Biddeford High School - Olympian Yearbook (Biddeford, ME)

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THE OLYMPIAN 25 Socrates or somebody thought. But Socrates never rode the cars. Will that woman ever get settled? Little regard has she for tired feet un- lucky enough to be Within her step- ping area. No use to try again to find out the latest war news from China. There's a similar conflict taking place close at hand-two people covet the same territory. The weary rider, discouraged, yet still clinging desperately to the thin strap he has managed to hold despite all opposition, devotes himself to a perusal of the advertising signs around the top of the car. A glamorous blond advises him to use her particular hair rinse and make his hair the envy of his fellowmen. Close beside her a well- known mustard is said to add consid- erable zest to steak. Corns can be painlessly removed, suggests the next ad in line, close beside the soap that will give him that school-girl com- plexion. All diverting, but he's so tired. By now the crowd is thinning out, and believe it or not, he finds a seatg but before his weary limbs know the feeling of rest the conductor bellows Clark Street! The home stop of the sorely tried commuter. There is one last trial in store for him. On his way to the door he glances up and sees the last ad in the line above him: Ride the street cars for comfort, convenience and speed! D. Hopkins, '38. DREAMS. Have you ever wanted certain things so badly that it would leave an ache in your heart if you could not have them? You see, it isn't quite as easy for me to forget immediately, I brood a while, then realizing such futility, I visualize myself in actual pos- session of what I wanted. I lapse into the ever welcome relief and pleasure of day-dreaming. When I was nine years of age, and I shall always remember this certain incident in my life, I wanted a bicycle, a two-wheeled bicycle with shiny red paint on it and bright silver spokes that sparkled in the sun. My dreams became haunted with visions of it. I always dreaded to awake, for then I would have such an empty feeling, that of a child having been robbed of a most coveted toy. Needless to say that my studies suffered somewhat from this indulgence in day-dreaming. Minutes would tick by and the while I would be gazing out of the window into faraway space. Beautiful white clouds would float past and along an endless blue sky. But eventually and always I would picture myself flying along the cement highway. Oh, the thrill of itg the breeze blowing in my face, catching at my hair and tossing it into wild dishevelment. I could feel myself tingling with excitement .... Oh dear, back to earth again, and for what? Geography? Oh merciful heavens, no! That was recited upon ten minutes ago! I would then stumble to my feet, very much embarrassed. I could feel my face growing red with confusion as the teacher calmly eyed me with a most withering look. There ensued an appropriate sermon on the futility of day-dreaming and of dire remedies if necessitated. I assure you that I sat down again feeling properly squelched! If only the bell would ring! Just fifteen more minutes to go, and then . . . Out in the open again! Perhaps I could recapture my lost dreams up there, somewhere, in the clouds .... ? After the evening meal, when everyone settled down to an atmos- phere of geniallity, I would calmly mention the fact that Bud's new bi- cycle was quite the thing and that a certain bright red one in a downtown window was nothing to be sneered at! I would look around hopefully for the least sign of encouragement. Did I just see a smile vanish around the cor- ner of Dad's mouth? Well, he cer- tainly didn't look forbidding. Ah, I thought to myself, now is the time if ever! I-low I did launch myself on the beauty, grace and supremity of a

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24 THE OLYMPIAN sister to go to school with, play dolls with, eat and sleep with, and every night the two little girls say their pray- ers thanking God for that lovely first day of school. Ann Chamberlain, '39. I'M GOING BOWLING. Have you a match, Buddy? Sure, right here. Buddy is not John Palky's name, but our unknown friend called him that. John is not wealthy, nor is he, as girls say of some boys, cute. He is just an ordinary person, spending his time out of college by cleaning auto- mobile salesrooms. But don't think that John isn't intelligent, because he is. Thanks May I do something for you, sir? I want a salesman. He's out to lunch. I'Ie'll be back in about five minutes. Won't you wait? How long have you been work- ing here, Bud? Since I started college in Septem- ber, three months ago. Where do you come from? California Why didn't you go to school there? . I thought I could find better work here. 'Tm in a hurry. Can you get me a catalogue? Yes, sir. Here is one. l'll be back later. What time does the office close? Five o'clock. At five minutes before five o'clock our friend returns. The salesman is closing early because the boss is out of town. john is still working. The sales- man nods his head and says a few words. What may I do for you, sir? I want a demonstration of that second-hand car you have outside. 'Tm sorry, sir, but I cannot. This is my evening to bowl. John will give you one. My name is Oliver White. If you wish to buy it, please inform me. Good day. As five o'clock was striking, Oliver White left the building. When a week had passed, john was still working at the same place. He was, however, sitting at Oliver White's desk. The man who had asked for a demonstration was a major stock- holder in the same company. Steve Ryan, '40. STREET CARS The harried commuter in a large city has my heartfelt sympathy when, after a day's work, he hastens, laden with bundles, to the crowded subway for a home-bound car. - First, he must search his pockets for the necessary dime, but of course only quarters are forthcoming, making it necessary to get change at the change booth, while bundles and newspapers slip nonchalantly from his arms. At last, the dime! Now for the car. Cars glide serenely past him, crowd- ed to the doors. Will one ever come with a bit of spare room in it! A ten- minute wait, while he is jostled and shoved along the platform. Finally, a car with vacant seats! Heaven be praised! Unfortunately, however, the avail- able seats are few, while the waiting commuters are many, and you can not fit a carload of people into a few empty seats by any trick algebraic equation. Be grateful for the straps to cling to. Push, scramble, jam-at last, all aboard! With newspapers folded to minute size and bundles lodged precariously between his feet, the commuter's ride home has begun. Soon, very soon, a sudden stop-the first station. Caught unawares, his newspaper falls while he, himself, struggles to maintain a perpendicular position. Another rush- ing army invades the stifling car. The law of impenetrability springs to the traveler's mind. Two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time. At least, that is what

