Mosaicvolume11issue2 by Holderness School

Mosaic

A Magazine For the Literary and Visual Arts At Holderness School spring 2013 volume 11, issue 2

Mosaic Spring 2013 Volume 11, Issue 2 Dear Reader, Welcome to another edition of Mosaic! The spring semester at Holderness is always filled with energy, as there are many opportunities for students take what they have learned throughout the year and create final projects that are rich in detail and inspiring. This spring was no exception. The written pieces took many forms. Throughout the winter and into the spring quarter, ninth-graders and sophomores immersed themselves in the tales of their loved ones and beloved places. The students researched, conducted interviews, and learned anew about the people and places they chose to write about. For the juniors and seniors, their reflections were more personal. The juniors began the last quarter writing about their Out Back experiences, while many of the seniors had a chance to reflect on their lives when they composed “This I Believe” essays. Their reflections reveal both the personal growth of the students and the impact of the programs in which they have participated. The students’ creative efforts did not stop with their writing assignments. In Carpenter they created works of art that reveal the technical skills they acquired throughout the year. While many students in the photography classes worked on portraits in the photography studio, the ceramics students developed both slab and thrown vessels that were embellished with beautiful patterns and glazes. Meanwhile, Art in the Afternoon and Functional Art students applied their talents to developing stained glass tiles, making paper, creating homemade books, and building mosaics from recycled ceramic tiles. As always, it has been a pleasure to collect the students’ work for this publication and share their accomplishments with you. Enjoy! Emily Magnus, Director of Publications Aidan Kendall

Cover Art by Artward Bound Participants Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

Out Back Reflections Each year when students return from Out Back, they spend time in their English classes reflecting on their experiences. The lessons learned during Out Back, while sharing common themes, are as unique as the individuals who participate in the program. In addition, different teachers assign different forms of reflection, dovetailing their assignments with what the students are currently reading. Consequently, while some of the following essays are longer and straight-forward, others are mere snapshots and more poetic. In some cases the paragraphs are meant to mimic the style of Ken Kesey’s narrator in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

The Pain of Happiness By Nick Gibson I was drifting across my wispy dreamland without a care in the world — a mix of happiness, relaxation, and a spoonful of satisfaction. A pinch of warmth held me tight and cradled me in my slumber when I first felt the cold nightmare running down my leg. It was our third night on Out Back. We had just crept into what we called bed, hoping that for the first time rest might actually find its way into our sleeping bags. What I was not hoping for, nor expecting, was having the water bottle, that I was so desperately trying to

Bird Houses by Julia Thulander

keep from freezing, burst open like the Hoover Dam into the only sanctuary I could call home over the next seven days. I got up in the dense dark of the night and did my best to wring my things out in the nipping cold that stung my wet bare skin and seeped into my bones. I soaked back into my sleeping bag, and while I drifted back into a much more moist sleep, my mind kept asking the same question over and over again like a broken record player: “Why hadn’t I appreciated how dry I was the night before?” I had spent the previous night feeling uncomfortable, saying to myself how much I wanted to be back in my own bed at Holderness. Now that felt silly. I would have done anything to get out of that wet cocoon and back to the night before. In fact, in hindsight it seemed cozy, luxurious even. That is why, the next morning, when things had dried out, I realized that I was taking the worst situations for granted until something even more unfavorable came along. Out Back sent many trying challenges my way, and this strange mental note that things could always get worse got me through ordeals that I would otherwise have struggled with, even before I consciously knew that I was doing it. The next day, as I was eating a well-deserved lunch, most of the members of my group were preoccupied with a group behind us that had made the irrevocable mistake of hiking into view, causing mass chaos, and creating a life-threatening situation. The taste of the delicious delicacy I had just bitten into reminded me of the first lunch of Out Back seventy-two hours earlier. We had sat down at an intersection of paths covered in a newly fluffed blanket of snow. I had watched in awe as Mr. Thatcher created an assembly line that could have been mistaken for a well-oiled machine by any weary traveler who was brave enough to venture out as far as we had on that legendary first day. The bagels were spread with a rich gooey goodness that humans have named ‘peanut butter,’ and then were layered with salty pepperoni. A slice of cheese was held on by the most important item brought along on the trip…honey. Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

I received my first half of this odd OB sandwich and bit into it while sitting on my beeswax-coated leather gloves. My first thought was to spit it out, but my second thought, which very quickly followed the first, reminded me that there were no other choices on the menu. My third thought, which I said aloud to lighten the mood, was that “it was better than shit on a stick.” And without noticing, I realized, as my fellow group mates continued to struggle to make contact with the other OBers down the trail, that I had subconsciously made a choice in my head. Although this thing I was eating made my taste buds question my judgment, I might as well not take it for granted; it was food and I wouldn’t be eating it for long. Throughout the year, Mr. Teaford used repetition like a club. Over and over again, he drilled home the fact that all of us spoiled, clean, living-in-the-Holdernessbubble juniors would be spending eleven days in the woods in 201 days…167 days…79 days…7 days… all the way to the moment when the biggest experience of our lives could be counted by hours, at which point he changed his tune. He stopped counting days and started giving us advice we wouldn’t know we would need until we needed it. So on the eighth day of Out Back, when the rain came down so hard that it made cats and dogs feel like lions and wolves and made me experience feelings of cold and wet that passed through my bones and into my soul, a voice entered my head. It was a calm voice that was comfy and warm, bringing with it the memories of Webster, of Holderness, and of the Out Back motto that had been repeated over and over by that same voice:

“Enjoy when you can, endure when you must.” I sat there shivering, pondering this incredibly simple yet complex set of words. I had just hiked a mountain where the chance of dying seemed very real, however dramatic it now sounds. If something were to happen, I kept thinking, there would be no safety net. There would be no cushion or padding on the stairs, no safety scissors, nobody to hold my hand. I had to endure by myself, just like the rest of my group, not because we chose to, but because we had to. This was the real world we had been dropped into with no warm showers or beds to greet us after our adventure — only wet wood, soaked sleeping bags, and a cold will to keep alive. And, as I sat, a human popsicle next to the lake we had previously called a fire pit, I thought to myself, “As cold, wet, tired, and fed up as I am, this isn’t so bad.” The words of Cinderella, “Ya don’t know what ya got till it’s gonnnneee,” will never be more relevant. I stepped into the shower after our bus ride back to campus, full of the giddiness of a child waiting what seemed like forever for Santa to arrive on Christmas morning. I realized that it wasn’t the warmth of the water or the body wash or the soap that made me feel so happy; it wasn’t my phone or clean clothes either. Instead it was the cold and the wet, the dirt and the smells, the cuts, scrapes and bruises, both inside and out, that brought the smile to my face.

Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

Leah Scaralia

Remember to Laugh By Eliana Mallory I received a text message from my brother the morning of Out Back that simply said, “Remember to laugh.” Being someone who finds humor in many situations and people, I stored this piece of advice in the back of my head, laced up my black rubber boots, and went to Weld where the eleven-day journey began. “Remember to laugh.” Although only three simple words, strung together they were more; they were the rope that pulled me through Out Back. As we let the fire die down on the second night, small snowflakes started to fall. As if it was mandatory, we all quickly decided to go under the tarp and cuddle into our sleeping bags, sheltered from the snow. Since it was the first tarp that we had set up, it was loose, and on a slight slant. At the time these mistakes had not seemed important, but we didn’t know that we were going to get seven inches of heavy, wet, snow. Sharing anecdotes from childhood followed by scary stories eventually put us all to sleep. In the middle of the night, I woke up to go to the bathroom. Eyes crusty, back a little sore from the pitched ground, I threw on my black boots and slid my way out of the tarp. My jaw dropped. A blizzard was adding to the five inches of snow already on the ground. Through the blizzard I could see all our backpacks and snowshoes covered in snow. As I awkwardly stood up under the tent, my jaw dropped even more. The tarp was concave, struggling to hold up the

moist snow. As I examined the tarp, I noticed that several boots had been pushed out from under it and were in the process of filling with snow. I made an effort to pour out the snow, push the boots back under the tarp, and brush snow from it. After my disbelief wore off, annoyance kicked in. I was aggravated that we hadn’t tied the tarp tighter, and more than anything that we hadn’t been prepared for a big snowstorm. “Eight more nights of this” kept popping into my head. Suddenly, another thought occurred to me: “Remember to laugh.” And I did. It was blizzarding, our backpacks were getting drenched, our tarp was sinking lower and lower, and I began to laugh a little. I laughed because there was nothing I could do about the weather. I laughed because we had made mistakes, but I knew that the next night, we would make sure to tie our tarp as tight as possible. I laughed because I had eight more days of being uncomfortable in the woods. But most importantly, I laughed because it helped me stay positive. Laughing took away the seriousness of it all and helped me realize that OB is about the difficult moments that eventually become one’s fondest memories. The midnight snowstorm was just one of the many moments that made me laugh. Drinking water that tasted like a fireplace, hiking in a continuous downpour, sleeping in a wet sleeping bag, and wearing wet clothes were all moments that I could have let tarnish my positive attitude, but laughing helped me stay upbeat and pulled me all the way to the yellow school bus with fond memories of OB. Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

Summiting Passaconaway By Charlie Sheffield An especially memorable moment during Special Programs occurred after our three-day solo. Our group was hiking a four-thousand-foot mountain called Passaconaway in a torrential downpour when any sane human being with half a brain would have stayed inside. After spending a torturous night cold and wet from the puddles around our sleeping bags, our spirits were at an all-time low as we set out single file. The further along on the hike we got, the worse the weather became. I couldn’t help but think that this was karma repaying me, and that I was being punished for all the sins I had committed in my life. The mountain was so steep, I thought for sure that someone was going to slip and fall, producing serious injury or death. With every single step, I told myself that I wasn’t going to go any further. I cursed under my breath at the “mountain of hell,” wishing that I could be anywhere in the world other than where I was. I can honestly say that it was the most miserable I have ever felt in my life. Our group was delirious, trudging along, enduring freezing cold temperatures and dangerously wet conditions, until somehow we reached the top of the mountain. In celebration of conquering the mountain without the reward of a nice view, we thrust our middle fingers into the air in a mixture of pure frustration and accomplishment.

The summit of that mountain was the climax to my Out Back experience. Nothing before had seemed that physically or mentally challenging, and everything after felt like a breeze. I found the descent easier and much more fun, as we penguin-slid down the mountain. After a hot meal and some time under the tarp, my feelings of frustration and pain dissolved. I felt invincible. Nothing could stop our group after summiting that mountain. I am so glad that I felt so miserable and beat up, because looking back on it now, I know that I have the mental toughness to complete any task that is set before me in nature, the classroom, or the world.

CJ Sturges

Chasing Sunshine

Self-Realization Paragraph

By Jingyi Wu

By Connor Marien

Chasing the sunshine as soon as it falls through the branches, I’m after the warmth in the cool air when I catch sight of the forest. It makes me realize for the first time since I’ve been at the campsite that this silent world, full of bare trees, snow, and more bare trees, has always been watching over me with many sleepless eyes — the eyes of the beech tree holding my tarp, the eyes of the snow high above on the pines and the river rocks down below, the eyes of the whispering breeze in the valley and shrieking winds on the hill, of stars that blink, of streams that murmur, of dangling twigs that tug my hair and pointy buds that slash across my cheeks, the dawn that bids me good morning, the rich darkness that embraces me in my two nights’ rest...but never before now, before the sun shone its full splendor on me and everything, did I realize its golden rays are a million gentle eyes that are both inquiring and inviting, enchanting and enfolding.

Walking the trail as soon as it’s light. I’m after accomplishment and pride and walking the forlorn trail up the White Mountains when I get a smell of the odors around me that make me realize for the first time since I’ve been at home that this forest, full of mystery and charged with fetid high school students, has always been pungent with an abundance of other smells — the smells of germ-x after a visit to the john, Clif Bars and Icy Hot, smoke and body odors embedded in the fibers of fleece sweaters, toothpaste spat upon the forest floor, damp sleeping bags filled with warm Nalgenes, and the satisfying smell of Gold Bond as it is cascaded down onto mephitic toes…but never before now, before I stepped out of the shower, did the stench of the linens from Out Back piled on the bathroom floor smell so rank.

Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

The Shadow of the Little Pine Tree By Zihan Guo “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.” - H. P. Lovecraft Looking back now, I cannot fully express the desire I had to leave that place, my eagerness to go back home, my impulse to walk out of that eternal agony, that solitary, infinite time. I looked up to the sky, and the sky was so gloomy that I thought it was a giant, transparent ink bottle. I even thought I smelled the unique ammonia-like odor of ink. I fell into deep thoughts, trying to fathom the meaning of this long journey, the reason for this suffering which I did not have to endure. Suddenly, I recognized a shadow right next to me. I was petrified. Yet, it was this shadow, later, that enlightened me and freed me from the captivity of fear; it was this shadow which made me realize that the eleven days living in the White Mountains were the best memories of my life. Thanks to this shadow, I was able to walk out of the forest with confidence and a smile on my face instead of tears. Through my journey, I understood that there are fears everywhere, just like the shadows in the forest. The shadows in our lives hinder us, thwart our ambi-

tion, and block us from seeing reality, but they also do the opposite. They encourage us to challenge ourselves, conquer fears and, more importantly, to listen to our intuition. It was the second night of my solo. I woke up in terror, completely lost in my mind. “Garrr.. Garr.. Garrrrr….” I was not sure about the source of the sound, but it was like an old man’s deep burp, echoing around the forest, around my shelter, around the remains of my dreams. It was still dark outside, which made the sound especially clear. “Gar…Gar…Garrrr…” The burp was accompanied by the sound of breaking branches. “Garrrrr… Gar… Gar…” I knew something was walking through the woods, not more than fifty yards away from me. “Gar… Gar… Gar… Garrrrrrrrr.” The trunks of trees blocked me from seeing the monster. Even so, I was paralyzed with terror by this unknown presence. I held my knife tightly against my chest, ready to fight like a warrior if I needed to. But how should I protect myself when the monster walked toward me? Should I stick the knife through his eyes before he reacted to me? Would I be fast enough to lacerate his heart with this tiny peanut butter sword? I couldn’t do anything but listen to my heart beat, which sounded especially clear in the tranquil night. I closed my eyes and indulged completely in a state of numbness and unconsciousness, while the sound diminished. Maybe an hour had passed? I assumed. I opened my eyes and realized the color of night had already melted away. The sky was like a giant with one scarlet eye looking at me angrily: it seemed to accuse me of cowardice and weakness, of surrendering to the darkness, to the evil. However, what else could I do? Day time passed rather quickly since I had to gather branches and rotten trunks for the fire. I felt like I was the last man on Earth in a pre-agrarian era, gathering and hunting (maybe being hunted) in this evil forest. Soon, the sky became tired of watching the world using only one eye, so he lowered his eye toward the acme of the mountain; dusk arrived. My fear grew as darkness approached, and the sound from last night still echoed through my ears, my skull, and my lonely soul. After I finished my supper and placed logs on the fire, I was exhausted. I crawled into my sleeping bag and dreams came.

Ben Grad

Something was wrong, and I could sense it. It was like when you are walking alone on an empty street after midnight. I felt something moving right next to my

Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

head, but it was more like a shadow, a ghost-like substance swinging near my ears. I opened my eyes, and I saw the shadow of a giant horn swinging on my tarp. I was stunned. The shadow felt like a death sentence sealing my doom: the monster was right next to me. I could not believe my life was about to end in such a pathetic and ordinary fashion: I was about to be eaten by a big moose. There was nothing I could do except freeze, for I still held a little hope that the moose would think I was merely a dead trunk. Suddenly, this snowy, freezing forest felt like a burning oven. Time moved with the speed of a snail. In seemingly eternal agony, I forgot the notion of time like when a master of meditation falls into a deep conscious sleep. However, curiosity grew over time, and I started to question what I had seen. I opened my eyes and looked for the owner of the shadow. I then realized how stupid I was: the terrifying shadow I thought had belonged to a giant moose actually belonged to a little pine tree right next to the entrance of my shelter, and the fire I built provided a perfect light source for this little “monster.” The scattered branches of the little pine tree projected an image of a giant horn on the roof of my shelter. Please, understand that this was the second night I had ever spent alone in a menacing forest, and I did not have paranoia nor any schizophrenia. But, yes, I was completely freaked out by a little pine tree. Looking at this little pine tree, I realized for the first time since I had been in the wilderness that this forest, full of wild animals and plants, had always filled me with fear — fear of darkness, giant monsters, floating shadows at night, fear of getting enough food and water, fear of keeping myself warm under my pathetic tarp during those freezing and snowy nights. I had never realized the extent of my fears before that moment, before I saw this little but magnificent, fragile but tenacious, delicate but stubborn pine tree, trying so hard to breath the necessary oxygen, to absorb enough nutrients, to find light, to survive through this snowy, freezing-cold, dark winter with such a unique and optimistic spirit. I was enlightened by this little pine tree: I was like a dog who had been lost for years and who had finally found its owner. I asked myself, “What are you scared about? This little pine has been struggling through so many snowy nights, so many cold winters, and he is still vividly alive.” The more I looked at the little pine tree, the more I felt I was connected with the forest. I got up from my sleep-

ing bag, looked up into the sky, and wondered. Millions and billions of stars, planets, galaxies, and nebulas emerged from the darkness, and the moon, halfhidden in a cloud, was magnificently bright and beautiful over this scene of nature. I looked around and saw trees — giant pine trees, maples, American birch, trees whose names I had never learned, dead trees, rotten trees, and this little pine tree sitting right next to me. Magically, my fear melted away as I observed the world around me. I closed my eyes and listened to my heart beat along with the clear, brittle sound of branches breaking and leaves shifting, with the scent from the fire, the forest, and nature. The next morning, I again woke up to the sound of the groaning moose, but this time, I did not wake up feeling fear but rather a thrill and a familiarity. The moose’s sound was like a call from an old friend in the distant past. I went after it, chasing the moose with my clumsy snowshoes, knowing I would never catch it, nor did I intend to catch it. The more I walked, the more excited I became, and the more I saw, the more I wanted to challenge, to conquer. I went into the wilderness. All that was left were the echoes of the groaning moose, and the shadow of the little pine tree standing right next to my home.

