Baldwin High School - Piper Yearbook (Birmingham, MI)

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scuff up little spurts of dust with his shoes kicking at the shadows. He would hear the lazy drone of the bees in the fields, and the glorious chorus of the birds in the trees. And he would throw back his head and his shoulders and sing with them, for he would be home again-home. In the cool of the long evenings he would gather with his friends at the station house, or sit and enjoy a pipe with them around the pump in the town square. And all would be peace and contentment. Back where the little engine had picked him up would be hurry and noise and confusion. Here would be quiet, because here would be home. He awoke from his reverie with a start. A clash and a grinding of wheels told him that the train was cross- ing the bridge. A brief expanse of steel and concrete flashed past his window. He stared in bewilderment. Where was the old, moss-covered, wooden bridge? And Carver's Creek? Why, one hardly knew it was there. A trickle of turgid water. That was all. He could not grasp the change. And then the train was pulling to a stop in the station. He picked up his worn bag and stepped out onto the platform, blinking in the sunlight. A tidy platform of concrete stretched before him, and a com- pact building of yellow brick-the station. The sta- tion master, a youngish man with glasses and a stiff collar, was busily engaged in transferring the mail. Doubtfully, fearfully, he turned to the conductor, trying to find words to voice a question that was creep- ing over him with slow dread. The conductor patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. This is it, pop. The end of the line. This is your station. There's the town right through there. He pointed. Numbly, the old man turned haltingly in the direc- tion pointed out by the conductor. A great broad highway, six lanes wide, ran north and south as far as the eye could see among the hills. It traveled through the center of the town. Shiny-faced three-and-foun story stores and buildings lined it on each side. Neat little homes were laid out in businesslike rows. Stone, concrete, brick, and steel were everywhere. The old station house, the Brownell House, the town pump, the towering maples-where were they? Industrious little factories had risen where once had stretched green and golden fields. The old man was aware that the pair of shiny yellow taxis which had replaced Willie Roggin's chaise were waiting impatiently for him to choose the one which should carry him into the heart of the town. The town that had grown up. The old town that had grown young in fifty years' time. -N. Lyle QJVQ Cover and stick out tongue as far as possible. Blow a little, pull a little, and then blow hard. Triple Bubble Gum. Song writers must live a difficult life-chasing shad- ows and dreams, grabbing moonbeams, tearing stars from the sky, slaving for their true loves and moving the earth to prove their love. Housewife- Who's going to worry about Hitler and another World War? It's house-cleaning time! One wonders if the constantly changing weather conditions will not make the seasons eventually lose their identity. --7

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Perchance to Dream E sat alone in the rear of the rick- ety little coach, one of three pas- - sengers traveling over this now 2 almost-forgotten route. Ahead of him m the car two salesmen laughed and joked nosily with the conductor He started unseeing D W ' ' out of the window. Seventy years had passed above his finely moulded head, and his hair was as white as the snows that fall upon the Vermont hills through which the rusty little engine was laboriously wending its way. His delicately chiseled features were stamped with the mark of a man who has followed his path through life quietly and serenely, untouched by an age that has swept past him. His hands, folded in his lap, were soft and white like a woman's and their backs were traced with fine blue veins. Stately black covered his thin shoulders and a bit of black string was knotted at his throat. He was going home. For iifty years he had moved vaguely through the murk and smoke and grime of a great city, following its strange ways, rubbing shoul- ders with its hurrying press of peopleg and all that long time he had been living in a dream. A dream of green fields and green trees, of blue sky and blue water, of golden grain and golden sunshine. A dream withal of home-his home and his world, encompassed within the bounds of a small New England village tucked away in the hills. Leaving that home had wrought a strange change in the boy of twenty who had turned his youthful face to the West long years ago. The boy, become a man, lived within himself. Shy, reticent, marked by his tenement neighbors as queer, he worked long hours at his lowly position in a great bank. His job was his only contact with the world. His mild blue eyes were filled with the inexpressible longing of a man who has been close to Nature, and who, suddenly snatched away, dreams always of returning. And then he had been retired. They had given him a gold watch on the case of which was engraved his name and the words In token of fifty years' faithful service. He had drawn his life's savings from the bank and packed his bag that same day. Twenty-four hours later he was on his way. He was going home. The dream had become a reality. His mind struggled with the misty cobwebs of memory. Clearest in his recollections was the village. Red roofs, towering maples, great sprawling lawns of lush grass, rambling old white frame houses. It seemed he was walking its quiet streets even now. But first, of course, the tiny engine must grind noisily over the old wooden bridge that spanned Carver's Creek QHow often had he lished from and swum under that old bridgelj , pant wearily up the long hill, and with a sigh and a wheez, chuff slowly down into the valley on the other side and come to a heaving halt at the little station. Old Man Shea, the venerable station master who wore red elastic arm bands and carried a roll of snuE under his upper lip, would saunter nonchalantly from the murky depths of the little wooden building to greet him, saying in his highly nasal drawl, Well, Jim, you've come back to us, have you? The boys are get- ting up a cribbage game at the station house tonight. Shall we count you in? He would nod eager assent. And then Willie Rog- gin, who drove the chaise from the station to the Brownell House, would roll up and laugh and crack his big whip and holler, Well, jim! You just come along with me naow! We folks at the Brownell 'll treat you right! You 'member how I used to let you drive my horses! You just come along with me! He would laugh and say to Willie, Nem'mine, Wil- lie, I'm walking today! And then he would be walk- ing up the shaded dusty'street, feeling again the touch of the cool spring breeze on his cheek, and breathing deep of the rich spring air. The broad maples would cast splayed leafy shadows in the road, and he would -5.-

