Elmwood School - Samara Yearbook (Ottawa, Ontario Canada)

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30 SAMARA The Man with one eye My head was spinning violently, and the mumble-jumble sound from the over-crowded room was not helping matters. It was a miserable mid-afternoon for me. A kind of day where I tried to escape the inward feeling that was fighting me. My— but it was odd! But was not that the way life was? Everything seemed to be untouchable! Everything but this one object ... .It was there, and I could not leave it alone. I tried .... Oh! .... how I tried! .... but there seemed to be no solution for this overpower- ing subject. I did not know whether to laugh or cry. The sight of my stricken eyes expressed my emotion to anyone who was interested. But why worry?— I was only a fish lost at sea. The vividness fought me until my nerves were twiiching with fright, and my body froze. The tears were streaming down my pallid face, and I knew my soul would not rest in peace, unless I brought my problem to a conclusion. Colours were beginning to mingle— all except that one blur. What was it?— All twirled in together making me feel I wanted to scream. The haze was beginning to clear now, and my imagination was working— so much so that my body trembled. Something was there, but I could not grasp it enough to satisfy myself. Then the painting took its place. Why of course— it was a modern picture of a man with one eye. With my mind at rest, the crowd ' s chatter did not seem so harsh. I could understand their feelings, and I could not hel p wonder- ing if that morbid painting had roused them, as it had me. Alexis Thoman, Form 5A. Little Brothers Only someone who has lived with little brothers knows of the trials and tribulations I go through trying (vainly, I might add!) to understand mine! Perhaps if I introduce them to you it will be easier for you to understand my complete bewilderment. Robby is my blond, blue-eyed, eight-year- old brother, who would truthfully be much happier if I hadn ' t been born, or if I had to be born I should ' a been born ten years earlier and much easier to punch in the nose . Robby has an amazing ability to disappear and com- pletely forget the time, both of which he does when I am in charge of his whereabouts. On returning one hour and a half late one night, his simple explanation was that the plane he had gone for a ri de in did not have a phone, and I shoulda guessed where he was! (Actually he was in a plane with the father of one of his friends!) Robby ' s bed- time, being seven-thirty, always presents a problem, as his watch never fails to stop (for some unknown reason (?)) at seven o ' clock on the button! Even more bewildering to me is my four- year old brother, Brian. Being blond, brown- eyed and completely angehc-looking helps him to twist me completely around his little finger until he has exactly what I have just pointed out I would rather he did not have. Brian (or so he tells me) is an expert cook, painter (especially painter), housewife and grade twelve student (at this moment he is helping me write this Composition). My patience wears extremely thin after a session of persuading him that food is to eat (a very hard thing for him to understand) not to make castles and roads in or to bounce on the floor. Another unnecessary habit of grown- ups that a four-year-old certainly doesn ' t need is sleep. Just because you can ' t keep your eyes open, or walk in a straight line, is no reason why you should sleep (although once in bed it does not take much convin- cijug! ) Despite all the trials and disagreements I know that I would be at a loss without Robby and Bri n, and I feel very sorry for anyone who does not have a little brother or sister in his family— even if he is ajittle terror!! Judy Toller, Form 6M.

