Balmoral Hall School - Optima Anni Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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14 Teresa The broom dragged across the floor, and gathered the particles of dust that had been swirled through the window by the daily rush of traffic. Teresa threw the broom down with disgust. She turned and looked hopelessly at her sister, but all she saw was a vague form reclining on the couch, and from somewhere a movie magazine protruded. The head of some unusual creature was thrust up from behind the book. A pair of black eyes glared offendedly at her, and her sister rose and stamped off to her room to remove her curlers. Teresa glanced at the clock. It was exactly ten-two hours before lunch. At lunch time, her mother would arrive to take over. Take over what? All her mother would do would be to take off her shoes, complain how terribly crowded it was down town, and sit down to relax. Then she would direct her glances towards Teresa with such pitiful eyes, begging for assistance, that Teresa would smile understandingly and prepare lunch. But it was so monotonous, so dull for a twelve- year-old girl. Teresa turned her large gray eyes towards her sister's room with annoyance. Her mind wan- dered over plots and settings of dreadful events that might happen to her sister. Finally Teresa's thoughts came down to earth. If I weren't here she'd have to help, instead of getting ready for dates, she thought schemingly. The dust swept up by the broom gradually began to settle again. The broom itself lay where it had been dropped. The front door was open, revealing the merging traffic and choking fumes. Teresa had left. She paused uncertainly on the street corner. Her sharp eyes glanced quickly about her, taking in the curious sights. Her small slender nose smelt the delicious aromas from the bakery. A breeze flicked her long, black hair and the endS of her pale blue dress. The ribbon which held back her hair had been hastily tied and it drooped over her forehead. A broad smile appeared on her thin lips. Down the road was the factory, and Jack would be there. He would listen to her troubles, he always did. Jack and his wife, Marion, were always ready to give her their advice. She stepped carefully across the street and turned the corner, her heavy black shoes beating rhythmically. If she hurried, she would be just in time to see Jack during his coffee break. She entered the factory and as she approached the workers, they greeted her with enthusiasm. Her eyes passed over them quickly. Where's Jack? she asked. He's sick-fever or something, replied one of the men. Her concern for Jack overruled her disap- pointment. She knew he would lose his day's pay. When she came to the factory to see them, he often talked about how important his pay was to them. Marion assisted Jack's income by sewing splendid dresses for wealthy ladies. Once when Teresa visited Marion she found her working on a most beautiful dress. As curiosity drew her forward, Teresa noticed the dainty laces and the delicate stitches entwined throughout the ma- terial. Marion noticed her interest in the dress and promised Teresa one, though not quite so grand. The dress was to be any colour or style Teresa wanted. What colour would she like? There were some pretty dresses in the department store, perhaps she could get ideas there. She bade the workers goodbye, and set off in the direction of Rodger's Department Store. Soon the store loomed over her. She entered, and worked straight towards the dress depart- ment. A young girl about the same age as Teresa was admiring one of the dresses. Teresa gazed thoughtfully at her, noticing how well dressed she was. Quite suddenly a woman appeared, dragging an unfortunate lad behind her. Come on, Shirley, we have to go home now, said the lady. The young girl looked up at her mother. Would you buy me a new dress to wear on my birthday? she asked. No, snapped the mother, you don't need a new dress. Hurry, we've got to go. But, mother, she pleaded. No, and she grabbed the girl by the wrist Please, begged the girl. Be quiet! shouted the mother, and all eyes turned on her. Flushed and angry, she left the scene as quickly as possible with her two children. Teresa shuddered. Her own mother would never shout at her like that, especially not in public. Teresa was thankful for the fact that she had a kind mother who praised her often, and never was angry with her-not even at home. Home! Lunch! Who would make lunch? Teresa dashed down the aisle, out of the store and down the street. Before she knew it, she was facing a small yellow house with pale green windows. The door was open, and Teresa sprinted up the steps. She closed the door, picked up the broom, and put it in the closet. She glanced at the clock. It was fifteen minutes to twelve. She began to prepare lunch. ELIZABETH WEBSTER-Grade IX

