University Liggett School - Rivista Yearbook (Grosse Pointe Woods, MI)

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Did You Say Guestroom? Idle the room might lie for days, for weeks, at a time, but it had a gleaming luxury of welcome, of invitation, for the stranger who would succeed the last stranger in the delightful procession. Robert Lynd voices this in The Stranger's Room as the child's point of view, but what of the long line of guests that stayed in that room? What did they think, and what was their opinion on the subject? More than likely they suffered in silence and never dared speak their peace. Guestrooms go to extremes. For the most part they will fit into two distinct cate- gories: they're musty or fresh, drab or forcibly colorful, too fussy and frilly or absolutely wan. Can't anyone find the perfect medium? The hosts could start with the bed for instance. I've met some pretty uncomfortable ones in my day. By way of explanation, the two most common types are the board and mountainous ones. The board feels exactly like a piece of timber, and for your head is a pillow that closely resembles a cement sack. Saggy is a word that goes with the mat- tress filled with valleys, mountain ranges, and precipices left by former occupants. After a long hard day of travel, you sink into bed only to find your weary back suspended over an abyss formed by a person of much more stocky build than yourself. But the bed isn't the only thing you have to worry about. Millions of other little details are present just for the purpose of making you fret and fume. As you enter the room for the first time, all looks calm and serene. Little do you know that the window is going to stick, and the radiator will emit terrifying grumbles and grunts all through the wee small hours of the morning. You stand looking about you, taking mental notes. In spite of the fact you simply abhor baby blue wallpaper specked with white and yellow daisies, and the pink curtains are just too, too ghastly, you grit your teeth and politely remark to your hostess, What an interesting color scheme. As a malicious after-thought you quickly add, I always think a room expresses the owner's personality a bit, don't you agree? The fool-she fell for it! On she rambles in her own inimitable way. Oh, my dear, I'm so glad you like it. I did it all myself without one little speck of help from anyone. That's exactly what you thought at first but you didn't dare put it into words for fear she'd take offense. Finally your well meaning hostess announces that you have just ten more minutes to get ready for dinner, and flounces out of the room-leaving you to your own resources. Your own resources is the word for it. It doesn't take long for you to realize that there's no hand lotion, no soap in the basin, no kleenex, no wastebasket, and, horror of all horrors no hot water. Even if you did have a chance to wash your hands you'd have to wave them in the air to dry them. All the towels in sight are about half the size of a cocktail napkin. Mentally you restrain yourself and hurry to change clothes. Wouldn't you know it! Your slip strap always gives way at a time like this. Well, that can be remedied very easily by a safety pin. Now all you have to do is find one. You tear through the bureau drawers. All that greets your frantic eye is the mending, some Christmas wrappings and ribbons, and the extra supply of sheets, not to mention a pair of rubbers and a rag doll. Not a ign of a safety pin anywhere. A pin, a pin, my kingdom for a safety pin, you mutter as you tie a bulky knot in the offending member and dash down to dinner. A few hours later you again mount the stairs and enter the sacred portals. The bed has been turned down, and the window is open, you exclaim with joy. Immediately the 29

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To Dust Returneth Mike wasn't dead, but the rats weren't quite sure. One scampered across his chest. The spark of remaining life frightened it away. That odor-it seemed to come from something close to his face. Its source had been evading him until his cheek recognized the substance against which it was resting as a filth-matted boot-heel. Gradually, for his mind moved slowly, he realized that underneath him and at right angles to him, was a man's leg. Regaining his power of movement to a slight extent, and curious to find out whether or not his comrade was dead, Mike inched his, hand slowly up the leg. It progressed as far as the thigh, and there his fingers encoun- tered a sticky splinter of bone. Hoping to discover the amount of life in his new-found friend, Mike pulled. Pain ran screaming through Mike's body... So this is how things were! Here he was, lying half submerged in a muddy ditch, unable to turn his eyes or face from -the sight of mud. Worse yet, his leg-he couldn't tell which one-was off. Oh, to have a glimpse of a blue sky filled with white, drifting clouds! Was he dying, or was he dead already? No, he couldn't be dead, for that one twist of pain had been no dream. Numbness crept slyly upon him. He seemed not only to be detached from his leg, but from his whole body. Only his mind was functioning. Silvia. What was she doing now? If she were only here to rub his hands and face! He was alone. Was she? Could she be thinking of him as he thought of her? He wanted to pray that she be kept safe, but Mike knew'not where God was. He did know that God was not in this forsaken crater of mud, but in some beautiful place far away. Maybe Beauty had been devoured by Evil, so God was gone too. Time did not seem to be an element. How long had he lain here? How long did each thought take? Was it seconds, minutes, hours, days, or even longer? Was it only a fancy that he seemed to be looking up at life, instead of back upon it? Perhaps. He had seen the zero plane coming toward him and kept his finger on the machine- gun button. Suddenly Mike's eyes had filled with blood, and his plane had begun to dive involuntarily. He had landed on the tree tops of an entangled jungle forest, and was thrown from the plane to the ground. He had struggled to his feet and had time to stumble only a few yards, when he had met a raging, distorted man charging forward with bayonet out-thrust. First had come a thundering blast very close to him, and then- nothing. Now this broken, bleeding remnant of what had once walked upright proudly on the face of the earth. Darkness seemed to be falling. But how queer! Not as night would fall, but as a black wall moving toward him. As it approached, it brought serenity and peace. Mike realized then, that this was It. This was the time to which all men came, and of which no man should be afraid. He had time for one word- Silvia . Mike was with her, and peace had come. The rat approached again, and sat on the chest of this shell of a man. Celia Chriftiansen, '43. 28

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skies clear, and for a time you are happy. That is, until you open the closet door. The musty smelling space is completely taken up by boxes and other people's clothing. Not a sign of an extra hanger greets your hopeful eye. Your best evening dress crumples and wilts over the back of a straight chair as you prepare to turn in for the night. A knock sounds at the door, and a much too familiar voice says, May I come in? By the time your hostess has half way completed this speech, she is in. Before you can say, Of course, she's off again. 'Tm sure you won't want an extra blanket, dear: it's much too warm tonight. Sleep tight! Breakfast's at 6:30, goodnight, and with that she's out the door again. Whew! You sink down on the bed with exhaustion. You might have known itg it's one of those mountainous varieties, with a pillow that feels as soft as blotting paper. One glance will assure you that there's no reading lamp, and that all the magazines are at least two years old. Your last -means of escape have been cut off. You'll just have to lie there until morning with just one thin blanket and the temperature rapidly falling. As you fitfully toss from peak to valley, the most wonderful nightmares race across your brain. Most of them, queerly enough, dealing with ways and means to torture your host and hostess. Oh! At last I have it. Now I know why all the guests were strangers at Mr. Lynd's house-and why there was a procession of them-all strangers. They, too, weren't willing to take a second chance. By way of explanation: Any similarity to actual places or people is purely coincidental, and entirely unintentional. Betty Crapo, '43, 30