AN EGG FOR ELINORE by Marion Yon Rosenstiel ...... ............... ............................. 2 MEETING IN A SMALL WYOMING TOWN by Thomas F. Lombardi, Jr. . . ....... .. ................................. 9 MEANINGLESS SENTENCES by Elizabeth Pieper ...... ................... ..... ..... .................... ... I 0 THE TWO-CENT TOUR by Margaret Thompson ....... ...... ....... ... ......... ................. 13 CHRISTMAS THINKING by Frances White . . . ......... . . .... . .... ................................. 16 BUSY WORK by Eleanor Leonard ... ............ .......... .................................. 17 IN SEARCH OF MAZAMA by Thomas F. Lombardi, Jr. . ... ......... ..... .............. . 18 ... IS THROUGH THE STOMACH by Mary Dawson ............................ . ................................... 21 LEM (A Children's Story) by Sandra Sullivan ........... . ............ ...... .. . ........................ 23 ISH KERIOTH by Maria Reiss ........... ................. .. ....... ........... ............... 24 REFLECTIONS ON THE POWER AND THE GLORY by Susan McCarthy ....... ... . ............. .............................. 26 THE GIFT by JoAnn Stecher .. ................. ............................... .......... 28 MY SEARCH FOR EDUCATION by Antoinette Oliveti ... ...................................................... 31 A WEEK IN THE HILLS by Margaret Boyle.................................................................. 32 THE AMAZING MRS. O'MALLEY by Dorothy Covone .....
···········································ARCH1VES Holy Family University Philadelphia, PA 19114
HOLY FAMILY COLLEGE, TORRESDALE, PHILA.l PA. 19114
AN EGG FOR ELINORE by Marion A. Von Rosenstiel "Good heavens, I've still got a hangover! After all these years!" Elinore laughed wryly at the pounding of her heart as she accepted the huge florist box. "43 and I still flutter!" She shook herself sternly but the fatuous smile lingered. All the misery of the morning suddenly melted away. The small remaining stab was from another time. Ever since she was 13 and suddenly sprouted head and shoulders above every body in her class, flowers -delivered in a florist box -were, for Elinore, the ultimate salute to femininity. Those brown-edged corsages worn to school on Monday morning by the honey-bees after a festive Saturday night had done it. Forever after, flowers in a florist box said, "You're lovely. You're enchanting. You're a girl." At 6'-1" and 145 pounds, nobody said that to Elinore with flowers or otherwise. "Oh, baby, what a follback you'd make!" they might say. Or." If you can speed up your turns, you'll swim it in I :28 easy!" But boys didn't send corsages to be pinned on bathing suits or tennis shorts, and they never saw her in an evening dress. Since most of them fit neatly under her chin, they didn't invite her to come dancing. They swam with her or played tennis with her, but if they took her out after dark, it was to the movies, Sitting down, she was more their size. But who sent flowers for a trip to the movies? "Don't worry, honey," her mother had said in the same saccharine tones that Elinore often caught herself using on her own children now. "All of a sudden they'll grow up to you. Just be patient. And always be a lady." Occasionally Elinore practised being langorous and lissom in front of her bed room mirror while she waited for her buddies to grow up to her. She should have practised more. But instead, she decided to train for the Olympics. Elinore laughed as she remembered that swim-off, with Johnny Weismueller jumping up and down on the diving board giving his famous original Tarzan yell, and her cheering section screaming her to an ignominious fourth place finish. There were only four in the race, and she was so> far behind, they threw a life ring into the pool and offered to tow her out. "Even a dandelion would have helped that night!" she thought as she cradled the huge florist box in her arms and limped awkwardly toward the kitchen. "Even a wilted dandelion!" "It's just as well if you don't swim quite so fast," her mother had comforted her. "They'll catch up faster. And they will, you know.. The time will come., You're a very handsome girl, dear." Mothers always thought that about daughters, Elinore knew grimly, but the whole flower business gave a sort of trembling anticipation to college, The boys had grown up to her. She barely stuck out in a crowd at all any more. This was the time. This was probably when she'd meet Him, when That One would make her feel small and helpless and feminine in spite of her size 10 feet planted firmly on the ground. It would happen by moonlight, of course, with the fragrance of roses wafting up from her shoulder. He turned out to be an engineering student who played th.e tuba in the band, and didn't even think to send her a chrysanthemum to wear while she sat alone in the stands during the football games. He didn't like to dance. He couldn't dance. She should have known how it would be. But she asked him to take her to the Women's Athletic Association Spring Formal Dance1on Easter Eve anyway, and was ecstatic when he had the perspicuity to ask what she was going to wear. A really elegant gown, she told him modestly. A gold tunic over a flame red sheath. Maybe something kind of orangy would go with it just great.
HIS CHAIR-Joon Morion - Woodblock
She remembered the breathless waiting all that day of the dance, the running to the window whenever a car crunched down the quiet street to see if it was the florist's truck. She remembered the sinking anxiety slowly turning to fury as the day wore on, the flood of relief when she saw the box under his arm ¡ when he called for her,resplendent in his rented tuxedo. . "Gee whiz!" he whistled as she swept regally down the steps in her gold and flame creation. "You look great! Like something out of a circus!" She stumbled on the bottom step and laughed lightly through gritted teeth as he caught her and handed her the box. She nearly fell flat on her face from the weight of it. . , "Ye gods! What's in here? Rocks?" She supported it with her knee,tugging at the lid, and could have cried when she saw it. An Easter Egg. An enormous chocolate Easter egg with her name on it. Lenny. Not even Elinore. Lenny, that stupid nickname left over from high school. "Do you expect me to wear this?" She couldn't put a lilt in her voice but she at least managed to keep it friendly. "Hell, no!" he chortled at her wit. "We're going to eat it! It's five pounds of solid chocolate. Get a knife. We'll be the most popular people at that dance!" They were. Everybody had flowers. But she was the only one with an Easter egg. They had practically held court in a corner,hacking off chocolate for anyone who wanted some,and everybody did.They hadn't gotten around to dancing a single dance. There was so much laughter in their corner,the orchestra was practically drowned out. It was all very gay. But Elinore knew for sure that night that This was not The One. The One happened so fast, she hadn't had time for the girl stuff. If she had swooned,Brad would have revived her with a wet washrag and kept on talking. If she had clung,he would have set her firmly back on her size IO feet. There was too much to talk about,too much to do. Moonlight was used for planning, not dreaming. It was exciting and wonderful and only once did she wish ruefully out loud that he'd make her feel a l'ittle more bridey and - she hesitated - feminine. Brad smiled at her in astonishment. "Honey, a wife is a woman!" He kissed her to prove it. "What more do you need?" "Nothing,pardner," Elinore swooned only slightly. "Except maybe ... " she grinned at him, "one single rose." "It'd just wilt," Brad grinned back at her. "Anyway,I can think of better surprises!" And that's how it had been. Full of surprises and fur but no flowers. Brad had never sent her flowers, not even when their babies were born. For the first one he'd shown up at the hospital with an exquisite madonna etchi.ng, for the second with a handsome little brass desk clock,for the third with a copy of Good Housekeeping and a bag of Fritos and for the fourth, a smuggled bottle of martinis. She didn't mind. She kept remembering that a wife was a woman and grew her own flowers in her garden. And now,after almost 20 years,he'd suddenly relented. "Cheer up," the card taped to the florist box said, "A wife is especially a woman!" She smiled,running her hand over the long, smooth, white surface, delaying the delight of lifting the lid and discovering the fragrance inside. She didn't deserve them at all. today. She had behaved like a spoiled brat that morning. Her desperate disappo[ntment was no excuse, and she was furiously ashamed of her wailing. She was even more furious at herself for tearing the cartilage in her knee. And at her own
