St Johns Ravenscourt School - Eagle Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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So here I now was filling my face with popcorn and enjoying a horror movie which after, I wished I had never seen. Well, the show went on and I sat there thoroughly enjoying myself until I noticed that I had only half an hour to get home. I bade farewell to my friends and departed. This was my first time downtown without a parent or experienced friend so I naturally became afraid when I came out on the noisy streets. However, just when I was relieved at having spotted my bus stop, the bus roared by while I was still on the other side of the street. Because I was unfamiliar with the surroundings, I decided to stay close to the stop and hope that the next bus would come soon and carry me to “home sweet home.” I was greeted by a very stern voice which ordered me into the car. Upon explanation of my plight to Dad, he saw it in a different way and pardoned me for my disobedience. I enjoyed dinner that night but I think I would have enjoyed it even more if I had not undergone the terrifying experience an hour before. —David Boult Form III Upper ‘Why JVot dQead Jaynes J ond in the (Classroom? Booming buses approached from all over but none of them was the one that I wanted. As my anxiety grew, so did my fear. I had hoped that my friends would come out of the theatre soon, for they were ‘old hands’ at this downtown business. Yet they never came. I asked various people if the bus I wanted was running at the time and their replies were all yes—so I waited . . . for some time. I hadn’t noticed a small clock across the street, but when I did, my fear reached a high peak. It was then that I did the most foolish thing that I have ever done. I began walking—walking in a world that was unknown to me! I was walking blindly and I knew it, but I kept on. The terrain seemed to change after a long while. Gone were the tall department stores and in their place stood tiny bungalows, surrounded by small stubby trees. Gone was the continual din of traffic; only the odd car passed now. Things were becoming desolate. The thin film of soot that coated the ho uses and land around told me a freight yard was nearby. The idea of being lost materialized now and before I knew it, my eyes were fast filling with tears. I encountered a man and woman as I approach¬ ed a train underpass. I enquired where I could find the bus that would take me home and I was informed that I was about three miles away from the nearest stop. This only served to make me feel more ‘lost’, but after receiving information on how to get to the stop, I was on my way again. Now that I knew the way back, my tension was relieved somewhat. However, I dreaded the consequences of being over one and a half hours late for New Year’s dinner. I was relieved when I boarded the last of a succession of buses. I don’t think any bus will ever be a greater comfort to me than that’‘last’ one was. The James Bond cult, a fast-growing phenome¬ non, has now reached the classroom—under clandestine circumstances, of course. Because of this fact, the question “Why not read James Bond in the classroom?” has arisen. Taken at face value, reading James Bond in class possesses unmistakable virtues. Few things are quite as relieving as turning from a frustrating Mathematics class to an assuaging love scene, performed in true Bond style. Surely the monot¬ ony of a geography class can in no way be com¬ pared to the excitement of James Bond saving the world from the malicious schemes of a villain like Goldfinger. Even Literature class, which presents the student with gripping pieces of read¬ ing like “Richard the Second”, has a difficult time rivalling the exploits of secret agent, double-O seven. Nevertheless, the practice of reading James Bond novels in class, is not a wise one. Without a doubt, James Bond thrillers are great books to read; they were popular even unto the tastes of the late John F. Kennedy, but they are not for the classroom. The classroom is a hall of learning and what can be learned from a thriller is negligible. The classroom should not be perverted to the point where thrillers and cheap novels are read freely in it. Indeed, the people who would dare to pervert and degrade the classroom this way are precisely the people who should be working. James Bond should not be read in the class¬ room. The novels were not designed for the pur¬ pose of distracting students, however good they may be at it. They pervert the high ideals of learning in the classroom and can only harm a student’s studies. —Doug Mackay Form IV Upper Upon getting off that bus at my stop, I ran all the way home. I half expected to find the family still there, waiting for me, but all I found was a gruff note, saying that sandwiches were in the refrigerator. Just then the phone rang and I recog¬ nized my father’s voice on the other end. Without letting me explain anything, he told me to get changed into my Sunday-best, because he was coming around to pick me up. L Jle Teenage individual or C onformist “John Ravenscourt for Prime Minister.” So reads the sign of a crew cut youth, in plaid shorts, red sneakers and a sweat shirt, who is standing on the corner of Portage and Main. It is only thirty 70

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The person in Ottawa who replied to my letter seemed quite sure that the Wehtigo was a mythical being, but Gilbert’s story was very different from this. He arrived home weak and exhausted, bab¬ bling like a child, words that no one could under¬ stand. Only after a week in bed, being fed like a baby, did he regain his senses. Gilbert was a sane, normal, healthy man, who had served many terms as chief and councillor on the reserve, so his story canot be credited to the figment of an exag¬ gerated imagination. At the time it was believed that there were no survivors of this shipwreck in Hudson Bay, but more recent happenings and beliefs are contrary to this. Supporting the possibility that there were survivors, is the appearance of a creature in Canada’s northlands, which is known to the Indians as a Wehtigo. The Wehtigo very much resembles a man and is covered with brownish black fur. It is about six feet tall and weighs roughly 250 pounds. Its arms are long and power¬ ful and its feet are shaped like those of a man, but