Trinity College School - Record Yearbook (Port Hope, Ontario Canada)

Page 22 text:

Snapshots ... A pair of jeans are slumped sideways, their pant legs twisted in despair, over the hard-backed chair. In the midst of the bustle of a men ' s clothing store in the early September sales peak stands a weary, glassy-eyed man, overtired from last week ' s lack of rest. With a tape measure slung across his broad shoulders he turns to a dejected looking fif- teen year old Wearing a suit slightly too big for him, he looks forlornly at his mother who is stooped to brush a patch of lint off his trouser leg . . . . . . And with almost super-human speed the boy kisses his mother, loosens his tie. and stoops to lift the suitcase. The hall is empty save a lonely table over beside the stairs . . . Yonge Street is a busy place for this teenager, who seems to take in everything as he roams from store to store — the ears, the people, and the cheap earths facades. He is near the age of fifteen, alth- ough he looks older. This happy, carefree mind seems to have few worries, as, decked in jeans, sneakers, T-shirt, and with his hands in his pockets he strolls through his domain. . Everywhere there are signs of movement. Lost expressions are worn upon the faces of the stu- dents in his classroom block. On the right is one boy dressed in pants a shade too large. He is at an open doorway and is greeted by a bunch of laughing boys and pointing hands. It is his third time at the door of the wrong classroom . . .

Page 21 text:

Reflection and Requiem A hot summer night — Cynical stern-faced commentators. Staring you in the face from an angry multi-coloured screen. And barraging you with words, words, words. Words which say that, “We, the people, are happy now. And, Indeed, it was the best thing for him, and his country. The man ' s somewhere 40,000 feet above the Rockies now, — And probably doesn’t care. Can you recall: 1 Clustered around an old round-tubed Philco- A young, boyish candor. And babies playing on the lawn. A dark-haired beauty gliding through the marble portals In a long silk dress. A thousand days . . . And then . . . The drums. Those haunting, eerie, muffled drums. And the clicking of hooves On Pennsylvania Avenue on a brisk November morning. A thousand days and eleven years Go by, and as the falling leaves in bleak November, Time breaks loose, and whirls, and thrashes frantically in the air . . . then settles to tranquility again. 17

Page 23 text:

. . The room is large and f illed with boys dressed in Sunday best . There seems to be a meeting in pro- gress — they are all seated alert and facing the front. Older boys are patrolling the hall, now and then stopping to take notes. One boy is bobbing a balloon with his nose while another is singing and a group of five are doing push-ups. The third one over in the push-up line has a dejected look on his face . . . . . . Five boys stand at attention next to the wall It is dark. The door of the room is ajar as a tousle headed, pvjama-clad eighteen year old steps for- ward to review his ranks. His pyjama shirt falls open as he leans to tighten the tie of one familiar faced fifteen year old, who wears a look of dejec- tion . . . . . No one is about except a young lad hard at work. He is in the same dimly lit room. The curtains are drawn. Although the sheets and blankets are neatly folded, the style of the bed he is making is not the conventional hospital corner . The bed on his left is already neatly made . . . . . There is a brand new look on the formerly dis- mal face — a look of impish glee with the hint of a victorious grin, as he returns to bed as the early morning sky begins to brighten. 19