breakfast table, too, when she had twisted too energetically to get a plate of toast from the shelf behind her! Even at 43 she still had too much. of the old Olympic tryouts in her nature. If it had happened falling off her bicycle, or trying some new trick on water skis . . . It didn't matter. What did matter was that she was in a cast from hip to ankle. That morning the doctor had insisted that it stay there for six weeks - to protect herself from herself, he said. That meant she and her daughter couldn't take the Charter Flight to visit her exchange-student son who had been away in Europe for almost a year. Even if she could keep her stiff leg stretched in ¡ the aisle on the plane across the Atlantic, she couldn't very well fling it on the sofa, in the home of European strangers. She couldn't be ladylike about it if she tried, and Europeans didn't like that kind of informality on their furniture. No, they'd have to cancel, and she had thrown herself on her own sofa and cried like a banshee. Bless Brad's heart! She deserved a spanking, not flowers after a scene like that! But he knew how she felt. He knew how she was longing to see their son. She lifted the long white lid tenderly. "A wife is especially a woman," the card said. Adoringly she folded back the green tissue paper and exploded into laughter. Nestled among the ferns were cine dozen long stemmed white lilies, five or six pristine blossoms to the stem. In no time, the kitchen smelled like the funeral parlor Brad intended. "Oh, that darling nut! Elinore chuckled as she limped to find a vase deep enough for them. Two vases. She revelled in her husband's humor, and loved him as she carefully arranged the elegant, formal white blossoms. She wanf:ed to hug them as she stumped into the living room, her cast swinging stiffly in as close to a skip as it could muster. She stepped back to admire the effect of the huge mass of flowers on the credenza. The living room began to smell like a funeral parlor, too. Suddenly she laughed again, and quickly pulled out one large spray of lilies and carried it back to its box. Brad would be home any minute. When she .heard his key in the lock, she grabbed the lily. Awkwardly she lowered herself to the kitchen floor. Brad found her there, stretched out full length, eyes closed, the casted leg placed neatly beside the good one, the hands crossed holding the lily on her chest. "Hey! What goes on?" Brad sounded slightly frightened. Elinore opened one eye and beamed at him. "Oh, you darling!" she almost gurgled with suppressed laughter. "They're wonderful! Just absolutely wonderful!" "Yeah, well ... I knew how bad you felt. Didn't blame you a bit, but what can you do?" "I certainly didn't have to howl like a baby!" she sat up abruptly, and he helped her to her feet. "Why not? You're a girl!" His voice was edged with teasing but his face was serious. "Made you feel better, didn't it?" "Oh," Elinore looked at the lily, twisting it thoughtfully back and forth by the stem. "Maybe a little!" She smiled at him tentatively. "Sme,11!" she said, holding the blossom under his nose. "Remind you of anything?" "Umm. Nice," he sniffed absently. "A little strong, maybe. But nice." Sud denly he looked worried. "You don't mind that it wasn't roses, do you? I did remember. What you said about that one single rose, I mean." Elinore reached up to him, but he pulled away. "But the florist said the lilies were much better. Fresher. They'll last longer." "Forever!" Elinore put her arms around his neck. "Of course I don't mind, you sweet idiot!" Her voice was muffled against his shoulder. "They're wonderful! Just absolutely wonderful!" D---
C
STATION OF THE CROSS-
Sr. Mark William Sampson, MSBT - Color design series
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GENEVA- Sr. M. Martina Banach, CSFN - Conte' drawing
MEETING IN A SMALL WYOMING TOWN by Thomas F. Lombardi, Jr. Sunset on a far far mountain range. Somewhere a one-house prairie town ... Timeless-treeless windy sweep of many hills That house seems older Than the dust upon the roads That cross and stretch and fade And take the traveler far ahead or home again. Inside the house, the semi-gloom, the silence, An old man lives his little life Among the sassafras and flower. His dog reclines in shadowy sleep ... The room's much quieter than a Sunday afternoon; The only sounds: a creaking board, Against the house tumbleweed clawing to get in. An old man's submerged laugh, Not even that. A happy sound? Or does the concertina pain the heart? Dark road outside - it's not for him; He never thought, Or even dreamed of it that way.
THE HAY BARN - Joan Marion - Woodblock
MEANINGLESS SENTENCES by Elizabeth Pieper '68 Katherine Pryer and I had been friends for quite a few
years before .1 really got to know her. We were having an
ordinary lunch in a rather ordinary restaurant when I was jolted into the realization that Katherine was not just pass ing time in idle conversation. Our friendship was one that had lent- itself more to silence than to intimacy, but now I realized that she was telling me something important. At this point I. began to listen to her rather than to the hubbub around us. She was saying, "Every time I ever thought about my future I always began with the assumption that I was talking about a time too far off to be really serious about. But Nancy, I can't say 'when I grow up' anymore, because I've arrived. Now I can't help but wonder what I'm going to do with the rest of my life." I couldn't believe my ears. I'd never had any doubts about what Katherine was going to do with her life. She was going to teach. She had always been going to teach. I thought we had both known it. I was amazed, and could only feebly respond, "What are you going to do with your life? You're going to teach! You're a born teacher, and you've always known it." "Don't be ridiculous, Nancy," she answered, "I haven't always known anything. I'll admit that I have always thought that I'd be a teacher, but that's only because it's the obvious thing to be when you have a personality like mine. I'm not great at anything, but I am rather good at almost anything. But Nancy, now I can't see any purpose in spending my life teaching mi.ddle class children to parse useless sentences." It was somehow out of character for Katherine to make a speech like this. She was quiet and reserved but, I had always thought, purposeful. Something had confused her. The events of the past few weeks flashed through my mind. There had been a lot of talk of future plans in the air. With graduation so near, people were beginning to have ideas. I'd heard them. Most were idealistic, some cynical and a few practical. I'd lis tened, like everyone else, and promptly dismissed what I heard. Katherine obviously hadn't. She was restless and there was something unusually urgent about the look that she tossed across the table at me, but I couldn't get her to go any further. She was· definitely dissatisfied, but she didn't seem able to see beyond
the fact that she was headed for, what she considered, a useless and purposeless existence. Her intimacy and desperation seemed to end with the last cu of coffee, and f this was the last flash of insight that I had into the restless mind o Katherine Pryer until several weeks later. I'd just received a letter from my brother Frank, and I'd brought it over to share with Katherine. "I 'II have to say one thing about my brother - he is interesting. I never know how he can so completely abandon himself to so many different causes. Kathy, you remember the Freedom March last year - well, now it's the Peace Corps. I hope he can sustain it for two years this time, or those Nigerians are in trouble ... " "Don't laugh at him Nancy. I think that I admire Frank. At least he's doing something with his life. He can see where he's needed." She managed to take me by surprise again. Katherine had never �eally admired Frank. She liked him, and perhaps was interested in his latest escapade, but I'd always known that he was too impulsive for her to admire. "I don't know, Nancy, I wish that life could be that simply answered for everyone. If I only felt that I had the capacity to be a doctor, or a missionary, or even a Peace Corps volunteer. I wonder if Frank knows how lucky he is? He can conjure up an instant dedication. I get confused when I even try to think of some other method of living. I'm too traditional." Katherine seemed as afraid of being herself as she was of being untraditional. Although I couldn't understand it completely, I could sympathize ¡with her quandry. She needed something to happen that would shake things back into place. That occasion came sooner than I'd hoped. Frank arrived home the next day to say good-bye before he left for his station. I hesitated to bring Katherine and him together because I was afraid of ;14,e effect Frank's always overwhelming enthusiasm would have on her present confusion, but I threw caution to the winds and did have them meet. Frank was enthusiastic all right. He talked of nothing else but the crew that would be working together, and the irrigation system that they would help the people of the backward area construct. I truthfully had never imagined that Frank could get so excited about anything as practical as an irrigation system. Katherine took it all in. She was quiet that night, and I really had to dig to get her reaction. As Frank paused in one description of the engineering involved, she . asked, "Frank, do you really think that this will help the people?" "Help them! why it'll probably make that little farm district into the Milwaukee of the Gold Coast!" He missed her point completely. "I don't mean that. I know that it will do a lot for them in that sense, but in two years how are you going to get them ready to accept all this prosperity? You won't have time. It'd probably take a decade, or maybe even a whole generation." "Kathy, that isn't our purpose. We're going there to build a dam, not solve the prnblems of the world. Somebody else will have to do that." He was irritated that she could question the benefit of two years of his life. She didn't say anything to this but just sat there looking at Frank thoughtfully. This made him still madder. Finally he broke the silence.