Dan Do Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

Poetry Poetry plays a significant role in the life of Holderness students during the second semester. Poetry Out Loud, the national recitation contest, gives students the opportunity to immerse themselves in poetry as they memorize the poems of master poets. It is a time to celebrate the beauty of the spoken word. In addition, many teachers also ask students to write poems of their own. The poems below come from a creative writing class, a history class, and perhaps a few stolen moments between classes.

What if that was me, what if I was there? By Chris Sargent When he said i have never spoken to people about vietnam I thought why is he talking to us When he said i was 20 seconds from being killed I thought what if that was me When he said i went to 2 dozen funerals I felt sad When he said 75 Rangers I thought of the guys who kill everyone When he said i never killed anyone I thought everyone did When he said blood dripping I felt pain When he said crash I thought of death When he said home I felt how happy I would be When he said vietcong I thought of the guy in the things they carried When he said I wanted to come back alive not in a coffin I felt courage He said vietnam I thought what if I was there Cullen Bunker

Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

Prayer By Hannah Durnan “If the only prayer you ever said in your whole life is ‘thank you,’ it will be enough.” -Meister Eckhart You say thank you like a prayer. Maybe it is one. (Maybe not, maybe you only hear it that way.) You’ve got grass stains on denimed knees – underneath, the skin is red and scuffed; when your mother tells you to wear your Sunday best it hurts to kneel; to pray. Sometimes you’ll forget the Lord’s Prayer. You’ll stop saying it altogether, eventually – the lines fading into the fog of memory; shadowy words flicker just beyond your reach. Then you’ll stop waking up Sunday mornings, around the time the tattoo of green on each knee is scoured away; soap and washcloth scrub dirt like holy water’s said to dilute your sins. Thank you is your prayer now. (It’s enough.) Celine Pichette

Cullen Bunker

Where are you? By Caroline Mure You see, death likes flowers, and heaven houses serpents As if to be advertising competition. You give your gifts of rage through anger, And breathe morning mist, as time runs out and regret fills up And you wonder why you’re here, Because you can’t think of one reason let alone 10 This treasured time being one more multiple choice section on an open note test, And you have a 50/50 chance of winning But one 50 just got shot And the other one just dropped the gun. Leaning over the dead body there’s a 50/50 chance he cried, But maybe he just died too. Floating in the ocean, but not on it. Because if you’re on it you can fall off, And I guess if you’re in it you can drop out, too. But you can’t get out if your lungs are filled with water, And your fingers are chilled. Flowers grow and mountains tower, And they tell me to build my life around my past, But my past is broken like a mirror shattered on a bathroom floor. I’d like help picking up the pieces, but you’re not coming back. Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

Abby Jones

April is the Cruelest Month By Caroline Plante “April is the cruelest month,” said T.S. Eliot. Though I’m sure the dull roots and breeding lilacs in The Waste Land were cruel acts of springtime, the changing of seasons can bring far more treacherous things than relentless rain. Year after year, we anticipate the changes that come with the seasons. But we’re never fully prepared. Seventy degrees one day and a freezing hail storm the next. It feels like we have just settled into our new rooms, and suddenly we’re preparing to send our things back home. I can feel the pressure of time slipping byThirty-five days until May twenty-sixth. It should be a happy dayIt’s my birthday after all. But on the last day on which I will remain sixteen I know I will find it impossible to sleep because the next day we’ll be out on that green lawn, hugging people we don’t want to hug, as well as those friends we won’t get to see again. “We should meet up somewhere this summer!” We’ll promise it over and over again but I know it’s a lost cause. Then the sinking feeling that I’ve left too many things undone, things I’d promised myself I’d do in those thirty-five days we had left. That is why April is the cruelest month. Because we know that there is still time left, but we can’t find it in ourselves to do anything about it. Suddenly, I find I’d rather be the lilac coming out of the dead land.

Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

Tiny Hands By Abby Abdinoor I have been thinking about Crisp autumn evenings Spent curled up in our favorite quilt, By the fireplace in our favorite chair, With a mug of hot chocolate to share And you in my lap. The embers pop and fizzle, Floating up towards nothing… Or freedom, I suppose. The warm glow bounces off your face And I glance down to see you Mesmerized by the fire, Eyelids slowly starting to close Your tiny hands try to clutch the patches And my fingers all at once. We sit in peaceful silence. It’s dark outside and you, well you Should be in bed, asleep by now With your princess nightlight That you can’t sleep without. But I don’t get to see you much, So I spend every single moment I can With you, as close to you as I can be.

Today, when you saw me, your eyes lit up, The way they always do, and that smile, My favorite smile, crept onto your face. Screaming my name as you ran down the steep, paved driveway... Golden blonde curls Bouncing just as carelessly as your laughter, And you threw yourself into my arms And I? I swung you around like There was no tomorrow. But, Tomorrow is coming quicker Than I would like. For you, it’s another day Filled with play and fun and happiness For me, it’s another day when I get to watch you grow up, But for now, I just get to sit here, In the comfortable silence, With you in my arms, now asleep, By the warmth of the fire, wishing For another handful of moments I let go In the whispering breeze just yesterday.

Clockwise from above: Zhaowei Yu, Lizzy Duffy, Abby Jones Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

Flower Portraits by Addie Morgan

Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

“This I Believe” This spring in English Language and Composition, students were asked to write essays modeled after Edward Murrow’s “This I Believe” series. Below are two of their eloquent, personal declarations. If you would like to listen to the students’ recitations of these pieces and others, visit https://www.holderness.org/podium/ default.aspx?t=204&nid=666473. The “This I Believe” essay on page 18 was written in History of Art as part of a larger project in which Charlotte Freccia was researching Fauvism.

