Aldershot Secondary School - Leonidata Yearbook (Burlington, Ontario Canada)

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THE DEPARTMENT STORE The department store — a creamy gleaming from the solid rows of square-packed produce on matted shelves. A galaxy of hanging neon bars. The click and glitter of coins. A glossy circus of bright plastic toys. Thin pans of pastry scattered on a gritty counter. The soft sweetness of candy-canes, melted and stippled on sticky, sucking children. Remember the nasal voices of the clerks: a clear, crisping, crackling strain when they demand of your intentions; a purling, purring babble when confessing ignorance. And I remember leaving; looking back through gleaming glass; threading a path through the lot and away. I saw the colors fade, heard the voices drift away upon the air, and the thriving hive seemed small- er. And now, down the road, the rumbling chaos was quelled. GEOFF LANGHORNE, IIC Hilda Vander Meulen IIC Elaine Scott Bob Hazel IOC THE MYSTERY OF OUR PAST If ever there was a more decrepit, worn, magnificent hammer, I have never seen it! From its battered head to its tendinous handle, the beauty of age had left its mark. Resting silently in the dusty corner of an old work shed, its rugged exterior captured my interest. Its head, the size of a mallet, was a ball of leather, twisted around itself in taut coils. The rusty nails, sank into this fleshy mound, pinned it to the handle beneath. The outer crust was beaten into a brownish purple, and scarred with white gashes where the ragged edges had ripped back. A bushy crown of splintered wood, whose tempered surface dipped ever so slightly in the middle where countless hands had secured their grasp. As our eyes cover and re-cover the image of this humble relic, they touch the mystery of the past. JANET SAUNDERS, 12B 55

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AN IRREVERENT STUDY OF ALDERSHOT Heh! heh! (please not the embar rassed tone of type), your intrepid and itinerant author-at-large (small?) can ' t seem to be able to dream up and set down a hard-hitting, thought-provoking, basically honest, . . .ad nauseum, topic sentence on the subject of my topic which is. . .ah. . .um. . ., well, anyway, I ' ll just ad lib as I merrily type along and hope and pray for the best. Therefore it would be wise for the intelligent reader to expect the worst. With my eyes and ears closed to all advice, and my mouth open, I now make the great leap into literary effortmanship. All seriousness aside, children; follow me, if you will, through a typical day in the never-ending wan- dering life of your author-at-school. The general trend of conversation as I breathlessly wend my weary way down the sometimes well-lit corridors to my homeroom at about eight-and-one-half-minutes-to-nine, usually runs (off at the mouth) some- thing like this: Hey, Nick, any teachers away today, I hope, maybe? Duh, I dunno, I ' m still asleep. Like, who ' s that? I haven ' t seen her around before. Okay, who stole my lock? Don ' t look at me, Donny boy. Who ' d ever look at you? At this point, Authority-Wit-A-Yardstick politely asks the gather- ing to move out to its respective classrooms, or else — . Scholars, students, pupils, and others begin to wander in the general direction of their girlfriends ' classes in order to prepare for the announcement talka- thon. Then the bell-which-rings-to-denote-the-start-of-first-period- (whew!) rings, and rooms erupt and ex- plode as students rush yawningly to their favourite classes for a badly-needed sleep. My own spare comes in rather handy on Mondays. Approximately two-and-one-half minutes later rooms erupt and explode as a conglomeration of wrong-doers hirple (that means ' to limp lamely ' ) along the empty bustling corridors in search of the pink-slipping office. Here I hesitate to continue, not because I might incriminate myself, but because I ' m running out of 350 words from Roget ' s Thesaurus. Then again, he who hesitates gets lost in the mush. .er. . .rush, so, I must forge ahead in my original suave and blas (Pronunciation guide: swayve and blaze) manner and incredibly couth style. Anyway, first period drags along indefinitely as teachers, stu- dents and the like hopefully keep an eagle eye on the clock. Of course, if one is in room 122, that infal- lible wonder of modern technology, the IBM clock usually, nay. .always, reads Moscow Time (or London Time, depending on whether one considers it seven hours fast or five hours slow). This marvellous clock never fails to fluster Mr. 122! One of these bright and sunny days, someone will stare in bug-eyed amaze- ment, as someone else dismisses the class because another someone else thought that another two hours of dreamland would be useful. Then again, it was only ten after six in the morning, sir. In the due process of time lunch rears its gorgeous head around the corner of twelve o ' clock. If one is still waiting for second lunch, as I am, the stomach lets one know, par (that ' s French, people, and means ' by ' ) discreet rumblings of the Hunger Pang System. Did you know that the Hunger Pang System is one of the most wonderful crea- tions of Momma Nature? This tiny organism composed of three-and-one-half jelly-beans (jelly-babies to the beatle folk) and one grain of salt from a year-old pretzel — tells one, without fail, that one is hungry, starving, famished, or beyond help, as the case may be. After lunch, the healthy specimens of humanity struggle into school, healthfully filled with a well- balanced repast of toasted Danish, Pepsi, and cigarette smoke. With classroom doors slamming in the faces of the tardy, who inevitably complain, But, sir, there was a terrific traffic jam on the main staircase, sir . . . ? , and with books and mouths opening and closing, and paper fluttering madly in the breeze — room tem- perature is either three degrees below zero or two hundred degrees above (would you believe ONE hundred degrees?) — I seem to have lost track of my subject matter, which was boring you and me anyway, anyway c ' est la vie. Maybe I ' ll close with a short swing at some mutually interesting topic such as the ' Seven Days ' controversy, or, Hoo Boy! Scandal! Espionage! but most of all, disinterest: The (trumpets, fanfare) Mudslinger Affair (fanfare, trumpets, applause, fade-out). Maybe I should stay away from politics. I never did like trumpets. ' Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright, the band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light; and somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout, but there ' s no joy in Aldershot. . . ' (apologies to E. L. Thayer) for the gently falling, pouring rain begins to come down from heaven at exactly three-seventeen as a motley mob steams from the protective walls of 50 Fairwood Place West into the hard cruel, Honda- and Playboy infested outside world. LARRY SHERMAN, 12B