VETERAN
-Cerolyll
Pachucli
"Who do you think I am, anyway? Albert Schweitzer? I can't spend my life teaching people to do simple things. They ought to learn that in school. That's what schools are for, aren't they?" "Frank," she began quietly, "if you're only going there for two years, and you don't intend to go back, what about when the two years are over?" My brother never could stay angry for long. He brightened, and his glow of enthusiasm returned. He spent the rest of the evening talking about an idea he had of going out west "to save the American Indian from extinction."
"We just got a wire from Frank," I announced when I saw Katherine a few days after that evening. "He landed yesterday. He said he'd write but I think mother will be lucky to get a Christmas card. You know . .." "Nancy, are they all-like that?" She interrupted me in mid-sentence. "All like what, and who are you talking about? Frank?" "Yes, in a way .. . all the Franks. It's upsetting to find out how really insincere they are." "Oh, Katherine!" I was glad that she was at least saying what she meant. But she was so wrong! I tried to make her understand- "I don't think you can say that they are insincere. Maybe they lack total dedication, but I wouldn't call them insincere!" "Perhaps that was a poor word, Nancy. Frank is sincere ... I guess, but I thought that you had to be dedicated to something to do what he's doing. There's no purpose if you're not. Is there?" "Some people don'_t need dedication," I answered, "they just think big. Progress would be awfully slow if every volunteer waited until he felt the 'call from above.' Katherine, everybody isn't as deep as you. They don't question themselves as to why they are doing this or that. They just catch fire and have to get the job done while the excitement's still there. "Frank's that way. He couldn't stay in Nigeria for more than two years. No, he's not dedicated to the cause. He's enthusiastic about getting a big job started. "Look at it honestly, Katherine, and you'll find very few dedicated people doing the big things. The Franks in the world like to begin. They enjoy the first heat of conquest but seldom stay around to see how things turn out." I was out of breath when I was through and looking at Katherine, I could see that she was finding what I'd just said a little hard to take. We lapsed into silence. She was remote for the rest of the week. The past month had put a strain on our relationship. Katherine was going through something that I never had, and probably never would experience. I realized this, and I'm sure that she did too. Then one day it was over, as suddenly as it had begun. We were walking down the hall when she said, "Nancy, I just got notice of a position with the city school district. I'll be teaching in a few months. There's not enough time! I've got so much to do before I can begin! Part of it is to stop brooding, and realize I am twenty-one. I have to stop acting like a child and grow up!" "What about the middle class children and the sentences? Have you resigned yourself to that?" She smiled at this. "That was last month's problem, wasn't it? They're still in my future, but the sentences don't have to be meaningless. And I wonder what I had against middle class children? Don't you see, Nancy, I'll be shaping them into men and women. And who knows, maybe they'll teach Frank's Nigerians to use that dam he's building." That's the end. The indecisive Katherine Pryer made a decision that would last her a lifetime. What about Frank? Well, he went on experimenting at two-year intervals. He never found a true dedication, but then, I don't believe that he ever thought to look for it. THE TWO-CENT TOUR by Margaret Thompson '67 Grandpop was an old Pennsy man. The railroad was in his blood, and he cou_ ldn't quite get away from it, even if he tried, which he usually didn't. He worked hard fixing ties and repairing the tracks five days a week, but Saturday was his "day off" on the Pennsy tracks. Saturday was our day for the "Two-Cent Tour" of Holmesburg Junction and the old Holmesburg Spur Line - if Grandpop was in a good mood and all his house jobs were finished. Grandpop never called it the "Pennsylvania Railroad," that proud, stiff, surname, but always the "Pennsy," just as anyone would call an old friend by a well-loved nickname.
About eight o'clock, after we'd had our breakfast of "flapjacks" and coffee, we'd set out. Grandpop was a sight to behold on these treks of ours. Dressed in his old navy pea-coat, woolen hat, and high, railroad shoes, he would slowly trod along the street down to the Junction, holding a "walking stick" in one hand (an old branch he'd just picked up somewhere), and a paper bag in the other for any pieces of scrap metal he might pick up along the way. It was part of my job to help him look in the gutters and along the tracks for scrap metal. If I found ·enough, he'd let me have half of the money he made when he took his monthly collection to old Tinto at the junkyard. I .was always proud to be with him. He had lived in Holmesburg all his life and knew just about everybody. He was a real "Holmesburger" and loved the neighbor hood even though it wasn't what it once had been. As we approached the road to the Junction, we'd always stop at his sister Jule's home; and I would walk around outside looking for "junk" while Grandpop visited. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he would come out and say, "Let's go, Sassafras," and I'd know it was time to start again. After various and sundry delays, we would finally walk up the three flights of stairs and gaze at the magnificent scene before us. Directly behind us stood the dirty, red brick station with one lone bench tottering in front of it. To the right and left of us, stretching north and south, lay the once shiny tracks of the Pennsy. Directly across the tracks, we had an unexcelled view of Riverview and the House of Correc tion; Holmesburg Prison could be seen in the distance, with its fortress-like brown, stone walls and high towers. Once we had carefully searched the ground, we started north along the tracks like two hoboes on a "Bum's Tour." As we approached the cut-off, I really became excited.. I had heard so many stories from Grandpop about prisoners who had made their escapes along these seldom-used tracks, that I was always glancing anxiously at the bushes on both sides just waiting to see a pair of evil eyes peering out at us. Grandpop just laughed. Since he was the origin of these stories, only he knew the amount of truth contained, and those devilish blue eyes told me it might not be too much. But, "One can never be too careful," was my motto. Grandpop told stories about the "good old days" and picked up bits of wire, tin, and copper as I hopped along on the broad, flat, wooden tracks which were a remembrance of more prosperous days. In spite of Grandpop's frequent warning, "Watch out- I hear a train coming," I didn't budge an inch from my path. He knew and I knew that the engine and two freight cars used the tracks only once a week on Sundays. Finally, we reached the high point of our journey - the trestle over Frankford Avenue! The trestle was about thirty feet above Frankford Avenue, devoid of sides or guard rails. It looked as formidable to me as a high-wire looks to a balancing artist. With a funny little feeling in the pit of my stomach, I would start across with Grandpop at my side, constantly urging me to look down at the traffic below and watch the cars passing beneath us. The other side seemed miles away, but once reached, I was eager to turn around and venture forth again. But, there was one last part of the trip that was never omitted; we must walk as far as St. Dominic's Cemetery. After Grandpop had stood and watched the dead for several moments, he was ready to return. The trip home was never as much fun. From so much. exercise, Grandpop's stiff limbs had grown tired, and I was in a hurry to rush home to show off the treasures I had found. Nevertheless, there were always more stories to be told, and Grandpop always had an avid listener. Dead tired, we would drag up the street towards home and Grandpop would -ask the familiar question, "Well, Sassafras, do you want to go again next Saturday?" The answer was always the same.
P........ IS::
CHRISTMAS THINKING by Frances White '68 To the child who's disappointed because He's heard there is no Santa Claus, To the guy whose girl has left him flat, And the other side of the like of that, To the ones· who've found that their earned success Is tinged with an unseen bitterness, To the weak and lame, and the sick of heart, Who seem to live from our world apart, To the hungry souls who've pawned their clothes, To ease the pains of hunger's woes, To the old, old folks whose eyes express The acid bitters of loneliness To those who've lived too long to care Whether Satan or God rules anywhere; _
To these, Thy children, Christ, please give The heart to smile, the wish to live.