The Weight of Gravity By Jesse Ross I believe in gravity. The kind of force that helps and hurts us at the same time. It’s the invisible pull that got me to middle school on time when I biked down to the village. It was also the constant push against me on the way home. Without gravity basic perseverance would be lost. How would it feel to get to the top of an incredible peak without earning the view? Gravity makes me stronger every time I go uphill. And as much fun as Nordic skiing is, gravity allows for the speed of alpine and the false feeling of being in control at 70 miles per hour that makes me grin. I believe in the way that this force keeps me grounded. Whether it was the reason for an underthrown “would be” touchdown pass, or the reason for the accumulation of lactic acid at the top of Lafayette, it is present. I believe to live happily in the hills of New Hampshire it is important to understand gravity. This understanding can trigger the brake at the right

Michelle Hofmeister

time, so gravity doesn’t lead to a speeding ticket on the west end of the Kancamagus Highway. This I believe is important because every time you fight hard against it, gravity will help you on the way back, giving you that extra push which just might help you win a race or get to school on time. Isaac Newton first proclaimed, “What goes up, must come down,” and because energy can be built up and collected, I believe in the potential energy that is waiting inside of us. There is outstanding significance in gravity’s role that is intertwined in history and present day life. The bonds were unbroken and the very real atomic bomb in the plane thousands of feet above a city simply waited to interact with this force. Now, John Mayer, 68 years later, complains about it at every concert. I believe in gravity the way Louie Zamperini believed that rain would fall to his isolated raft on the Pacific just in time to delay his death. Gravity is consistent and dependable, and while it has torn lives apart in the past, it will work as a miracle tomorrow for the 12 -year-old boy who catches the hurling baseball just before it flies down to the streets of Boston on the far side of the Green Monster.

Qianyi Zhang Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

I Believe in Cribbage By Lea Rice 31. The right jack for 2 and three of a kind for 6. Last card for 1 and there’s still the kitty. The pegs leapfrog into position, and the game rolls on. The entirety of my extended family is playing cribbage in the game room of a formerly condemned Cape Cod motel. Jauntily named The Irish Village, an excess of green shamrocks and fiddle music do little to hide the seedy décor of the lodging or the omnipresent stink of cigars and mothballs. Nobody present would rather be anywhere else. These cribbage games, though unconventional in setting, are what I find best about our family. Uncles take long swigs of Guinness in between handfuls of aggressively salted peanuts, cousins exchange witticisms and good natured jeers, and aunts quietly win the card game with superior focus amidst the chaos. Every family needs its identity, and this is ours. The game in itself is meant to be something of a social event. Nothing demands urgency. Pairs of teammates sit across from each other, a convention of the game that only encourages camaraderie. The cribbage table becomes a microcosm of our extended family, as the very youngest of the family rely on parents, aunts, and uncles to help them succeed. Between counting points and cutting the deck, Uncle John’s “born again” beliefs might clash with the rest of the family’s Roman Catholic sensibilities in a debate on anything ranging from papal selection to gun control. However, nobody

in the family will sit tacitly while a player costs their partner valuable points. Were my grandfather still able to join us, he might grunt in a thick Irish accent, “Well why the hell did you do that?” The cribbage board draws our particular family together. Other families’ cribbage boards might be the Fourth of July fireworks that they see every year, or the family turkey recipe that smells so good when it’s baking at Thanksgiving. The stuff that scrapbooks and home videos and fireside stories are made of. Shared traditions and memories are what define families, and without them a sense of kinship and belonging is lost. It can be something small, like the sprinkler that cousins like to run through when they visit their grandparents’ house. I argue that not only are these family traditions necessary, but that every family has them, whether they realize it or not. Sometimes it’s the wry moments that are the most memorable. For some, finding a fond family memory can be difficult. The sad memories, though challenging, can define an individual and a family just as legitimately, and sometimes more powerfully. I’ve sat with my family in funeral homes as the same Irish fiddle music is played. We can browse through snow globes of memories, picking each one up fondly and then placing it back on the shelf when we’ve had our fill of admiring the scene. I know that I can look back to the Irish Village, go around the dance hall bursting with accordion music, wade through layers of gaudy green decorations, and find the game room. There we sit playing cribbage.

Anna Stanley Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

“This I Believe” from a Fauvist’s Perspective By Charlotte Freccia I believe in education. I believe in teaching. I believe in the future, which is to say I believe in my students. I believe in the power of art to change the world we live in, and I believe that that power rests in the hands of the young. I believe in my own power to teach and inspire those who wish to be taught. In the days of my youth I was a great painter, but now I believe it is my duty to impart wisdom onto those who will shape the future. I believe in the classical methods, those methods that the great painters of the years past used to produce the magnificent works of art that changed the world. They’re called the classics because they’re classic, and if they were good enough for da Vinci, they are good enough for me and they are good enough for my students. Young visionaries might fall into the trap of believing they are too good for these traditions, but I believe in showing them their rightful place. I tell them not to forget where they came from, I tell them that these traditions will shape them as artists, and I tell

Steven Page

them this because I believe that tradition is the foundation upon which great art is built. But that is not to say I do not believe in the power of revolution. I am waiting for one of the promising young men I teach to break out with something no one has ever seen before. This is why I teach the boys the traditions of movements past. I teach them how to show perspective and how to make a focal point, but I also teach them how to explore their own aesthetic, to create something altogether new from what they have been taught. I believe in the power of art to show the world just how beautiful and precious life is. I believe that only art has the power to do this. I believe that only art has the power to change the shape of the human race. And this is why I teach, because I believe that the next generation of artists and creators and visionaries has even more power and brilliance than my own. I teach because I believe that these young men with extraordinary vision need education in order to speak to people, in order to reach their audiences. Without education, all of that miraculous potential will wither away. And that will be the biggest sin of all.

Jack Kinney Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

Steven Page

Jack Kinney Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

Biographies and Place Papers During their ninth-grade and sophomore years, Holderness students are asked by their English teachers to write ten-page papers; ninth-graders write biographies, while tenth-graders write place papers. Within the essays, students are required to include not only physical descriptions but also historical information and personal memories as well. The following essays are excerpts from just a few of their excellent essays.