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26 THE OLYMPIAN shiny red bicycle. I became more and more enthusiastic, at the same time entertaining the family with possi- bilities of such a grand possession. Evidently my parents did not share my over-enthusiasm as they calmly informed me it was bed-time. I may have mentioned that I was nine years old, but did l tell you that l was also art of coaxing. wearing down very proficient in the Little by little l was Dad's resistance until he finally yield- ed to take a look at the bicycle. I flew to bed with the feeling that the battle was half won. The next day I introduced Dad to the superb red bicycle in the window. Wasn't it ducky and smooth-looking, and did you see the red and green tail- lights, and the silver spokes and, Oh yes, did you notice the big balloon tires and the carrier basket and all the cute gadgets! Why, Dad's eyes were actually sparkling too! Oh I simply tread on air that day: after all, Dad had practically said yes. But alas! Oh yes, there is always an ALAS! This world is full of them. Sad and disappointing they are. The very next day, l remember as yet, my visions, dreams, anticipations, every- thing vanished into thin air! Every- thing just simply vanished, leaving a void and empty space where once had lived a beautiful dream. The final de- cision had passed. Oh no, not in favor but decidedly against. As the circumstances were, I felt very sad indeed. I grieved not only the loss of an almost possessed dream, but I felt doubly sorry for Bud. Poor, poor Bud, lying so still and white on the high hospital bed, his right leg suspended high above him in terrible looking casts. ln his eyes was the agonized thought of a brand new bi- cycle now lying in mangled and pitiful state at home. l-lis little hands clench- ed the bed-clothes as he managed a brave yet quivering smile. Suddenly I felt very much ashamed. If Bud, who had seen his new bicycle wrecked be- fore his eyes, if Bud could lie there, his leg torturing him and yet smile, could l not at least try to imitate that courage? l tried, yes, I tried very hard to swallow my chagrin and disappoint- mentg and perhaps I succeeded a little? It was a very, very sad lesson of self denial but such a needed one. Violet White, ' 3 8. RUBBISH CANS. There is nothing like being awaken- ed early in the morning by the hollow clank of empty rubbish cans banging on the pavement. Or better still, by the strains of La Dona E. Mobile being launched into the quiet stillness by the man in the rubbish truck. There are two strange sound phe- nomena which are always associated with each other at an early hour in the morning. They are, as was formerly mentioned, the so-called song of the rubbish man and the booming accom- paniment of the rubbish cans. These strange sounds, and they are strange, could not exist without each other. While the man in the truck relieves himself of a few bars of operatic can bounding origination, the empty on the sidewalk below gives out with a few riffs or licks l have used musical scribing these noises because they are music, although it is a very distinctive type of music. It must be heard during the early hours to be appreciated. We are first awakened by the loud bang of the cymbalistic crash of the neighbor's waste cans. Then stealing sweetly through our window comes the martial strains of The Toreador's Song. Slowly the music increases in volume as it comes closerg now it is directly under our window. The rub- bish man hits a new strain and swings out on a Benny Goodman arrange- ment of l..och Lomond. Then there is a break which is filled with the Gene Kruper tom-tom-like accompaniment. We lie in bed, very still, afraid to move for fear of finding that it is only a dream: but it is not a dream, it is terms in de-