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EXISTENCE - Sr. Judith Doherty, SCMM - Pen and ink
BUSY WORK by Eleanor Leonard '68 I cannot come with you, my dear, To skip through hill and heather, An existentialist must think Whatever be the weather. Think and think and think some more On his important essence, Which should follow existence If I know my lessons. You see, there's no hereafter, So when they drape the shroud, What I achieve throughout this life Will speak for me aloud. must be like a tree, you see, To reach my final end, For if I'm only me - untree This road will never bend. I'm only what I do, you Sf:le, Not less, and never more, So I can't waste a minute In the park or at the shore. Such things would just distract me From my heavy, loathsome task, Did you say, "What is it?" Did you really need to ask? All right, I can explain again You haven't heard the lessons: At the cost of every passing joy I .must form my essence.
IN SEARCH OF MAZAMA by Thomas F. Lombardi, Jr. (To be published in "The Phantom Log," a publication of the Natural History Associatiol'!l Tliere is an earthly Eden faraway Where fleecy clouds crown purple mountaintops Where mild breezes stroke the towering pines Where windy currents cut ascending corridors For little birds that fly up to the sun Shy deer play peek-a-boo behind the leaves, A place of bubbling brooks and rolling meadows Sweet-scented phlox and columbine, Where nature's frenzied monuments are carved in stone. Soft whisperings of ancient gods and even wizard men: A lotus-land that only summer will unveil to man. And there amidst that demi-paradise An ink blue lake reflects the wonders all about: The sky, the sun, the eglantine upon the banks. But the greatest wonder is the phantom ship That men can see far in the shimmering blue One lonely keel, -Just one, That left those sandy shores five thousand years ago To find its harbor on the other side, But lost its way. One deserted ship sails on the lake, And can't come back to shore Until that happy time, tomorrow When blessed men shall come to Eden, As before.
Paae 18
WALLED CITY - Maxine Linford • Craypass Pnae 19
RHYTHM-Teresa Golabek - Oil
IS THROUGH THE STOMACH by Mary Dawson '69 The first one to go caused enough of a furor to make page thirty-three of the evening paper, where the unfortunate remains were viewed with much repulsion and not a little indignation by almost all of the million or so citizens who happened to glance at the photograph that night. It was also seen, then examined with extreme interest, by Alex Rhode, who looked up at his companion with a kind of clinical excitement and, after receiving a slow, abstracted nod, yanked up the phone receiver and dialed quickly, jerkily. His eyes and forehead were glistening and his palm left damp prints .:. on the smooth black surface of the telephone. "Harry? Alex. Page thirty-three, the "Evening Review." Did you see it? It's beginning, Harry. This has got to be it. See if you can get me the coroner's report yet ... Hmm? Of course they did an autopsy on him. Look at his face, Harry." He giggled nervously. "God, they must be running in circles by now ... Okay, see what you can get, and call back as soon as you can. I don't want to call Them until we're sure he is one. And Harry? You know, if Section 7 gets the first sighting, it'll do something nice for our records. So make it fast." Rhode took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, but jerked forward again before the move was completed, caught up scissors, and st�rted carefully removing the article and picture from the newspaper. Halfway around the picture he paused, then reached into his pocket and drew out two or three bills. "John, go get as many copies of this thing as that'll buy. I've got a feeling that this is really it, and They're going to want them." Several hundred miles away from the little hotel where Rhode waited for his phone to ring, on a crowded subway· in the depths of New York City, a woman screamed as her husband lurched out of his seat and fell to the floor, his face con torted hideously in a spasm of pain. He was found to be dead when he was removed at the next stop, with his final expression frozen irrevocably on his face. The hysterical widow was persuaded to sign a paper authorizing the hospital to perform an autopsy, and within an hour the attending pathologist and staff had discovered the immediate cause of the victim's qemise: what appeared at first to be a total absence of internal organs was soon found to be the result of an acidic explosion of some sort, as small burnt pieces of intestine were removed from the walls of the abdominal cavity, and a ragged fragment of stomach was peeled from the remains of the diaphragm. The examining doctor sent tissue specimens to the lab, covered the body and sent it to the morgue, then left the hospital for a nearby restaurant to try to recover his equilibrium over a cup of coffee, and to try to think calmy over what he had just seen. Half an hour later he was dead, his car piled into the front window of a dark ened store, his face in a horrible grimace, his arms clutched immovably about his waist. The phone shot cold notes into the heavy silence of the room, and Rhode knifed upright in his seat. "Harry? Did you get the report? Good. Read it to me, quickly." He passed the receiver to his other hand and reached for a pencil. "Good ...good ...fine ... He's had it all right. God, that stuff's potent, isn't it? ...I'm going to call Section I right away, to tell them it's started, and they'll contact Them at home. And then it won't be long before we can join Them there ... I'll talk to you later then, Harry. And thanks a lot."
Rhode hung up, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small card with a list of numbers on one side. He underlined the second number and pulled the newspaper article and his notes on the coroner's report toward him, before reaching for the phone again. "Operator? Long distance- South America." He 'gave the number, then waited, straightening unconsciously in his chair and clearing his throat..· The voice that finally came to him was cautiously and effectively Mexican, but Rhode ignored the opening query in the unfamiliar language and said merely, "Rhode - Section 7, Observation.'·' There was a pause as the ot�er phone changed hands, then a heavy voice spoke to him in perfect, if somewhat laborious, English: "Section 7, report please." Rhode read the information in precise, military tones. Then he said, "Would it be permissible to speak with Karl for a moment?" There was a disapproving grunt and another pause, then a younger voice was saying, "Alex? How are you?" "Karl. I'll make this fast, but I had to tell you, you did a beautiful job with that stuff, particularly with the timing-delay effect. How many pounds have been shipped so fa,r? ... Only ten? And they were sent ... Yes, of course, the main cities first ...We have the first sighting, haven't we? ... Good, good ... Then we can expect, mmm, say fifty or sixty scattered cases during the next week? ... Yes, that should be perfect- enough time to test it properly, but not enough to allow for detection. The main shipment is due to arrive in a week? Ah, what a beautiful thought. Allowing a week for distribution and consumption . . . Yes, in another two weeks, Karl, we can bid farewell forever to whatever remains of this gullible country and leave for home. And what will remain, Karl, when we have finished with them? A great number of children, eh?And are They planning to ...Yes?Very good.Properly indoctrinated, they will be a credit to the proletariat, don't you think? Very good. Until two weeks . then, Karl. Good-bye." The tiny plane that Rhode had been watching from the ground for the last few minutes taxied to a stop next to the only other plane on the field, a huge, too-quiet monster. A moment later the pilot of the smaller craft stepped onto the hard concrete strip, and Rhode ran forward to grasp his hands. "Karl. Welcome. How was the flight?" "Fine, Alex. Haven't They arrived yet?" N " o, but come inside for a few minutes, and we can talk while we wait. What do you have there?" Rhode reached to test the weight of the little sack Karl had brought with him from the plane. "A souvenir I couldn't resist. Take a look inside." Rhode opened the bag, reached in, and brought out a handful of small, brown beans.Then he looked up at Karl, and with a slow, admiring smile shook his head. "Karl, it was ingenious. Absolutely ingenious. Mutated coffee beans. Who could ever have guessed?" He handed back the bag. T " he Great American Beverage. It's almost ironic." A dull droning intruded itself into their conversation, and the two turned to watch the grew expanse of field and the first landing on this foreign soil. Ho Chin Yang paced rhythmically and thoroughly the dark, small room where he had taken up temporary residence in Moscow. Occasionally he stopped his pacing to peer out a grimy window into the milling downtown crowds and to grin silently to himself. The first shipment of treated black bread was due for distribution in a few. ho.urs, and after that it would only be a matter of days....