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SAMARA 29 Three People I should like to meet Death! Morbid? Awful? It may be for some, but to me it presents the one and only method of meeting three men who have lived their lives before mine, and have left only written records of their deed. To you my choice may seem strange: three men whose lives have made a definite mark in history, but who were as different as day is from night— St. Francis, Hitler and Louis Pasteur. Good and Evil! These are the two great forces in our world. St. Francis, typifying the positive force, was a man of love and com- passion. To him the stars, the light, the beasts and the birds were friends and brothers whom he loved, and who loved him. He held no fear of life, only the fear and love of God, from whom he gained courage and strength. St. Francis was simplicity personified, he did not wow people to his side; he won them by his overflowing spirit of goodness and truth. On the other side we have the great force of Evil, well portrayed in a character well known, and well feared— Hitler! This man was a shell of cruelty and egoism. He was completely void of any redeeming quality of compassion or goodness which would have made a human being of him. To him, man was just a means to build his power and might. Fanatically he bore down on the people and pounded his principles into them. His methods of winning people to his side were concentra- tion camps and war! In contrast to these two personalities, very positive and very negative, I would like to add Louis Pasteur, neither a saint, nor a sinner. He is the kind of person that typifies what I strive for. Medicine, the work of his life, was his whole world, and indeed his life. He seemed to live and breathe it, not sitting back to admire his accomplishments, but ever going onward working for the better conditions of his brother and fellow man. To me, these three men represent the world we live in. The saints are few but have lasting powers that are remembered from generation to generation. The evil dictators rise with power and might but inevitably crumble and disintegrate, leaving only me- mories of hate. We, the general people, are mostly Louis Pasteurs, working to make some- thing from the life we have been given. We may not accomplish what he did, but it is the spirit of work and love that counts. This is why, for me, death would be a great adventure. To meet these three people face to face would be like looking at the world in the three separate blocks that form it— the white, the black, and the ever-present grey. Linda Chauvin, Form 6M. The Path through the Woods It begins when he is born and ends with, infinity! At the beginning the wood is thin and the trees are sparse, but as the age of the traveller increases so does the depth and darkness of the wood. It surrounds him so completely that at times he can distinguish but few of the paths of others that cross his. There are billions of paths. One for each member of the human race both past, present and future. Each path is different from the next. The wood is composed of plants from all over the earth and from all times of Man, but they are known to us. The individual paths of human beings, although sometimes irregular, conform to a larger path, that of our species. This path too has a place in the universe. There will be other species, with their smaller paths of other individuals winding through a wood with some plants, physically strange yet familiar to us, others entirely unfamiliar. Is this path the path of our universe— or is there another larger, that is the main one of our universe? And is the one of our uni- verse just a branch of a still more extensive one that is composed of the main paths of other universes, ad infinitum to eternity? Or is there a path at all? Judy Reid, Form 5C.

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S A M A R A 31 My Path through the Woods My favourite path twists and turns through a lovely wood near the south coast in England. It is a narrow gravel path and in some places it is choked with grass and moss. Some of the branches of the trees are so low that they make an archway over my head. The path ends in a gate and beyond this there is a sandy shore below, and the murmur of the sea can be heard in the distance. In the winter when the sea is rough I can taste the salt in the wind from the sea. I love walking along this path in all seasons as there is so much beauty there all the year round. In the spring the path is bordered with primroses, and wild violets and daffodils grow in the grass. The trees have a lovely fresh look of spring and the birds fly around busily trying to find places to build their nests. Later on in the year there is a beautiful blue carpet of bluebells, and rhododendrons grow among the bracken. In the centre of the wood near where the path winds, there is a little lake where yellow, orange and pink azaleas grow, making lovely reflections in the water. It is fun to lie on the grass and look up through the trees to the cloudless blue sky overhead. Autumn brings the mists and the little path is strewn with dead leaves. In January the snowdrops cover the ground like a white carpet and a few weeks later the yellow and mauve crocuses come up to remind me that winter is over for another year. Dorothea Berwick, Form 5C. The Bold Knight There he sits, tall and straight and proud. Resting on his coal black horse high above the crowd. There he sits exhausted, after the tiring race, But a look of proud contentment plays upon his face. This Bold Knight and coal black horse have won a race so grand, And now they rest there calmly, while the crowds cheer in the stand. Suddenly a bell chimes, and he goes to claim his prize. The crowds all cheer and shout for him and to their feet they rise To catch a better glimpse of him, their Knight so bold and true, The Knight who won them glory, and ever more will do. Janet Anne Hair, Form 5A. Mr, Whiskers Mr. Whiskers was a cat. Not a pure-bred or a Siamese with papers, but an ordinary, middle-aged Tom cat. In spite of heredity, however, Mr. Whiskers was brought up and lived (as did thousands of others) in a most unforgettable and unforgiveable environment— a communist cat kingdom. It had its assets, certainly, but these were strongiy overpowered by its defects, social and political. (Economics are unmentionable as the economy of cat kingdoms throughout the world at this time isn ' t worthy of men- tion.) In such a kingdom, individualists were normally not heard of. However Mr. Whis- kers, a rebel at heart, was an individual. He reasoned out the pros and cons of such a dictatorship and decided to take action. There was really only one solution, thought Mr. Whiskers— overthrow the dicta- torship! It was a simple as that! But then he thought about it a second time and decided he must not only think. He must do some- thing. Night after night, after his habitual neighbourhood yowling, he parted company with his closest comrades (as close a friend- ship as they dared allow) and made plan after plan. Finally after many hours, not only of concentration but also of evasion from gov- ernment agents, he decided the only way to begin was to reside as close to headquarters as possible. In fact, why not at headquarters?