have no toes. The Wehtigo walks upright like a man and has a face so urgly that it is repulsive to look at, and once seen is never forgotten. The Wehtigo’s tracks have been reported by trappers in remote areas along the northern fringe of the tree line from Hudson’s Bay to the Rockies, and one was reported as being shot in the North¬ west Territories about seventy-five years ago, as well as the more recent shooting in Manitoba. A theory of the appearance of this creature is that it is the descendant of sailors shipwrecked in Hudson Bay, perhaps as long ago as the seven¬ teenth century. In the stark region of Hudson Bay there would be little food or shelter, and had there been survivors of a shipwreck they would doubtless degenerate in order to adapt themselves to this new way of life. In the degeneration for survival the shipwrecked might have undergone, the reverse of normal evolution, and rather than their bodies improving they grew more hair to protect themselves from the elements, fangs to be better able to cope with their food, and acquired greater strength and size to afford protection. These creatures had once been human but now had degenerated to the level where they had lost the ability to speak, and their hair covered faces were so ugly that for a person who had seen a Wehtigo, to recall that gruesome face brought mental torture on himself. In order to keep alive the shipwrecked would have had to learn to live like animals, eating the raw meat of smaller animals, such as the shrew, degenerating more and more all the time, becoming more animal than human, until they became what the Indians call the Wehtigo. The Wehtigo, being powerful, might even prey on larger beasts, such as the timber wolf, a beast which the Indians often associate with it, for if a lone wolf were to pass through their village at night, this to them would be a bad omen and a sign that the Wehtigo was nearby. Perhaps the Wehtigo, a descendant of human beings had even degenerated to the point where it would eat other humans if given the chance. —Alan Graham Form VI Upper JL)eso lation There was steam coming off the desert of Manitoba in the early morning rays of the sun. The desert came to view before my eyes. It was cold, unmoving; the sand dunes stretched out for miles. There was no cheerful sight or sound of life existing, or ever having existed there in my first glances of the desert. As I walked, however, I saw the wellworn trail of jack rabbits, but not one stirred. There was no cheerful movement in the coarse sand and sparsely situated tumbleweed. There was the track of a sidewinder, but only the track, no more. Further on was the cool pleasing odour of the spruce trees. And then came the trees themselves. It was a thin wood with a moss rug under the silent boughs which no wind disturbed. It was discovered that this was only the frame. The forest inside was burnt, a charred ruin of a forest. The sun was above the dunes now and was beating mercilessly down on creatures not shel¬ tered from it. Along the way were bones of luckless animals who had not found a waterhole and had laid down, tortured by the seemingly sadistic sun, until the cold night stole upon them and killed them. There was no movement now in the sand except for the ants working on their coarse floor in the heat of noon. The sun sweltered in the cloudless sky; the air was dry and the cruel sun was beating on a desolate barren waste. The desert was hot underfoot, the air full of dust, stirred up by a wind which rose suddenly. There was going to be a sand storm. In a seemingly desolate wilderness a movement had occurred. —Blair Carlson Form III Upper Jfo to It had started out to be a fun-filled afternoon at the movies but it turned out to be a disaster for me. Not the kind of disaster anyone would think of, but one which was to frighten me much and leave me with a memory that I would never forget. It all started when my father told me that I could not go to a movie because our whole family was going to a really posh restaurant to celebrate New Year’s Day. But after I pleaded for awhile, he finally consented provided that I be home at five o’clock sharp! 69

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degrees above zero but a radical fervor and a glow of accomplishment supply the necessary warmth to his grinning face. He’s got a gimmick, he’s doing something different and he’s sure that others think he’s really quite clever. This boy is an individual, in that few have tried to install. J. Ravenscourt in public office. Conversely, he is very run-of-the-mill in that ah boys his age love to produce a really spectacular stunt. This is the art of being different, and ah teenagers heartily subscribe to it. This does not imply that youth enjoys being out of style, but rather it adores setting the style. Fads thrive on this ideology; once conceived, they are adopted by everyone. However, as soon as the new fad becomes uni¬ form, another starts and the former is deserted. This conformist attitude is not just manifest in choice of clothing, but rather in thought, word and deed all fall under the stencil. Teenagers de¬ siring to be a popular member of the “in group” must live according to its dictates. They look the same, like the same music, appreciate the same automobiles, enjoy the same food and in general, assume the role of “Mr. Stereotype.” Of course, there are exceptions to the island masses. The leader of the pack must be constantly changing and setting the styles to remain at the top. He owns the fastest car, the fastest girl and status of being number one. There is a second little class of people who, for one reason or an¬ other, “don’t rate.” The obese beings, the pro¬ found stupidheads, and the extremely clever, booky types are the “rejects”. Either by choice or conviction this group retains its singularity. Group number three is the class of those most likely to succeed. These are the winners in the adult life. They are the true individuals simply because they follow their beliefs and live according to no code but their own. It takes courage to break away from the conformists, winning only jeers and derision in the place of respect and commendation. So goes the story; the weak conform while the wild and willful go against the current. The teen¬ ager is the conformist. It is the young man that is the individual. —Bob McCaskill Form V Upper 71