Green Bank High Class of ‘56

 

Time Capsules and Moonshine: 5 Surprising Truths from the Green Bank High Class of ‘56

To run a finger over the 1956 Mountain Breeze is to engage with a blueprint of a defunct social structure. The cover, featuring a proud eagle embossed in deep relief against a textured cream background, serves as the heavy lid of a communal time capsule. Inside, the scent of aging parchment—a mix of vanilla and forest floor—carries the reader back to Green Bank, West Virginia. Beyond the stiff, formal poses of the mid-century, the archive reveals a student body possessing a wit that was sharp, a spirit that was occasionally wild, and a collective identity rooted in the rugged soil of the Alleghenies.

A Legacy Older Than the Nation Itself

The "Hall of Learning" timeline preserved in the yearbook’s opening pages reveals that Green Bank High was not merely a school, but a sentinel of history. In a startling subversion of the standard American narrative, the community’s educational roots were planted in 1730—nearly a half-century before the Declaration of Independence.

The students of 1956 were keenly aware of this deep chronological well. Their records trace a path from the first academy in 1842 to a pivotal remodeling of the school building immediately following the Civil War, a testament to a community rebuilding itself through intellect. This sense of rootedness is punctuated by milestones of modernization:

• 1919: Grace Curry emerges as the school’s first graduate.
• 1926: The institution of football, formalizing the rugged athleticism of the mountains.
• 1944: The organization of the first school band (which, in a moment of archival drama, was notably suspended in 1955).

This deep history created a profound sense of continuity. By the time the Class of ‘56 walked these halls, they weren't just students; they were the latest caretakers of a centuries-old intellectual tradition.

The "Snack and Smack" Club and the Soundtrack of ‘56

The extracurricular landscape was a study in mid-century duality. On one hand, the "Future Farmers of America" (F.F.A.) and "Future Homemakers of America" (F.H.A.) acted as the vocational heavyweights, preparing students for the traditional labor of the field and hearth. The "Office Girls" and the "Commercial Club" provided the skeletal structure for the local economy.

However, the "Snack and Smack Club" offers a more playful glimpse into student life. Despite the cheeky name, source photos show students diligently preparing food—it was a domestic science club that refused to take its title too seriously. This intellectual diversity was further bolstered by the Latin Club and Library Club, suggesting that while these students were prepared for the plow, they were equally at home with Virgil. The social "wall of sound" from this era is best captured by their favorite slang:

"Don’t be silly." — Maxine Harmon "You said it." — Nancy Jackson "Like I say man, it shows." — Jerry Long "Aw, Pshaw." — Dick Galford

Beneath these voices, a literal "Soundtrack of ‘56" hums through the yearbook’s advertisement footers. Each page is anchored by the songs of the day, linking students to the hits of the era: Maxine Harmon and Ben Elbon are paired with "Love and Marriage," while Jerry Long and Kyle Cassell are tied to the rebellious "Black Denim Trousers."

Irreverent Ambitions: The Wild "Prognostications"

If the formal portraits suggest a "wholesome" 1950s stereotype, the "Prognostications" section utterly dismantles it. These predictions served as a defense mechanism against the looming transition to adulthood, utilizing a brand of absurd, inside-joke humor that still feels biting today:

• James Sheets was destined to be found making a fortune selling moonshine on Back Mountain.
• Ben Elbon was envisioned fleeing to Alaska to escape the clutches of 48 wives.
• Caroline Tacy was predicted to become a champion bullfighter—at the age of 60.
• Dick Galford took the darkest turn, imagined as a gangster who "killed all his former teachers" while being pursued by a political posse.
• Jerry Long was predicted to have set out for the moon in a "souped-up Chevrolet rocketship" to see if there were any girls on it.

This irreverence suggests a tight-knit brotherhood and sisterhood that used irony to navigate the uncertainty of their futures.

The Class Will: Bequeathing Conduct and Chemistry

The "Class Will" allowed seniors to leave behind a legacy of personality traits and local grievances. While some bequests were traditional—Bessie Simmons leaving her "majorette ability" to the next generation—others were wonderfully specific and sharp-tongued:

• Nancy Wenger bequeathed her "love for arguing in Latin" to anyone capable of winning more arguments than her.
• Mary Simmons left her "love for catching a red-headed boy" to any girl fortunate enough to find one.
• Nancy Wilfong took a parting shot at the rigors of academia, bequeathing all the "gray hairs on her head" to her teacher, Mr. Stewart, claiming she earned every one of them in his Chemistry class.

This spirit of academic exhaustion was shared by Charlotte Dahmer, who offered a succinct and classic legacy:

"I, Charlotte Dahmer, bequeath my knowledge of chemistry to next year's seniors."

A Micro-Economy of Rugged Independence

The "Boosters" and advertisement sections paint a portrait of a self-sustaining mountain micro-economy. In an era before big-box retail, commerce in Green Bank was a personal affair, often noted as "Compliments of" local families like the Nelsons or the Raders.

The sheer density of automotive businesses—Sheets, Rader’s, Seneca, Watring, and the Central Service Station—speaks to the ruggedness of mountain travel. Ads promising "Service Year Around" and "General Garage Work" were not mere slogans; they were essential services for a community where a car had to survive West Virginia winters and steep grade climbs. From the Mower Lumber Company in Cass to the Howes Leather Company in Frank, these businesses represent a landscape of industrious, face-to-face commerce that has largely vanished in the digital age.

Conclusion: The Echoes of the Mountain Breeze

The Class of 1956 stood at a fascinating crossroads. They were the heirs to a 1730 educational legacy, yet they were dreaming of "souped-up Chevrolet rocketships" and lives in the modern "commercial" world. They were at once diligent, vocational, and wildly irreverent.

As we close this paper portal, we are left to wonder: in 70 years, what will a researcher make of our own digital footprints? Will our modern statistics and prognostications carry the same wit, the same sense of community, and the same uniquely rooted spirit that still blows through the pages of the 1956 Mountain Breeze?