LEM (A Children's Story) by Sandra Sullivan '68 Grasshopperville was a sunny village in the middle of a thicket of medium sized grass. It was inhabited by the happiest bunch of grasshoppers that ever lived. All of the villagers hopped to their various jobs. Some gathered bugs to eat, others were con tractors who built homes. A few were firemen and some of the other ones just sat around in rocking chairs enjoying the sun .. Everyone had a job, and nobody worried about anything until ... THE DAY THAT LEM WAS BORN. Lem was no ordinary grasshopper. He had very, very long legs, big round eyes, and enormous feet: The most shocking part about Lem wasn't his appearance, though. It was what he couldn't do. Lem couldn't hop! Imagine how he felt. He was a grass hopper who couldn't hop. Everytime he thought about it, his big round eyes filled up with two big watery tears that would slowly roll down his cheeks. The other grass hoppers that lived in Grasshopperville didn't know what to do. Never had ariy of · them met a grasshopper that couldn't hop. . One bright· sunny day, the oldest and wisest grasshopper called - a meeting of everyone in the village to try to solve Lem's problem. One grasshopper in the front row had an idea. "Grandfather Hopper," he said in a deep voice, "why don't we get Lem a pogo stick to hop on?" Grandfather Hopper thought this was a good idea. He hopped to the village storeroom and brought out a bright shiny red pogo stick for Lem to try. Lem wrapped his two front legs around the pole to get a firm grip. He put his left hind leg on the left side and his right hind leg on the right side of the stick. Then, he started jumping up and down. BONG! BONG! BONG! Poor Lem. The pogo stick just. wasn't the right size for him. Every time he jumped up, the pogo stick would hit him in the chin. After about four jumps, which meant four hits in the chin, Lem was so dizzy he didn't know what was happening. Grandfather Hopper said he thought that the villagers would have to think of a better idea. One little girl hopper with a new pink bonnet said in a high squeeky voice. "Grandfather Hopper, I think we should try springs on Lem's feet." Grandfather Hopper stroked his long white beard and thought about this suggestion for a minute. "The only thing we can do is try it," he said. So, back to the village storeroom he hopped to get four springs for Lem's feet. He returned with four silver springs and four pieces of brown string to tie on the springs. Lem sat down on the ground and tied the four springs onto his feet and started jumping. Poor Lem. He couldn't control hl"s feet. When his left front foot hit the ground, his right hind foot went springing out in another direction. When he got his right hind foot under control, his right front foot would go sprin-ging off. There was no way he could get all four feet going in the same direction at the same time. Once, all four feet went off in different directions causing Lem to land flat on his tummy. He was so discouraged. "I'll never be able to hop," he sobbed. Even Grandfather Hopper was discouraged. He didn't know what to do. Standing off in a corner, watching everything, was a tall grasshopper wearing a sombrero on his head and a knapsack strapped on his back. He slowly ambled over to Grandfather Hopper and said, "Senor Grandfather, my name is Pepe Hopper. I am not a member of your village, but I have been watching Senor Lem and I think I rriay be able to solve his problem. South of the border, where I come from, we have a plant that grows beans that hop. We call them Mexican Jumping Beans. Maybe if Sefior Lem swallows one it will make him hop." Grandfather Hopper didn't look at all sure of Pepe Hopper's idea, but he didn't think it would hurt to give it a try.
Pepe hopped over to Lem. He stuck a long green arm into his knapsack and pulled out a black and yellow bean for Lem to swallow. Lem took the bean from Pepe and was in such a hurry to try it that he swallowed it without water. Seconds after the bean had been swallowed Lem's hind legs started hopping. When he looked behind him and saw his legs moving up and down he was overjoyed, but when he looked at his front legs he saw they were still on the ground. "Ah-ha," said Pepe, "the bean must have settled over your hind legs. Don't you worry, Senor Lem, in one minute we will have you hopping." He reached his arm back into his knapsack and brought out another black and yellow bean. He hopped over to Lem and handed him the bean to swallow. This time the bean settled over his front legs. Lem gave himself a little push. Off he went, hopping high into the air. Lem was actually hopping! He hopped all over. He stopped and then hopped backwards. He stopped again and then hopped side ways. There wasn't any way Lem couldn't hop. He h.opped over to Pepe and thanked him again and again. Then, he and his friends went off to play. One year later, Lem won the Olympic Medal for high hopping.
ISH KERIOTH by Maria T. Reiss '68 "Are you with us?" the old Jew whispered confidentially to the young man beside him. The latter stood grim and determined, his sandy hair appearing much darker in¡ the dimmed room. "I will do what is required." His answer reverberated in the silence, startling him. His wide-eyed astonishment at his own flat, toneless echo was a source of humor for the old man who laughed instantly. "This chamber carries every sound you make through the whole house," he explained matter-of-factly, "so do try to be quiet. This business is bad enough as it is." The young man nodded. His gray eyes surveyed the Eider's face. "1-1 want to be sure of the time." "Midnight is as good as any. Do as we have instructed, and don't give us away, whatever you do." The Elder appeared stern. "He knows," the young man stated coldly. "He always knows." "What? You've gone back on the bargain already!"
''No-''
"Speak up, Kerioth. Will everything go as planned or do you expect resistance?" "Everything will go as planned. And that is a promise I intend to keep." He boldly strode to the door and opened and slammed it behind him angrily. The Elder made no comment to the others assembled in the chamber, but they expected one and he knew it. "Trust him? Do you take me for a fool? He hasn't been paid yet." The street outside the Eider's house was deserted. The young man's mission had just begun. He returned to his friends quickly, for his absence would be noticed if prolonged. "James!" he called out as he approached a familiar house. "Where've you been? It's almost time to eat and you're strolling around. Hurry inside. Everyone's here now." James half-scolded. The dining room was on the second floor. James led the way upstairs, followed closely by Kerioth. They took their places at the table but seemed even more con spicuous since conversation had stopped. Gradually, however, attention was turned to their Leader. Kerioth watched him intently, but when the Christ's eye met his, he cast his glance downward. "He knows. He always knows." Judas thought silently.
11 111u:.o 111uu1j111:, w1::n,, ,m::rt:: :,u:,p11... 1u11:,, 1111::y were 1,;u1111nnt::a wnen n1e woru "betray" fell upon his ears. He looked up instantly, and this time he met the prophecy head-on. "Is it me?" He waited for a reply that was softly to bid him to fulfill his mission. Judas of Kerioth excused himself and left hurriedly. But once in the street, he paced back and forth in front of the building. He desperately wanted to return, but no, his wounded pride would not allow such a thing. What, to return now and disrupt them all again would be insufferable! One embarrassing moment was enough. And yet, a queer thought had implanted itself in his mind. Why hadn't he thought of it before? The Christ wanted him to act. In so doing, Judas thought candidly, perhaps He would finally assert Himself as the Messiah! Obsessed by this personal justification, Kerioth started off. He reached the Eider's household, pushing his way past the servant at the door. "You said midnight." Judas began sternly. ''I'm ready now." "Then you must wait a little. The others have been summoned here, but they are not so impatient as you. Tell me, when is the appointed hour?" Kerioth's gray eyes pierced the Eider's. Annoyed, he only frowned. "When I am paid.'' "Come now. Be civil to me in my house. I dislike impudence. You might as well sit." Judas accepted the offer. But as he had nothing further to say, he found himself being inspected by the curious Elder. "Why do you stare?" Judas asked nervously. "You intrigue me, my friend. What kind of man are you?" Troubled, he wanted to say but didn't.. In a few hours he would know positively. Now he was not so certain. He sat in the room for a lifetime. Soon the others arrived. These menacing Scribes, priest, and Pharisees were eager to be on their way. A few cried, "Pay the fellow!" And it was done accordingly. A crowd had gathered outside, composed mainly of hired men and curiosity seekers. They carried clubs and. lighted torches. Judas took in the scene uneasily. He suggested they assemble in a large garden to the North, which was close to the building that housed their "prey." "How will we know which is the Nazarene?" the Elder asked him. "You will know." Kerioth declared as they departed for Gethsemane. Judas was relieved to find that the Christ was in the garden. His task would be much easier in the open. Or would it? All eyes would .be fastened on him as he pointed an accusing finger. No, he could not do it that way. Better his purpose served if Judas were to greet the Christ as a friend! Maybe then, He would declare Himself. Kerioth stepped forward. Inside him a fire was burning. Suddenly he realized everything was happening too quickly. His lips brushed against the Master's cheek and he heard the incrimination words: "Judas, do you betray Me with a kiss?" He stepped back, too frozen to be ashamed. As the crowd surged in, he turned and started to run. He ran until he was out of sight, and then he looked back only once. Once was enough. What had he done? He looked at the purse in his trembling hand. The money told the story. His birthplace, Kerioth, land of Simeon, had brought forth a traitor. Judas clenched the purse tightly in his fist. The money was his - for services rendered. What service? Was one man's life worth such a sum? Judas of Kerioth hurried back to the Garden. He arrived too late. He was always late for the important things, but his timing for the betrayal had been perfect, as if timed for all eternity. The Garden was deathly silent. Judas stayed until the first scarlet light of dawn streaked through a black sky. This day would see its share of scarlet memories. When the sun appeared, Judas went back to the Eider's house a third time. "You haven't slept," the old Jew observed, "but then, nor have I." Judas glared at him wildly. "This is the reason," he held up the purse emphatically.
