Kingswood School Cranbrook - Woodwinds Yearbook (Bloomfield Hills, MI)

Page 39 text:

Who? Ui worry? The head girl Yahweh, help the Woodwindi.r‘ The Sooth ihall rite again! Watch owl! Here comet . . . But Mill Denning . . . You're da one. Help! Tigltth Pilwer Wording late

Page 38 text:

But where i Mary Ann Moll? D.AZ.'t That’ll he tht day. God Bltn Me Hand aerott the tea Around Ndisau town Lighti out My motio it Think Big.

Page 40 text:

ZIP or IN DEFENSE OF WASTING TIME Wasting time is a favorite occupation of many people, and while it may be considered immature to escape reality and to procrastinate, there arc definite advantages. Of course, the hobby of wasting time is, in itself, very enjoyable as you would gather from its vast popularity. There arc many ways of wasting time, but the object is always either to make time go by faster, or to put off the inevitable. Methods vary gready since what one person might do to make tempui fugit might be another’s inevitable thing-to-be-avoided. In any case, the actual wasting of time, while pleasant, is not the most valuable asset of the hobby. There is zip. Imagine how dull it would be if, when dressing for a party, your clothes were all decided upon, pressed and laid out- everything all organized. Foresight—that is what you would have, and die ability to plan—a place for everything and everything in its place. You would undoubtedly be ready at least ten minutes eariy, and could stroll leisurely out the door bouffanted, perfumed, and corsaged. But, were it I, the story would be quite different, and infinitely more dashing. I invariably have zip in my life. I have become so adept at waiting time that it has been several years since I was on time for anything. But, let me hasten to add, the advantages of this type of life arc tremendous, at least from my point of view. There arc a few dissenters, such as the other people I make late along with me, and my mother, who fails to comprehend my dubious system of doing things and therefore is in a constant state of shock and nerves. But I manage to get along all right; my mind is exercised by the necessity of making speedy decisions, zip is undeniably present, and my diplomacy at making humble, heartfelt apologies for lateness increases every day. When I dress for a party, I am never primped and perfumed ten minutes early, and I never leave the house with a relaxed air. After successfully wasting the entire afternoon, perhaps starting with required reading for school but soon drifting to a delightful round of daydreams, telephone chats, and advice-for-tonight-from Mother conversations, I find myself with some ridiculously short amount of time in which to take bath, don party dress, and change from a slightly gray, barefoot, blue-jean clad hillbilly into a graceful, ivory-complexioned creature with stars in her eyes. I always find this a challenging and exhilarating ex- perience. All those split-second decisions: which dress, which shoes, gloves or no gloves, which earrings. And the problems: how to get things pressed at such short notice (Mother), how to find a pair of good nylons (nail polish), how to get a stubborn curl in place (chig- non). The whole process is very hectic. Dress is tossed on at the time the party is supposed to begin, lipstick is waved in the general direction of my mouth on the way out the door, and my final exit is anything but calm and collected. But, oh, how dull and boring life would be if it were not for the challenges and scrambles for which I give all credit to the art of wasting time. . . Barbara Morgan