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DO YOU BELIEVE? It was a lonely night — I was alone. Alone on a island in Canada ' s unsettled north. The lake was calm; the air was mild. Suddenly I saw him, another lonely figure on the lake. About a half mile down, he was just putting his canoe into the water. I had heard about him before, but this was the first time I had seen him. It was rumoured that he paddled alone at night to communicate with nature and to write poetry. A large man he was; and powerful, too. As he dipped his paddle gently into the water the stars played mysterious games overhead. The moon reflected lonely rays of light as if telling a marvel. Loneliness and sorrow could be sensed everywhere. Even the young sunfish swimming alone and the owl hooting self-consciously: the feeling was the same everywhere. As he began to sing a Negro spiritual, a gently falling rain appeared across the lake. As he saw it move towards him he removed his clothes in a deliberate, almost sacred, manner. He was now up the lake about a quarter of a mile, but still his silhouette was distinct against the moon. I wondered at the rumours. He loved nature, especially the animals. I knew that the deer were his favourites, although I had never seen him talk with them. Recently a friend had approached a deer with him and had taken advantage of the situation. A deer had been sacrificed on his account; but the ' friend ' had not been seen since. I looked at him as he bathed in nature ' s pureness. Sacred water, he called it. Only at certain times would he bathe to purify himself. But for what reason? The rain now stopped. He remained naked and sat down, to write, I imagined. He was a mile up the lake now and could barely be distinguished. His disappearing form hinted that he was standing as he suddenly burst forth with loud, clear chants. The echoing was so full and vibrant that all nature seemed to be chanting with him. The wind began to blow fiercely and suddenly a bright flash almost blinded me. Thunder clapped overhead but still no rain fell. Why? The flash had come from the can- oe! I was sure of it! Was it simply lightning? I awoke the next morning to the steady lapping of water against the side of a boat. I looked out of my tent to see a canoe not more than twenty yards from shore. I paddled to it in my own canoe. It was his. In- side were his clothes, a piece of birch bark, and a sleeping fawn. Trembling, I picked up the birch bark and, noticing the writing upon it, began to read: My God, if You could only see me here. Upon Your lake; below your sky so clear, You ' d have mercy on me in my plight To escape the everlasting night. This world ' s not mine for I have killed, I ' ve thrown my lance, misused my shield, I ' m sacrificed. So please. Lord, send a deer To ease the pangs of my eternal fear. On one lonely evening, on an island, the course of my life changed. It could some day for you. Do you believe? MIKE LANSBURY 13D Florie Knapman llC Ted Anthony lOA