.. I hafs your excuse, K.erioth.· · "And yours ... ?" "Gout." The unruffled answer seemed unsatisfactory. "Where is He?" Judas asked bluntly. The Elder shook his head and shrugged. Judas repeated the question. "Probably at the Governor's house. Now leave me in peace." Judas was gone. But the blood money remained. He would not touch it.He mixed within the milling crowds at the Governor's courtyard later that morning only to hear condemn.ations. He knew that the Christ's death sentence was his own as well. Kerioth had forfeited his claim to salvation with a kiss. REFLECTIONS ON
THE POWER AND THE GLORY by Susan McCarthy '68
INTRODUCTION During the revolution that rocked Mexico in the early part of the century, the persecution of the Catholic Church caused many priests to abandon the faith, only to find it emblazoned forever in their cause. They call me a man of God! The poor innocent imbeciles, if they only knew. Perhaps you would call me a hypocrite. Perhaps I am. Would it have been better for me to live openly in sin? Are you asking, Y?urselves, "Why?" ask myself that question a thousand times a night.
STILL LIFE- Maxine Linford • Craypa5s
The answer? God only knows. I still believe in God, you see. His presence was hazy sometimes, but always there. I wasn't always this way. Once I was fresh and eager, Ready to save souls for the Almighty. But time and this God-forsaken land dulled that. Time changes the world. Time changes men. Time changed me. I keep asking myself, "Where, where did I go wrong?" Saint Paul once said, "Use a little wine for thy stomach's sake." But I used first more wine than needed for "My stomach's sake." Then I drank to forget. God knows there was enough to forget in this barren land. A land bent on destruction of all that's sacred. No wonder you begin to doubt the faith that had already begun to mellow. Your flock is torn from you in the middle of the night, Then you wait for the rap on your door. You wait, and wait, and wait until the waiting is too much. And then you begin to wonder. What is wrong? What are they waiting for? Oh yes, I drank to forget. But things aren't erased that easily. Don't judge me yet, my dear people. Drinking wasn't my only vice. Drinking you can forgive, but not a man who forgets that he be,longs to God. I forgot if only for a moment. A moment is enough to cast a person into the everlasting holocaust of damnation. Maria of the beautiful eyes. The temptress who made me forget that I belonged to God, the. God who held my vows of purity. One moment and I was no longer. Don't blame Maria completely. Two were needed to commit our sin. You can't forget our sin. A living thing can't be erased. Am I sorry for that sinful moment with Maria? I don't know. I could confess my sin. Would it do me any good? Would it do the people any good? Would it make their faith any sJrt:>nge.r? What good the confession when you love the result of your crime. The scum running this country would only use it to their advantage. Confess and I would probably live. Boast about my sinful past and the State will glorify me. Don't they know they can't destroy the faith by exalting my sins? They can't destroy God! P.r.r,nA ?7
Stop those drums! I know the time is here. Doesn't the condemned man have a priest? Funny! The last priest left in this desolate province. A priest did I say? Not a priest, just a drunken, broken, self-destroyed man. The scum will waste their bullets. "Defender of the Faith" they call me. I can't even defend my own sins much less the faith of God. Perhaps it's better that I die. What purpose have I now in life? have only brought shame on the "holy profession." If only ...... . What's the use. My life is gone. I wait only for the formality of the bullet to pierce my heart. God have mercy on my soul! . THE GIFT by Jo Ann Stecher '68 The old woman ambled slowly on the sidewalk clutching a brown paper bag close to her heart. The steadfast grip with which she held the bag gave the impression that it contained a wealth of treasure. To the old woman, possibly it did. She was not a pretty woman. Her face was streaked with the lines of age. Her hair, once a lustrous brown, had now become a lifeless grey. She wore it pulled back tightly in a plain fashion which did nothing to enhance her features. Instead, it revealed the stark simplicity of her weathered countenance. It rendered her face naked, exposing the traces of a life of hardship. She was a picture of old age, worn with time and exhausted from constant struggle. But she had been the victor over time and troubles. She had raised and supported her children well. But now, in her old age, she was confronted with a trial more severe than she had ever experienced in raising her family, for now she struggled to find a reason to live. As the woman proceeded to her destination she observed a robin feeding its young. "Such a beautiful day!" she reflected, "and no one to share it with! Jenny's probably at O'Connor's working on a project for the church social ... Jimmy is in school and Kerry .. .oh, Kerry is probably being amused by her babysitter, Anne Holmes." The old woman's pace slackened. She turned the corner and wearily asc.ended the steps to her home. She entered the kitchen and deposited the shopping bag on the table. Then she sat for a minute to catch her breath. "I just can't take it like I used to," she panted. "My body is too old to even walk to the corner store!" After regaining some of her energy, or at least the peace of mind that she still could carry herself to the store, she began to sort through the groceries. She folded the empty bag and placed it on the table. "I guess Jenny will get home late today from the planning session for the church social. I'll make a big pot of vegetable soup and take it over for her and the kids." She proceeded to wash the vegetables, ¡and then she shelled the lima beans. "This chuck roast should really taste good," she thought. "It will be good to see Jimmy and Kerry again too." She placed the ingredients in a large metal pot and put the meal on to simmer. "Guess I'll sit down for awhile while that's cooking." She turned on the T.V.
THE GIFT- Francis Xavier Smith • Pen and ink Page 29
and stared, her expression bl?nk. It was Love of Life, and she watched it to pass the _ time away rather than for en1oyment. She continued to stare at the screen and even tually fell into a slumber. Voices of children screaming outside her window woke her from her brief rest. "Jimmy must be home from school now,too," she thought. "If the soup is done, I'll take it over and. visit with them for awhile." She searched through the utensil drawer and secured a large lade[. Then she scooped the soup from the pot and tested it. "It's pretty good! They'll like it, I know." She poured three-fourths of the pot's contents into jars,fastened lids on them, and put the four jars into the paper bag on the table. "There,I'll carry this over to them after I eat a small bowl of it myself." She sat down to her meal. The pleasure of the food seemed to be lost in the emptiness and stillness of the room. Eating little soup,the wearied woman took her sweater and cut across the lawn to her daughter's home. Jenny had just returned from her engagement and was speaking to her husband, Bill,and to Kerry and Jimmy. The old woman rapped on the ¡oaken door and entered. She held the bag containing the four jars of vegetable soup. "Hello," she said. "Oh,hi, Mom!" Jenny and Bill called, remaining in the rec room. "Hi, Gram," yelled Kerry and Jimmy, "What do you have for us?" "Wait till I put the bag down,and then you can see." The kids bustled to the table and tore the bag open to see what it contained. "Oh Gram, Ws only soup! I thought you had something good for us!" yelled Jimmy. "No toys this time?" pointed Kerry, and they both hurried back to their menagerie in the rec room. By this time,Jenny had entered the kitchen. The old woman walked slowly to a chair and sat down. "I knew you'd be out late today and probably would have to rush with supper," she explained, "so I thought I'd make some extra soup and bring it over." "Oh, thanks, Mom.That was sure nice of you. But tonight Bill is going to take Kersten, Jimmy, and me out to dinner. He just got a raise and the whole family is going to celebrate." The old woman was silent. "I'll store the soup away and save it for a rainy day." Jenny had already gone into the living room,leaving her mother alone. "I'm sorry I don't have time to sit and talk to you, but I do have to get ready. Why don't you go into the rec room and watch T.V.with the kids? It'll do you good to sit down and relax." Jenny was gone befor13 the old woman could utter a reply. "That's all I do is relax,Jenny," she mutterec;[ "I can't help out like I used to. I just sit and watch and listen,and worst of all, fhink!" But nobody heard her plea. They were absorbed in their own affairs. Bill was reading the newspaper. Jenny had retreated to her bedroom to freshen up, and Kerry and Jimmy were glued to Sally Starr ...she was their favorite. The old woman sat in the chair a little longer and then slowly got up to return to her home. "I'll stop by to see you tomorrow," she said. "What mom? Tomorrow?" Jenny asked, "Oh, I won't be home until eight. I'm soliciting material for the old age pension project,and Kerry and Jimmy are going to be with Anne all day. I asked her to baby-sit for them because I didn't want to put you to any trouble. Besides, Anne has a toy terrier that the baby just loves. Why don't you stop over Thursday? I should be home then - but make it about
4:00."