Bob Hoyer By Maggie Barton Our trips to North Carolina are long. Fast food becomes nauseating and gas station bathrooms become routine. But each year Bobby and Annie’s home feels like my own. Their hardwood floors supported my wobbly baby feet as I took my first steps and their porch table was my easel for many art projects. While staying at the Hoyer’s house, it is inevitable that Bobby will go into work at the School for the Blind and School for the Deaf. These are days he talks about with deep compassion and often a laugh. While working as a doctor for the Eastern North Carolina School for the Deaf (one of Bob’s many jobs), witty banter and drollery jam his days with chuckles. A good laugh is never hard to muster when in the presence of Bob Hoyer. Fearless in his humor and flawless in his execution, Bob’s jokes appeal to a wide variety of audiences. On one particular day, a high school boy named Alex made his way down to see Dr. Hoyer for the third time that week. Alex appeared in the health office precisely after lunch each day. At ENCSD, lunch is followed by sports practices. Alex would file in complaining of a stomachache or a dry throat. After examinations resulted in completely normal results, Bobby would reluctantly exempt Alex from sports.

But Bob’s patience waned. Alex wouldn’t be back tomorrow, he decided. Bob instructed the nurse on duty to poke and prod Alex fairly well that afternoon. After the unusually in-depth examination, Bob called Alex into his office. “I’ve finally figured it out Alex, I know what’s wrong with you” he signed. “You’re pregnant!” And with that Bob held open the door and wished Alex a good practice. Whether it be a pop quiz or triple-dog-dare, nothing is or ever was too intimidating for Bob. One Halloween, when Bob was in junior high in Windom, MI, he and his friends skipped the haunted houses and got their adrenaline rushing in a different way. The streets were lit up with the glow of jack-o-lanterns and the local authorities were poised and ready for whatever October thirty-first had to offer. As wobbling toddlers and cautious parents streamed by, the boys took their positions. The goal was to steal a fire truck. According to plan, Bobby and a friend would feign a fistfight that would trick the fireman in a nearby truck to come over to break it up. The fists started flying, testosterone pumped, and surely enough the fireman was soon on his way to control the rowdy boys. When the tantalizing truck was abandoned, another of Bobby’s friends hopped in and sped off. Bob turned and watched as the red blur faded away; this was the by far the coolest thing he’d ever done. The destination of his joy ride in the massive red truck was a cornfield. The truck was deposited there, surrounded by ears of corn and the sound of its own siren, echoing through the field like a pack of howling werewolves. The meticulous plan was carried out seamlessly and not one of the boys was ever caught. Although the night did not end in a dramatic police arrest or with bags of candy, Bob can easily be brought back to the “fiery” success of that night; the spark twinkles in his eye to this day.

Nikki Blair Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

The Maiden’s Race By Lydia Fisher It was in April 1959. The horses shifted and pawed the ground, anticipating the shot. The crowd turned to watch the restless horses snorting and jigging in a circle. The bookies were losing momentum giving their throats a rest. The odds had been decided; the bets were placed. Now it was to time to begin. The assorted children hanging on the boundary fence and gleefully chittering to each other were racing around playing tag in their Sunday best with a few tattered knees. All were caught in the rush of anticipation. Perched daintily in the shade, the social ladies gossiped, their cool glasses in hand. Their husbands were behind them talking bloodlines, stocks, and business to each other in suit and tie. All were caught in the rush of anticipation, and the valley settled with a hush.

saw was the pounding ground before them, and all they could hear was the racing pulse of their hearts and the cheers of the crowd. Down the hill the horses pounded, each straining against his/her rider. The first jump reared up and over they flew. But they had far to go and needed to pace themselves. Two horses battled for the lead. Over the next they sailed side by side past the roaring crowd, the ladies and the gentleman and the laughing children. Past the judges’ stand and paddock. Around the bend they tore.

The fifth jump sprang up, the soft take-off ground pitmarked by other horses. The sun blasted into the riders’ eyes. Together they took off, but one faltered, set off by the dancing shadows and rough ground. On landing, one jockey tumbled downwards. The rest of the field flew over the timber fence, trampling the rider beneath. Across the field, the medics raced to the still Behind the heated rush, stood the cool stables — a bustle of organized chaos — racing to cool the horses, figure. The riderless horse was separated from the flyto get their blankets on, and return them to their stalls. ing herd, while its rider remained motionless. Her back was broken along with her teeth. Bruised all over, she The vets, farriers, and stable hands with practiced struggled for a moment before surrendering to the moves checked hooves and hocks, tossing buckets of blackness, waking up later in the white, sterile hospital. cool water and hurling blankets. The vets watched horse after horse trot past, checking stride and breathing. For a second they paused. The day was ending. This race’s competitors were waiting for the sharp crack to fill the air. In the jockey tent, it was tense and cramped, a mix of nervousness and relief, silence and jubilance. A colorful array of beautiful and creative silks met the eye, each symbolizing a stable, each unique. Most had dedicated years of their lives and health to this concentrated world of horse racing, trying to maintain the perfect weight and strength. In the field, outriders in scarlet calmly awaited the starting shot on their steady steeds. At the paddock’s entrance, with a view of the rolling course, stood the trainers, race cards in hand, nervously waiting to see the outcome of hours of training. It was the Maiden’s race. For one young woman it all narrowed down to the sweating, powerful horse beneath her, breathing in sync. The rustle of grass and a faint breeze. The breath of both human and beast, the whisper of silk, the creak of saddle against boot, and the grinding of the bit. Circling once more before the man with a pistol and red flag. Bang. The red flag swooped down. Forward leaped the dozen horses, eager to begin. All the riders

Qianyi Zhang Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

Driving With My Grandfather By Ellery Smith One of the other things that my grandfather is known for is how much he adores our dogs Winston and Daisy. He especially has a thing for our dog Daisy, who is a 4-year-old Pembroke Welsh Corgi. When we first got her, it’s fair to say he was speechless. He immediately fell in love with her and her crazy little puppy personality. I will always remember the time Babu and I took Daisy out on our boat at our lake house in the Adirondacks. Daisy jumped quickly onto the boat, as I walked from the bow to the stern untying the ropes from the dock. As I backed the boat out, my grandfather sat on the other side with Daisy right in his lap. Once backed out of the boathouse and out on the lake, we had no actual destination to attend to. Pulling out into Little Square Bay, it was about seven, and the sun was just starting to set behind the great mountains of the Adirondacks. Just my dog, my grandfather, and me, we peacefully looked at our surroundings and reflected in our own ways about our day that August. There wasn’t much talking, just the sound of boats passing, heading home for the evening after a long, sunny day out on the lake.

grandfather, this simple moment felt right and felt like the perfect end to a busy day.

