South High School - Southernaire Yearbook (Cleveland, OH)

Page 29 text:

-HUT IT’S WORTH TELLING JUST ONCE MORE Twice a week, 18 weeks a semester, 6 semesters, it was always the same; hurrying down the back stairs into the locker room, the fingers on one hand crossed (to get into the gym on time) while the other hand tried desperately to untie the result of last week’s rushing—that careless knot in your tennis shoe. With the country going all-out for physical fitness, girls’ gym at South High followed suit. Conditioning exercises, first under the supervision of diminutive Irene Schrieber, then under chipper Sara Haymaker, made their debut. An epidemic of limps, grunts, and groans did likewise. There was OUR basketball, a combination of wrestling and football, and we loved it; baseball, where a broken fingernail got more attention than the ball that just whizzed by: folk dancing for the dainty misses of the class; and apparatus work—ugh! Just plain ugh ! Came the end of the period and Gym Leaders would take over, and take over they did. A particularly noisy class would find themselves in plenty of hot water—or cold. Then—running up the back stairs, with the fingers of one hand crossed (to get to history on time), and the untied shoelace doing its darnedest to see that you didn’t. Twice a week, 8 weeks a semester. 6 semesters. It’s girls’ gym, always a sporting proposition. OWED TO CHEMISTRY Thanks for the memory— Of tests we seldom passed, Of being nearly gassed. Of Bunsen burners, H,0. Of good times to the last, ----Thank you so much. Thanks for the memory— Of walking in a daze. Amid that smoky haze. Of living in another world of Molecules and weights. ----Thank you so much. 27

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A LANGUAGE UNIVERSAL A STAGEHAND REMEMBERS Five minutes to go. The announcer finds the part in the curtains and disappears. He speaks to the waiting crowd, and his voice, floating backstage, is suave, jovial, full of promise. Even his hair agitated and bristling. Mr. Barnes dashes around barking last minute orders at the actors—the stagehands. The murmur of the hidden audience grows louder, and nervous players l»oke at their makeup, muttering fractions of lines. Curtains sway under protesting ropes. The house grows still. Opening lines are spoken, thin and hesitant at first, then growing stronger and more confident . . . The lights worked. The scenery didn't fall down. The audience laughed in the right places—usually. Tension is shattered and everyone laughs, swarming over the shadowy labyrinths of backstage—in and out of the cluttered little office, excited, congratulating. relieved. Another spring play is history, and the ghosts of the high school theatre return to their dusty habitats of old scenery and used costumes. Duplicating the lilt of a lilac stem with one stroke of watercolor; making clay talk as pottery and statuettes; shaping indifferent metal lieneath a jet of flame till it spelled jewelry—always there was something intriguing about art. Can we quite forget Miss Sommer’s turquoise Indian jewelry, her music-lx x. her enthusiasm over watercolor and weaving; and Miss Moody, quiet, gray-haired, tireless—as deft with a soldering iron as with a brush? No storeroom could l e as clammy as 307A. No landscape as often sketched as the comer framed by the windows of 305. There were slides and exhibits, pose drawings and meticulous lettering. Pastels, pencils, clay, crayons, linoleum. inks, oils ... art speaks in many tongues. It is a language universal, commanding, constant. Caught by the Camera 26

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T1 IK SONG OK KEEIINAWATIIA Valh a ceiling, high and latticed With a maze »f 1 ascment piping. Dwelt a pedagogue of merit. Keehn by name, and all his children. To he learned in ways of wisdom Of the T square and the compass And the ways to paint a sign. “O my children! My poor children, Listen to my words of warning, I have given you | ens to draw with. I have given you paints to paint with. I have given you scales and rulers, Filled the dry pens full of black ink. Filled the bottles full of pigment, Why then are you not contented?” Spoke the children. “We are sorry. Truly inks and paints intrigue us. Artists we shall l e. and draftsmen. But, forgive us when we mention That at moments our attention Wanders to the sunlit schoolyard Where free children roam above us. We are weak, and we admit it.” me kint rrstm 6 now QUEENS OF THE KITCHEN Here's to the eggbeater. Long may it rotate, saving the common man. by its frothy dash, from the common fate of meals from a can and inevitable hash. Here’s to the white-capped makers’ of dishes that boast (be they salad or roast, or pastry or stews) that each bite is good news. Here's to the pot-stirring girls in white, the Queens of the Kitchen ; may they always delight the suppertime sleuths and dining room lords with hot. tempting dishes on gay festive-boards. 28