The old woman said she would and left the household to their celebrating. She took the old brown paper bag that had contained her gift so she could use it again. She pulled her body across the lawn and entered her desolate house. Inside,she
turned on the kitchen light and placed her bag on the table. She turned out the light and proceeded to her sitting room. Finding no comfort, she went to bed. It was 7 :00. "Tomorrow is another new day," she thought. "I'll have plenty of rest and then I'll have plenty of energy to do whatever I want." She sank to her bed and wept. "Tomorrow is another day...." MY SEARCH FOR EDUCATION by
Antoinette Oliveti '68
For over a decade, education has been my main activity. As a result, I have spent much time analyzing its concepts and its ob' ectives. I have spent much time \ evaluating its contributions to my intellectual, socia , and moral growth. And I have spent much time pondering the question, "Could it, should it, have been better?" In a society boasting of its scientific and technological achievements, its modern, well-built, well-equip ed schools, its psychologically-oriented methods of student moti l vc;1tion, a truly libera education is difficult to pursue. For a student cannot be liberally educated if he is deprived of the time to think for himself. When education emphasizes the quantitative rather than the qualitative aspects of learning, a student can miss the central purpose of his education - learning to think, analyzing and then synthesizing his knowledge. Howard Mumford Jones has stated, "Contemplation is that pause for under standing which is the joy of learning." If that "pause for understanding" is lacking, man is not educated, merely informed. Facts concerning the American Civil War, for example, are important (and must be covered in one week), but unless the student analyzes the social, moral. political, and economic forces behind this confrontation, unless he reads a few of the works of fiction, history, and biography associated with the people of this time, unless he knows the everyday life of the nineteenth century slave and free man, he does not truly understand the Civil War his country fought, nor does he recognize its full implications to the present. Some say it is not practical to spend a long time on any one facet of history. Perhaps not. But to a sensitive, well-educated, thoughtful person (there are a lonely few) the present method of rushing courses and leaving so many people with so many misconceptions is equally distressing. It seems to me that educators often search for or invent non-existing dichotomies. Must there be, for example, such a distinct division between history and literature courses? Cannot the student study a course in, let us say, "American Culture?" Selections from literary figures of the time could complement the student's knowledge of the Civil War Period. A careful reading of Whitman's Democratic Vistas, for example, adds both depth and dimension to the fundamental problem. Or of James Russell Lowell's ,Biglow Papers which satirize, in poetic form, the social and political attitudes of the time. Good poetry simplifies complex ideas. This is one of its delights. The student who remembers Lowell's: They jest want this Californy So's to lug new slave states in understands the essence of the Compromise of 1850. He also learns to appreciate Lowell's authentic use of the Yankee idiom of the times. In addition, the Civil War relates so di'rectly to our own current Civil Rights struggle. A study of the human elements of one is invaluable to understanding the current social problems of the other. Why is the lower class N�gro. today, for example, so inclined to matriarchy? The roots of today's i.ssues are the outgrowth of yesterday, a fact toward which a student's attention should be constantly focused. Past events become more meaningful if related to present situations. A unified approach such as this would lend learning a cohesive force. The student could think in terms of the entire contributions of an era rather than look for sim plified, isolated explanations. The student could analyze and synthesize facts in their
entire historical perspective, rather than separately. He could draw data from dif ferent disciplines to form relationships and judgments. Instead of spending his time on isolated projects for individual courses, the student could integrate scholarship from many sources to form a total impression. Time now spent on unrelated, repetitious bits and pieces could be spent thinking about the continuing significance of human knowl edge. In this way, education would concentrate on unified quality rather than frag mented quantity. Real learning is impossible without deep thought. Thinking takes time. But, alas, in my decade of education, there has been no time to think. 0
A WEEK IN THE HILLS by Margaret Mary Boyle '67 I was twelve, and my brother was eleven when our family spent a vacation (if you could call it that) in a state park. We had planned on taking a trip to Canada. But by some great misfortune, we wound up in this dinky cabin in the middle of nowhere. My mother didn't think the cabin would have any facilities at all, so we had to bring everything with us. And I mean everything. We had eight sleeping bags, two cots, about a million blankets, _a charcoal grill, an ice chest, folding chairs, clothes, shoes for "roughing it," boots and umbrellas (iust in case), fishing gear, pots and pans, and lots of other stuff. The back seat of the station wagon had to go down to make room for our baggage and the eight of us sat in the two front seats. Mother and Father sat in the front with Kathy, aged two, and Tommy, aged four. The eight year old twins sat in the back with Brendan and me. We hated the great outdoors even before we left. We st,arted out on a Saturday morning at 6:30 (my father likes to start early). It was pouring rain, rain that followed us all the way out to the cabin, traveling I think at exactly our rate of speed. My brother decided that the rain was an omen. I agreed. Mother told us that it was a symbol of the spiritual cleansing we would gain by communing with nature. Brendan and I pulled our knees up to our chins and laughed quietly into them. We always did that when Mother came out with one of her rare statements. She had this book with her that told about all the wonderfully "interesting" things we were passing. Every town we came to she had her trusty book out, and we heard the entire history of the town, starting with Columbus discovering the whole place in 1492. We passed a lot of those Amish people out in Lancaster, and Brendan and I waved at them just to see if they could smile. They couldn't. The only nice place we came to on the whole ride was Gettysburg. "Just think of all those great heroes that got killed there and the cannons booming and all the soldiers singing 'Glory, glory, Hallelujah.' The Civil War must have really been excit ing." Mother made some remark about us being blood-thirsty. Brendan and I spent five minutes giggling into our knees. Well, we started getting close to the place (or we thought we were) about 5:00. According to our map, we were there. But we just couldn't find the cabin so we asked directions. We asked about five different people, and we got the same answer from all of them. "Squirrel Run? Gosh, I never heard of the place." We began to wonder if there was one. When we finally found our cabin, at about 8:00, it didn't look as bad as we expected. After we got unpacked and had dinner, we got ready for bed and made our first nightly trip to the outhouse. It was about a hundred yards from ·the cabin, and we had to bring a flashlight with us. We thought it was great fun and took our good old time and flashed the li9ht through the t?ps of the trees. But when we g?t back to the cabin, we found we d been eaten alive by the bugs. After that, we d Page 32
