Greenwood School - Tree Yearbook (Ruxton, MD)

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I SHAN'T FORGET The fresh smell of the moist woods flooding study hall, The ripple of notes from the practice rooms, The busy hum of the vacuum cleaner, The creak of the chairs, the light turning of pages, and the scratch of the pens, Muliled laughs and the teacher's sharp glances. Rustling of starched skirts, then the quick small steps And the happy humming of the inhrmary. Willy's gentle coat, the bright orange of his cart. The hush as grace is said, then the sudden surge of voices, Sugared sweet potatoes, baked ham, and graham cracker pie, This is Greenwood. There's the trickle of the Garden House fountain and the blue of the freshly painted pond The violets in the wood and the squawk of the guinea hen The live minute bell rising and the rush of the gong, Wednesday candy, and the walk to Ruxton, Miss Elcock's frown and Miss Elcock's smiles, Cheer practice, tournaments and games, Exam suspence in the silent gym, Initiation, then, too soon, commencement in white organdie, The clear sparkling eyes and the fond farewells- This is Greenwood. D Pamela Soldwedel WHY? You asked me if I loved youg What could I say? I did. I loved you, so I said, Of course. It sounded like a joke. I thought, and so did you, While silence made us one. I loved you. How? I wish I knew. I believe you wanted flattery. Is it true or am I unfair? I felt the way you felt then, Deeper then sea and higher than sky, Depressed and doubly enthralled. I couldn't say it then, I can't write it now. Why do I try? Because I love you, silly. e il I , Unnmmnnun 1 h 34 l

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THE PARKTON LOCAL Washington to Harrisburg except on Sundays those times when you want to go to Harrisburg from Washington. The heat from the end-car radiators is terrific. Gusts of air and Greenwood uniforms get on simultaneously at Monkton, Glencoe and Cockeys- ville. ' Good morning. What's good about it? The usual banter. Books thrown down on the green plush seats, orange peels on the floor, dust and paper bags on everything. Stop-Start-Stop. Ruxton! Wet platform felt through soleless shoes. Raindrops drip down your nose and spatter your legs. The train sighs and leaves with all its horrible passengers. Damp stones, cinders and other extraneous matter get in your shoes too. Books and suitcases are rearranged and the procession starts. Cars splash by silently, all empty. Why don't they stop? Where are the Brannons? Gone, I guess. You step in a puddle.. Wet feet for the rest of the day. Who cares? As books are shifted assignment books drop on the wet road. The ink has run and they are blotted, gravelly and wet. Under the trees it is not so wet. Ouch! A lot of water fell right down your neck. Why did you say that about being under trees? Should have brought nice warm gloves 'cos your hands are pink except for the knuckles and wet and cold and numb. Nearly half way now. More horrible empty cars go by. The Brannons at last tear by and stop ahead. Books, suitcases, girls, all on top of each other. Fords are wonderful things. Not enough room for you! Apologetic faces look at you through streaming glass. Leave your books with someone and walk. Good-by-wait! Lend me your gloves. Well, life isn't always this tough. There'll be many to-morrows. Gillian Crimmins FROM STUDY HALL TO BED Brrrrrrr! the bell. Chairs scrape, voices rise harshly. A flash of blue and green as Virgils and Algebras are flipped on the shelves. Locker doors slam, coats swish through the air. An impatient push against that hesitating door, then the night air stuns with its freshness. Lights flash out through the darkness. Down Hap the blinds. Stairs seemingly endless and steep. Finally, the soft rug rumples beneath your dragging feet. Round apples, cool and smooth, fill your hands as you grope in the creaking wicker basket. A harsh screech, then the radio smooths out into a pleasant hum. There is the thunder of water, filling the tub with a rush. Drifts of steam, warm and moist and choking. Soap smells, sharp and antiseptic, soft and sweet. The rough caress of a wash cloth and the angora touch of a powder puff. The clean wash-day smell of flannel pajamas. The vigor of a tooth brush and the vibrant sting of the paste. Always voicesg talking, laughing, whispering, screaming. Footsteps, light and heavy, coasting, scufhng. Demanding, rasping bells. Icy, tickling sheets. And enveloping pillow. Blankets, thick and heavy. Sleep pressing down. jacquelin Stouffer A BREEZE I am freshly washed in the scent of the lilacg My soul has been wrung in the beauties of spring. The air, the grass, the blossoms around me Whisper a consecration- And a fragrant song sings out from my lips. Nancy Poor

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