As we circled back around and crossed the point, we rounded the corner and Babu started telling me about how we had to get certain areas of our property cleared out in order to put in our little bench at the end of the point. He pointed out where we had to cut down certain trees that were dying and had fallen into the A sunset cruise on the lake doesn’t seem like that big a lake. His knowledge of the lake never ceases to amaze deal, but something about it made it special. Whether me, and his desire to protect the lake and make it a it was being out on the lake where I grew up and be- better place also shows his genuine passion and care ing in my favorite place in the world, or driving around for it. with my beloved dog Daisy, or just being with my I slowly pull back into the dock and quickly jump up to grab the railing so the boat doesn’t push against the dock and get scratched. Daisy quickly hops out of the boat, runs down the dock, and jumps straight into the water. Babu chuckles and recalls when he first saw her run down the stairs, and go straight into the water just a couple summers before. Almost every time we go out on the boat together, he reminds me of when Daisy was just a little puppy and how he loved watching her swim. He says how happy it makes him feel to share these little moments of specialness. I hop out, tie up the four sides of the boat, and assist my grandfather out of the boat. He grasps my arm with his hand and takes a final step onto the dock. Our boat excursion comes to an end as we make our ways back to our houses. We say a quick “Goodbye and goodnight” and head our separate ways, looking forward to the next day when we will do it all again. Handmade Books on this page by Hannah Foote Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

Lauren Stride

Celine Pichette

Lizzy Duffy

Abby Jones

Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

Olivia Leatherwood

Michelle Hofmeister Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

Hailee Grisham

KJ Sanger

Jingyi Wu

Caroline Plante Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

All photos by Fabián Štoček

Local Woods By Fabián Štoček

farms; yes, we clear our paths of rubbish. But behind the gates of our everyday lives, we discover a land where the rubbish has been ignored, a place that has These observations were captured during a trip to the been polluted for decades. Yes, behind Irving is our fields behind the Irving gas station in Plymouth. Locals Kansas. We run and ski through these dried marshes, often call the fields Kansas: woods, and fields almost every season. But when the After a big week of melting snow and chilling frost, I Pemigewasset River floods, it picks up all the trash and drove by Kansas and saw the sheer beauty of a all the chemicals that are patiently waiting on the smooth, never-ending ice sheet covering all of the banks of the river, and releases them downstream fields. I was impressed by nature at that point and de- where they are caught in between the bushes of Kancided I wanted to explore; I wanted to explore the sas. Beer cans, tires, water bottles, plastic bags, rotten acres of land I had lived so close to for so long. I 2x4’s, glass — all of it is lying down there. thought at first the fields would be a great environment in which to take pictures; I have always been in- There is so much metal in Kansas you could potentially terested in ice, its ephemeral properties, and the na- create another Statue of Liberty that could welcome those who use the woods to escape from urban areas. ture of its decay. I went down to observe that phenomenon, but came back with entirely different views, Of course, almost all of the metal is already oxidized and is slowly disintegrating. But why, why do little kids, frosted legs, and icebound arms. who play in the nearby woods have to come home with We always talk about how bad the emissions from cuts from rotting metal? Is it our ancestors who have not cars are, how huge the smog cloud in Beijing is, how cared, thinking America is so spacious that it can bear people in New York should use their bicycles more, and one more tin of Castrol oil? how the Russians are burning more oil than ever. But Take action, visit your local woods, explore, and be we almost never take a close look at our own neighborhood. Yes, we do recycle; yes, we have wind aware!

Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

Analytical Essays

In AP Language and Composition students spend a great deal of time learning how to analyze and react to great pieces of writing. They examine the word choice, organization, and flow of the author’s words in order to gain a better understanding of an author’s purpose. Below are just a few of their reactions pieces.

Thoughts on “Conversation” by Ai

That is what makes the process all the more torturous.

By Hannah Slattery

Portraying a personal experience through a dialogue/ monologue is common of Ai’s writing. Another one of her famous works, “Salome” takes on the first-person perspective of a daughter who is abused by her father. Here is an excerpt: “I scissor the stem of the red carnation, and set it in a bowl of water. It floats the way your head would, if I cut it off.” Ai’s poetry often provokes both intense criticism and intense praise because of the gruesome and violent accounts. Anne Sexton, a renowned confessional poet during the same era, called Ai “All woman — all human.”

The first time I read through “Conversation,” I stumbled over the words and barely derived any meaning from the poem. As I continued to re-read it, two speakers emerged. One speaker narrates in the first person, using the pronoun “I.” The second is either a dead person, or perhaps Death itself, manifested. A dialogue begins with the line, “How does it feel to be dead? I say.” When Death answers this question, the answer is so powerful that it, “burns a hole” through the floor. This frightens the speaker, and she asks Death not to go on speaking, but Death proceeds regardless; the Ai was also famous for her strongly expressed feminisprocess of dying cannot be stopped. tic ways. This statement was soon after refuted by The metaphor of a hand brushing a silk dress symbol- Alicia Ostriker who said, “‘All woman—all human’; she izes how subtly Death creeps over its victims. And then is hardly that. She is more like a bad dream of the dress is ripped “And you hear the sound of a knife Woody Allen’s, or the inside story of some Swinburcutting paper,” meaning you die. The poem assumes a nean Dolorosa, or the vagina-dentata itself starting to talk.” The people who reacted negatively to Ai’s work reflective tone after that, describing the fragility of may have been blinded from seeing her literary excellife, how easily it can come and go. This reflection lence because of the controversial topics about which seems to come from the mind or thoughts of the first person speaker. Death chimes back in with “Words you she chose to write. No matter how articulate and powerful Ai’s descriptions of a mother finding perverse say, young girls in a circle, holding hands.” Words, like young girls holding hands, cannot avoid death, or pleasure in beating her daughter are, there will still be the process of being forgotten. The poem closes with people who do not ever want to read a first-person monologue about a daughter being beaten by her an explanation of how death feels. Everything becomes clear in the end, but not while you are still living. mother.

