Wayne High School - Sentry Yearbook (Fort Wayne, IN)

Page 21 text:

There is no such thing as too nnuch or too little time, for time is not a thing but is a relation between things and activities. Too much time is the boredom of in- activity. Filled time is the full life of an active person.

Page 23 text:

I very morning students pull themselves from their snug, safe dream world and go mechanically, if somewhat reluctantly, to school. Through sleet, snow, rain, and tempting stops along the way, students somehow make their way to school. They come in all sorts of colors and wrappers. Big-yellow wrappers, light - green - tinted - glass - cellophane wrappers, shiny - silver - wrap - around - safety wrappers, and soft - red - flak- ing - rust wrappers, all churning into the FORT WAYNE COMM parking lot, spilling people into Wayne. Pontiacs, Chevies, Fords, Buicks, and rusty VW ' s all lay cluttered among the shattered glass of the parking lot like ruins of a lost civilization. But for others the trip is less adven- turesome—a native recalls the journey. Oh no! Here it comes, that crude form of public transportation they call The Bus . Just the thought of getting on The Bus and going to school is so repulsive it makes my blood run cold, but I am already cold and standing here with my only friend in the world, my cello, and seeing The Bus creeping and sputtering over the hill, warms my chilly heart and chilly hands. It comes to a squeaky halt 20 feet from where I ' m standing and, slipping and sliding over the iced terrain, I gingerly approach The Bus . Thinking I have finally made it I leap triumphantly intending to land in The Bus , not in the hospital. My even less unfortunate companion slides under The Bus , across the ice-covered road, and into the neighbor ' s yard where it is attacked fiercely by their dog, Manfred. I approach slyly, notebook in hand, and, as I edge closer, Manfred shows his teeth. Keeping my knees from knocking together, I hurl my notebook and hit him right smack in the snout. He yelps for pain and retreats to the back of the house. Carefully picking up my cello, so not to cause any internal in- juries, I look to see if The Bus is still there when I noticed my English term paper floating on the breeze, down the road, and out of sight. I decide to forget about my term paper, and college, and get to The Bus before it leaves without me. Once on The Bus I discover there are few seats, and I sit up front, by the door, and freeze. My cello and I are jostled and jerked all the way to school which we reach after various breakdowns and near-miss accidents. I am greeted with open arms and clenched fists by the mob, which I had insulted the day before by commenting on their taste in music. Several abrasions and bruises later. I escape with my life and the life of my also bruised and abraised friend. I make it to the doors with no further in- cidents; only to find I can ' t open them, because I am loaded with books. So I set my cello down, open the door, quickly grab my cello and run through, or almost run through, as a gust of wind blows the door shut; my friend dis- chords in pain, his four strings taking leave of their pegs. Now that I am in the building all I have to do is make it through the day alive. FORT WAYNE COMMUNITY Ali:: 19