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The next morning we got up and went out for a drink of delicious mountain water. We pumped the pump and pumped and pumped. The darn old thing was dry. The nearest spring was down the road a mile. Brendan and I thought that was great at first. But after a few trips up that mountain road with four ga.llons of water, we decided to let the twins have a chance to be water boys. There was no lake for swimming at Squirrel Run. The only things there were trees, streams, bugs and more bugs. Now, I don't mind a few flies or mosq)Jitoes; but these bugs would have stunned even someone who had spent his whole life· in the African jungles. There was one tree outside the cabin that Brendan and I named the "Daddy Long Legs tree" because it was covered with big, red daddy long legs. It was really awful, all you had to do was walk past the thing and they'd be crawling <!II over you. Of course, there were also the normal bugs like spiders, bees, and moths around. We also had mice. They weren't too bad in the daytime, but at night it sounded like the whole crowd of them were dancing in the attic and walking up the wall right next to me. Maybe they were. I must say it is sort of disturbing to hear footsteps pattering back and forth· above you all night. Even Mother was bothered and for once we had the same opinion on something. It felt good for a change. During the day Brendan and I spent our time exploring, walking across a stream on a fallen log, hiking, talking to neighbors, reading, and writing postcards to the group back home. The big event was the trip to town to go shopping. We were happy just to get out of the woods and see people and stores again and use rest rooms with "modern conveniences." In the evening, Father packed us into the car to ride through the woods until dark looking for deer to come out. When our week was up, since we are a democratic family, we had a vote as to whether to stay another week or not. The six children, at the urging of Brendan and me, voted unanimously to head from the hills. Mother looked stunned. Father com· forted her. We were just not old enough to know what was good yet. She agreed just as we left the quiet majesty of the forest and turned onto the crowded highway that led back to the only life we knew and could possibly enjoy. THE AMAZING MRS. O'MALLEY by Dorothy Covone '68 Captain James Crawford sat in his office gently tipping back on his desk chair. He was talking to one of the top men on the New York City police force, Sergeant Patrick McGill. "You know, Pat," he said, "this case has really got me stumped. It's incredible." "I've been looking it over." Pat stood up and made his way over to the window. "Three kidnappings in three weeks and not a clue. We must've missed something, Jim." "Well, I have a theory- sort of a thin thread to go on. You know the old Hunter place on Brown's Mill Road over on the north side? We've had complaints from the neighbors over that way about it recently. It's supposed to be unoccupied, but lights have been seen in the basement and screams have been heard in the general area. We ran a detail over there to check out those reports, but nothing came of it. I know this might be nothing, but I can't help feeling that the house has some con nection with the kidnappings." "Hmm," replied the sergeant, "since nothing has been tur!led up on the missing kids yet, you think the kidnapper hasn't made a move to get out of town, and he might be using the Hunter place as his base." "Right, Pat. But I don't want to do anything rash. I've got to take every pre caution. We can't pull a sudden raid for two reasons. One, if the kids are in there, any sudden moves might alarm the kidnapper and make him do something violent. God only knows what kind of a maniac he is! Two, if we send a detail over there to break in, it's bound to cause attention. Probably would raise false hopes in the
parents, too. I want a quiet investigation, McGill, and you know what that entails." "Yes, sir," said Pat moving toward the door. You'll want Mrs. O'Malley." "That's it, Pat. See what you can do. She's to follow the usual procedure. Ser her up as soon as possible." • The Police Department employed Mrs. O'Malley quite frequently. She was an old, unsuspicious looking lady with soft gray hair, a kind face, and a quick mind. It was her job to do what she liked to refer to as the "undercover" work. In this case, Mrs. O'Malley was to make a thorough investigation of the exterior of the Hunter place. Captain Crawford realized, of course, that her presence might cause some suspicion, but never as much as that of ten policemen. It was late afternoon, on a dreary day when Mrs. O'Malley began her investiga tion. She checked every possible inch of the ground for clues. Even the trash pile got a thorough going over. But her investigation proved fruitless, and, with dusk settling over the town, she prepared to leave for home. But just as she was making her way out through the back yard, her foot struck a hard object, and she stumbled forward. As she regained her balance in the deepening darkness, she discovered what had tripped her. It looked like an old-fashioned storm shelter. It was located about two hundred feet from the house and was well hidden by shrubbery. Immediately, she lifted herself on one of the double doors and peered in. Here the resemblance to a storm shelter ended. What she saw was a tunnel whose length and destination could only be determined by exploration. Since the orders she followed commanded her not to call for assistance until she came upon something definite, she decided to investigate the tunnel herself. Gingerly, she made her way into the narrow passage, and with careful steps, edged down its musty length, hardly able to see two feet in front of her. Suddenly, a light struck her eyes. It was only a dim light, and as she crept closer, she found that it was coming from the dirt-encrusted window of a battered door. The apprehension which was building up within her had reached its peak. She knew she was on to something. Just at that moment, the night wind blew the outer door shut with a resounding slam. Mrs., O'Malley, startled by the noise, jerked impulsively forward and her foot struck the door. Instantly, the inner door was thrust open. A rough hand grabbed her and dragged her into a dungeon-like cellar. A tough veteran of such encounters, Mrs. O'Malley regained her wits and com posure quickly and rapidly. Immediately, she surveyed the surroundings. She noticed that the cellar consisted of dirt walls, stagnant air, and a million cobwebs. She noticed, too, that her assailant, as soon as he had shoved her roughly onto the floor, hurried his way to the opposite end of the cellar, where he seemed to be huddling over something. As he moved away, Mrs. O'Malley saw three children sleeping close together under a ragged blanket. The kidnapper apparently was afraid that the noise of the recent encounter had awakened them. But they slept on, and from what she could see, they looked safe, which was a lot more than she could say for herself. She couldn't help wondering what her assailant planned to do. He did not look the part of the kidnapper, she thought. His short, skinny frame gave him a boyish appearance. His clothes, like the crude blanket covering the kid napped children, were horribly ragged. He looked as though he hadn't eaten or slept in days. In other circumstances, Mrs. O'Malley thought, she could pity him. But she knew that in the reality of this circumstance, there was no room for pity. Something very sadistic must lurk behind the deceiving exterior. Also, he was too trusting or maybe just too tired. At about midnight he fell asleep, leaving Mrs. O'Malley free to radio headquarters. Stealthily, she clicked on her small, easily-concealed transistor. In a few seconds, it was back in place -Crawford was on his way.
While she waited for the stand-by police unit to arrive, a million thoughts rushed through her mind. The kidnapper never once asked her a question.· His only acknowl edgment of her presence was a gruff "Get over there and keep quiet," accented by a rough shove. Didn't he even wonder what an old gray-haired lady might be doing snooping around a deserted house? And the children Suddenly her thoughts were interrupted by the screaming sirens and the police horns urging him to come out or else. The kidnapper awoke quickly from the sounds as did the terrified children. Realizing what was happening and figuring that the police were unaware of the tunnel, he grabbed Mrs. O'Malley and the smallest child and pushed them out in front of him. Roughly, yet silently, he shoved them down the dark length of the tunnel. Mrs. O'Malley could feel the barrel of his gun pressed firmly in her back. She knew she had to act - aQd act swiftly. As they emerged from the passage, she plunged her elbow into his stomach. As he doubled over, she grabbed the child and ran. He recovered from the blow quickly and started to aim the gun in her direction. But before he could pull the trigger, a shot rang out, and he fell to the ground. A disheveled Mrs. O'Malley ran up to Captain Crawford. "Thanks a lot, Captain," she said breathlessly, "the other two kids are in the cellar." She stopped and looked around. "He used this place because of the tunnel. He could lock the children in and slip out for food. That accounts for the screams those kids were petrified. As for the lights-" "Okay, Mrs. O'Malley," replied the Captain, "give me the details back at head quarters. Catch a ride back with Matthews." At headquarters Mrs. O'Malley entered the Captain's office. "Well Mrs. O'Malley, I'll hear your story in a minute. Make yourself comfortable," he said with a wink. "Thanks, Captain, I thought you'd never ask!" At that, the soft gray hair and kindly face of Mrs. O'Malley fell to the floor and above them stood the grinning face • of Sergeant Pat McGill. "You're going to have to do something about that hair, Chief, it does absolutely nothing for me!"
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