Trang Pham Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

Lincoln’s Greatest Speech Essay

they were abolitionists. Lincoln presents the war as America’s problem, instead of as the South’s or the By So Min Park North’s, in hopes of reuniting both sides and ending the Lincoln was not always an abolitionist. It took time for war together. Little phrases such as “All knew…” and certain events to occur for him to slowly become one. “Both read the same Bible…” show the audience that When the time came for him to give his second inaugu- even with opposing ideas, the North and the South are ral, he knew he would be addressing both the North part of America, and in order to stop the war, they and the South. He needed to present his ideas in a must first reunite, then abolish. Cleverly organized, Linway that his abolitionist views were smoothly woven coln manages to avoid mentioning abolition directly, into his speech, instead of blatantly stated; he wanted circumnavigating around the word, yet at the same to avoid shocking his audience, especially those in the time, suggesting the idea. South. His effective use of time markers and his inclusion of both sides allowed him to integrate slavery and A challenge he faced was graciously and well solved. Lincoln’s method of evolving into the subject worked abolition into the inaugural without raising chaos and wonders on the day of March 4th, 1865. It kept the tension. audience calm (with several applauses, of course), and Impassive and impersonal, Lincoln speaks in a low, hopefully convinced a few that the war had already calm voice, choosing words that are neutral and do not begun and was going on. However, there was still create any unnecessary heat. He starts off the speech hope and a set plan to solve it, resulting in the abolishby clearly marking the differences in time: “Then… ment of American slavery. now… for the future” (Lincoln). Although the audience might not notice this organization, the separation of time and events gives him authority and credibility; he demonstrates that he has knowledge of what has happened over the past four years. The recap presented at the beginning engages the audience and builds a trust between Lincoln and the audience. Lincoln emphasizes the idea of “progress” and “evolution,” and even says in the beginning, “the progress of our arms… is… satisfactory and encouraging…” (Lincoln), giving hope for the future. As Robert C. White Jr. stated in his book, “Lincoln’s Greatest Speech,” Lincoln had a twostep plan. Instead of jumping with two feet into the water and abolishing slavery (which would have angered part of the country), he lays out the problems and solutions little by little, and only in the end, builds up to his final solution. His opinion is not noticed in the first paragraph; however, he makes it clear that slavery is indeed the cause of the war. And surprisingly, everyone was taking part in it. “American slavery,” instead of Southern slavery, as Lincoln puts it, began the war and continued it. Although the Southerners were the ones actively engaging in the ownership and usage of slaves, Lincoln does an excellent job of not blaming the South for the war. Indeed, he is extremely inclusive of both sides. He talks about the North and South as two different sides that shared the same ideas and desires. The irony in this is remarkable: the Southerners, who were eager to continue slavery and perhaps expand it were against the war just as much as the Northerners were, even though Trang Pham Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

Lincoln’s Second Inaugural

references the past. At the beginning of the speech, Lincoln speaks of his first inaugural, when the Civil War By Hannah Durnan was about to begin. Lincoln makes reference to In Lincoln’s famous address at his second inaugural, he “insurgent agents” who were “seeking to destroy” the structures his speech in such a way that his arguments nation, but still refrains from casting blame on Southare outlined in simple terms, references to God are erners. A more direct statement comes later in the used to engage the audience, and the past is used to speech, when Lincoln calls slavery “two hundred and support Lincoln’s opinions. Lincoln’s second inaugural is fifty years of unrequited toil.” This is perhaps the most one of the shortest speeches in history, yet it is still ef- direct reference to slavery in the speech, and it clearly fective in conveying his vision of a unified nation and shows Lincoln’s position in the passive tone present his refusal to cast blame on the South for the Civil throughout the speech. However, given Lincoln’s words War. By Lincoln’s use of careful techniques, the speech leading up to this statement, it is more evolutionary unfolds in a way that is engaging and persuasive to his than revolutionary. By using simple, impersonal lanaudience, and his views on slavery are portrayed as a guage and backing up his statements with Biblical refnatural progression of events rather than a cause of erences, Lincoln makes his opinions seem like a natural war. progression instead of a blunt, unprecedented stateThe first paragraph of Lincoln’s speech contains a sim- ment. ple opening, and he avoids using embellishments, as he did in earlier speeches such as the first inaugural and the Gettysburg Address. This style sets a subdued tone and contributes to the overall solemnity of the address in which Lincoln discusses the tragedies of the Civil War. This tone continues as the speech unfolds and reinforces Lincoln’s determination not to blame anyone for the Civil War. Lincoln merely states that “the war came.” Lincoln does not cite slavery or abolitionism as the cause of the war, but instead describes it as a tragedy that no one can be blamed for. This simple statement epitomizes Lincoln’s use of plain language to support his purpose. Lincoln’s simple structure continues throughout the second half of the speech in which he begins to use God as a way to engage the people in the audience and persuade them to support his ideas. Religion was a major influence at the time of Lincoln’s second inaugural; most Americans went to church frequently and many soldiers in the Civil War carried “pocket Bibles” with them at all times. Lincoln plays on the audience’s receptiveness to religious references by including quotes from Genesis 3:19 and Matthew 7:1. Lincoln explains the harsh conclusion of the war by saying that “the prayers of both [the South and the North] could not be answered,” but “The Almighty has his own purposes.” This sentence makes Lincoln’s views, including his support of abolitionism, valid and acceptable to the audience. Lincoln’s references not only support his ideas, but put them in religious terms that the audience will understand and connect to.

Hannah Foote

Another powerful moment in Lincoln’s speech is when he

Mosaic ● Volume 11, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

3â&#x20AC;&#x2122;X5â&#x20AC;&#x2122; Mosaic of Livermore Hall completed by Art in the Afternoon students Abby Jones, Gibson Cushman, Hope Heffernan, and Megan Grzywacz.

Holderness School Plymouth, NH 03264-1879 www.holderness.org 603.536.1257