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Kin g of Swing HE KING was brushing his teeth. Monarch of all he surveys, undisputed ruler in his field, Benny Goodman is nevertheless an extremely lik able, modest, and retiring young man who, as King of Swing, is still able to wear a hat in lieu of a crown. It was our privilege to interview Mr. Goodman in his dressing room at the Fox Theater shortly after he and his band had Hnished uswingin' out before a wildly enthusiastic mob of swing fans who packed the house to its very rafters. Rather tired after his strenu- ous session, he was stretched full length on a couch, attired only in shirt, shorts, and bath robe when we entered. The friendly smile with which he rose to greet us put us completely at ourease, and the interview pro- ceeded on a strictly informal plane thereafter. In a few minutes, as a matter of fact, Mr. Goodman felt free to go over to the little washstand to brush his teeth. This operation consumed the better part of the time we spent with him, and a good many of our ques- tions were answered through a foamy froth. But the King of Swing was sincere at all times, and his kindly helpfulness and co-operation made it possible for us to acquit ourselves better than we had expected. I first began to play when I was about ten years old, Benny recalled for us. My father picked out the clarinet as my instrument. and both my parents saw to it that I kept at my practising. It was at that time that I decided to follow a musical career. And how long was it before you organized your own band? we asked. I formed my first band three years ago, he replied. Before that, I had played a lot with other bands and orchestras. I've played with symphony orchestras, too, you know. The members of my first band were fellows I had met while playing with other outfits, and we got together. Most of the present members of my band were with our original group. We mentioned that we had heard his band play sev- eral symphonic numbers on the radio not long ago. And it was at once apparent that Benny Goodman's first love is classical music. He was keenly interested in our reaction to the symphonic numbers, and was definitely pleased when he learned that we liked them. It is our belief that some day Benny Goodman will turn from swing music to the classics, but strictly as a hobby. ' It was at this point that he rose from the couch and went to the washbowl where he produced toothbrush and powder and set to scrubbing his teeth. This is the way to brush your teeth, he said, demonstrating for us. Massage the gums. It's good for 'em. What do you think of the swing maniacs who get out in the aisles and shout and dance when you play? was our next question. If they want to do it, why let 'em. After all, if that's what they like, why should we stop them? Per- sonally, I wouldn't do it myself. But then, I'm older than you are. It's the younger generation which goes for swing most. My favorite song? I haven't got any. Any good song is a favorite with me. Any song suited to our style. But then you don't hear the tune after the first chorus anywayg so it really doesn't make much differ- ence. Would you give us a bit of advice for young musi- cians? we queried. Would you advise a youngster to enter the popular or the classical Held? N Both, he replied, I played classical as a boy my- self, but I believe a young fellow should be able to play both. Tell your young musicians to learn all the tech- nique they can. To learn the fundamentals, because they're what count. It's just like football. A fellow may be a natural, but he's got to learn the fundamen- tals-blocking, tackling, and holding the ball before he's any good to the team. Tell 'em not to be afraid to play swing. Swing isn't anything new. It's always been here, but it's more emphasized now than it's ever been. They don't need to be ashamed to play swing. Tell 'em to get themselves a good teacher. Tell 'em to work hard and to master technique. But tell 'em that a teacher can't teach 'em everything. And certain it is that no teacher ever taught likeable Benny Goodman the style that has placed him on a pedestal before several million adoring fans. Because swing belongs to Benny Goodman, and Benny Good- man is swing. -N. Lyle -J. Scolaro -N. Vicari0 -3- l 1