Ball High School - Purple Quill Yearbook (Galveston, TX)

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These perplexities are still fresh to you gay, carefree 'fyoungstersf' and if I were among your happy, wide-eyed throng again, there are many things I would like to do differently and many others I'd enjoy doing again. I would first get my high school career off to a flying start. On registration day, I would arrive in the newest and most startling at- tire I could muster. I would know exactly what subjects I wished to take and try to get the most highly recommended teachers fthe ones that give the highest grades for the least effortj. Of course, if this were the ideal registration day, I would alight cool, calm, and col- lected from the library after about fifteen minutes. fI'hen the first day of classes would come and this, again, would involve a good bit of touching up, lipstick dabbing, and a general application of that woman-of-the-world air. VVith all my newly acquired grace and poise, I would glide into my first period class. Of course, Ild waste no time discovering the cutest boy in the class and with such a discovery, spend the rest of my days in that class plot- ting to win his heart. Now if I were a very popular and attractive sophomore, I'd try out for a position as cheerleader. As the football season wore on, my spirit for my new school would increase to such bounds that some might turn and gaze upon me with raised eyebrows as I'd march down the center of some downtown street, purple and gold ribbons hanging limp in one hand and an enormous cow bell in the other. Of course, I would only be following the band home from a victorious game, offering my hoarse yells whenever my services were needed. Then after I had begun to feel at home in these new surroundings, my emotional system would be given a jar by the realization that Fish Friday was drawing near. I wouldn't listen to the gory stories they tell of previous days, I wouldn't believe the veterans. of the stinging belts nor the lipstick stained coats, I'd go blissfully on my way hoping against hope that this year things would be different. Besides, I'd just be brave and show those seniors just who's whom around here. But if I were a sophomore, I know that I would have socks of two colors and a poor excuse for a purse, which would really be a milk bottle. And the reason I couldnlt see where I was going would be because I would be behind a rather top-heavy stack of books that- feel-like-they're-going-to-FALL! If I should live through these first weeks without any serious damage to my health or nervous system, I would be deeply thankful and forever more look upon my upperclassmen with deep respect, because I would then know what they went through to deserve it. 102 '

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iff Wwe a Senior: by Kathleen fBobo5 Duncan a sophomore The seniors at Ball High are really a swell group, but like most typical seniors, Ilm afraid they forget that everyone canlt be a walking encyclopedia, or Hedy Lamarr, or Clark Gable. Now if I were a senior, I'd show the little sophs around the halls willingly without sarcasm at their ignorance in not being able to get Where they are going by themselves. I would take them to the cafe- teria and the library and cheerfully lead them to that English class tucked away in some obscure place. When some innocent Cand ignorantj little sophomore ask-ed me how to work that extra hard algebra problem or what caused Athens' downfall, or why this was the subject and that the predicate, I would try to explain clearly and patiently. After all, that soph can't help his ignorance. Ignorance, I would remind myself, is bliss. I certainly w0uldn't stay up nights slaving to make an 'A' on that civics exam, as seems to be the tendency of most seniors. If I had succeeded thus far, surely I could stick it out just one more year. Naturally I wouldnit worry about not having a bid to the senior dance. Why, with my beauty and brains, the boys would just flock! And about falling flat on my face at graduation! Why I would have perfect confidence in my ability to cross the stage of the City Auditorium without falling down and breaking my nose. Another thing-I wouldn't protest at having my picture put up in the halls to smile down on children of the next generation, because I,d know that it wouldn't frighten anyone, much. It looks as though I'd be a perfect senior, the type every sopho- more likes and respects at the same time, but if I should slip up some- where, please don't blame me. Vile can't all be perfect, you know! ' ' apwmas by Elinor Olson a senior i After battling my way this far, to the realms of seniorhood,', why must I turn back to face that plight again? Isn't the sophomore year full of enough problems? Vlfhich way should I turn to avoid that domineering senior's eye as he waits with a load of books for my aching arms? Is there no end to this registration line? Haven't I walked up and down the same steps one dozen times, and yet where am I? 101

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SERGEI VASSILIEVITCI-I I ONES r by Melvyn Schreiber Ah, music. How well I remember the day when first I saw a piano. 'Twas when I was but three years young. Mother had the monstrous thing put in the living room, and it was in that same living room not two minutes later that I received the worst shock to which I have ever been exposed. I crept into the room where the monster stood like a foreboding giant, and quietly seated myself before the keyboard. My fist descended upon the keys, making the most terrifying sound I had ever heard. I leaped from the stool and dashed to my room. No one saw me for the next four days. I was scared stiff. ,M - of, ,Mi My W 'ft awe-21 ff Qgx fffl If ' 2? in This first encounter with the piano was not to be my last, I soon found. VVhen I was nine years of age, Mother engaged a tutor to instruct me in the gentle art of beating on a keyboard. My teacher, Dr. Ignacio Foofifkinoff, was a forceful person, and I soon learned to sit very still at the piano, with my hand in precisely the correct po- sition, for one hour each week. For two long grueling years I worked at the piano for two 'hours each day, trying to perfect the five-finger exercises which Dr. Foofif- kinoff insisted were good for my technique. I devised many ways to escape from the daily chore of practicing my lesson, but I soon found that all was futile, so I resigned myself to the task of making good. From that day forward, I never objected to practicing two hours each day. fPerhaps it was because the new little girl who moved next door just adored to listen to my banging. But that is neither here nor there, although I found myself over there most of the timej 103 iContinued on Page 1333