to bake one for herself. So I starts in and bakes her one, too. About 2:30 I puts on a clean apron and hot foots it over next door carryin’ my cake all covered up in waxed paper. I went round to the back door and knocked, but I didn t get any answer. I knocked again but still I didn’t hear any- thin . When I knocked the third time and still no answer, I went back home thinkin’ the old lady was nappin’. When John came home about 5 :30, I tole him to take a run over with the cake. He came back sayin that the old man took it from him and said his wife would appreciate it. Well, that made me feel good becuz I done my good deed for the day. Tuesday—no, I guess it was Wednesday, I was havin’ a hot stew fer supper. No matter how hot the weather is, John always wants his hot soup or stew, so I always have it hot fer him. It was mighty good, too. Well, I was puttin’ on the stew when the idea comes to me to send some over to Mrs. Evans. Hot stew always could cure anybody’s ails. When it was done, nice and savoury, I puts some in a bowl and goes across the street. I knocked on the door and then I knocked again, but like the time be¬ fore, I didn’t get any answer. Then I got real worried, becuz John tole me that the old man was plannin ' to go out o’ town fer a few days, and I thought that maybe the old lady got sicker er somethin’, and she couldn ' t get ’round to call fer help. I tried the door, but it was locked. I ran ’round to the front door and it was open, and I walked in to a sort of hall with stairs leadin’ up to the second story. There was nobody in the kitchen, but there was two places set at the table. No food was cookin on the table though and that seemed mighty funny to me becuz I don’t see any sense in settin’ a table unless there’s food to put on it. I peeked in the other rooms, but nobody was there either, and the place was pretty clean, too. I guessed the old lady must have been pretty clean for someone so old. Then I started up the stairs to the bedrooms. I knew the old lady must ’a been up there if she wasn’t downstairs. She wasn’t in the first room, and it didn’t look as if it had ever been used, so I went in the other room. The old man’s pipes and books was layin’ on the table, and his clothes was in the closet, but not a sign of anythin ' that might ’a belonged to a woman. I just couldn’t understand it. Then I looked up on the wall over the bed and saw a picture. It was one of them painted portraits of an old lady with white haif and pearls. Under the pic¬ ture it said: . r Lydia Evans, beloved wife of Avery Evans Born 1850 — Died 1928 Then I understood, the old man was livin’ in his memories. I went home, takin’ the stew with me becuz I didn’t want him to know I ' d been there and knew his secret. CN CN Page

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22 the high school herald FOG What is beyond this veil of mist, That envelopes the narrow winding streets, 1 hat twist like gleaming ribbons of pavement, Washed clean by the glistening beads of moisture? What is beyond this veil of mist, As it rolls ov’r the land, And caressingly every part does kiss? Are there fairies in the bog, That nightly brew and mix thee, Fog? What is beyond this veil of mist? Do the witches oft’ times on Hallowe en night Fly through the sky and are never missed, Protected by this filmy veil of white? What is beyond this veil of mist? The night is fading and dawn turns to day. Farewell, friend fog, Be on thy way. Donald Bevilacqua ’45 TRIBUTE TO SUMMER Brown is the turf that gives thee peace In a world thou hast made so glad. Low is the vine embracing thee In her mourning that Phoebus bade. . Sweet is the tribute paid as now; Thy verdant shroud is turned to gold. And trees in their grief shalt bless thee; Autumn, his frosty wings unfolds. Brown is the turf that gives thee rest When winter upon us shall blow His icy breath that stills the brooks And is laden with whitest snow. Sweet are the memories treasured, dear; Nature glows with autumnal fire Till one day thou shalt live again, Thy challenge quenching Death’s desire. Someday I shall join thy retreat In that kingdom not far away To keep an eternal slumber; But thou .shalt rise another day. Evelyn Paganelli 45 CM Page