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

Page 60 text:

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

Page 59 text:

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

Page 61 text:

I SPORTS