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13 An hour later, Carlos was still in the barn with Pachina and the sun was sinking unwillingly to his rest in the mountains, when a gentle voice broke the solitude. It was Carlos' mother. It had been growing chilly and she already had her woolen shawl thrown over her shoulders. Carlos, eet ees getting late and you must not catcha cold. I weel come now, Mama, but listen! A deep rumble caught his attention. Quickly they peered out to find, to their amazement, large raindrops dropping from the heavens. His mother fell to her knees and crossed herself, saying many prayers of gratitude. She scrambled up, only to be caught in the strong arms of her husband, who had rushed into the barn with his dark brown face lightened with joy. His face reminded Carlos of a brimful cup of water filled to the point of overflowing. Their only cow, a creature of skin and bone, lowed softly with a feeling of excitement. They fetched everyone from the house to go for a walk in the rain, now coming down in torrents. All the family strolled along the previously scorched road and watched the wondrous rain pump new life into the remaining patches of grain, and wash away the sand to let the tufts of grass breathe. Carlos thought that it was wonderful to watch the power of God creating the difference between poverty and prosperity, just because he had done a hard day's work. PAMELLA KAYSER-Grade IX The Early Frost One snowflake drifted slowly down Causing all the folk to frown, And heralded its many friends Who soon the way to earth would wend. The farmers glanced with anxious faces, And watched the angry sky's grimaces Telling of an early frost. The autumn harvest cowered low Against the roaring north wind's blow And all began to harvest grain, Although they knew 'twas all in vain To fight the early frost. MARGARET BERRY-Grade IX The Interview Brr-ing, brr-ing. The doorbell echoed through the long hall visible through the window by the door. I stood outside on the vast porch surveying the huge estate of the Van Clorks. My car was parked in the drive leading up to the house and near the back. I was dwarfed by the huge steps and porch leading up to the front door. As I was gazing at the gardens along the drive, I heard a polite, inquiring, Good afternoon. I turned to face the butler standing in the doorway. Oh, good afte1'noon. May I present my- self? George Stevens Junior, reporter for the Detroit Times. I handed him my card. I would like to interview Mr. Van Clork, Sir Rumpelstiltskin Eshwald Van Clork IV, for my magazine, and perhaps obtain some pictures of him. May I come in? Certainly, please wait here. I will see if Mr. Van Clork is receiving anyone today. He gave me a quizzical look and disappeared up the long flight of stairs at the far end of the room. I stood alone in the middle of the room rapidly taking note of the luxurious furnishings. Peeping through a crack in the door, I could see a large dining hall with a huge chandelier. As I was taking down the last details, I saw the butler approaching. Sir Eshwald will see you, Mr. Stevens, but I must warn you-he has just come from his bath and is sleepy and quite irritable. He may growl at you and even snap a bit. He is also having his daily manicure which he dislikes, so, do not refer to it. Also he is rather reserved, and so, please do not prod him. As for taking pictures, Sir Eshwald's eyes are very sensitive to bright lights. Therefore, please refrain from taking more than necessary. By now we had gone up three flights and were entering Mr. Van Clork's apartments. I had heard that Sir Eshwald IV had recently arrived at the Van Clork estate for a short stay, and armed with camera and notebook, I was determined to get a great Hscoopf' on him and maybe thereby get a bonus. Actually, I had to admit I had never heard of him until recently when I had overheard a conversation at a party. Apparently, he was quite famous, but the speaker d1'ifted away before I could discover just why. Hadn't they mentioned some kind of shows? Perhaps he was a great rider. No, that didn't seem quite right. They had talked of medals and ribbons+a great military leader, perhaps? Noth- ing seemed to fit. Oh, well, I shall just have to feel my way, and try to draw him out even if he is shy as the butler says. This way, sir. The butler's voice broke into my thoughts. I stepped into the huge room and eagerly peered around to find Sir Eshwald. Here he was, in all his glory, reclining on three red plush cushions, Sir Rumpelstiltskin Eshwald Van Clork the fourth-a bright gold, snub-nosed Pekingese dog! SUZANNE f'L.A.nKr:AGrarle IX

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15 The Art Gallery A light blue carpet on the stairs, And serious young folk everywhere, Searching with eager childish faces, Standing rigidly in their places, Rows and rows of beautiful work, Explained in detail by a tiresome clerk. I went up the stairs between them all, Strange and frightened and shy and small, But as I entered the gallery door, I saw something I had never seen before, The sun streaming through the window in the hall, Proving God's art, the most beautiful of all. CATHERINE HAMILTON-Grade VII The Hour Glass There are millions of them all confined to one large space. Each one is uniquely different in its similarity to all the others. Each one is only con- cerned with itself. Each is oblivious ofthe others, yet its position and activities depend on the others. The same force acts on all of them. It pulls them until it can pull them no longer. The ones in front block the paths of the others. Yet if they fall, so do the ones behind them. They are drawn to their inevitable fate. They are sucked into nothingness. They must fall. Yet others run to this same fate. One draws the others, and the others draw each one. When they dissolve into the darkness of the narrow path, they are gone. They appear again on the other side but which are the ones that were seen to disappear? They are there, but where are they? They are engulfed, surrounded and buried by the others. What difference does it make? What is one from another? What does it matter? Those may have been beautiful, interesting, different, but they were just a few in a million. Some may have entered the chasms in shadow and come out of it in all glory to reflect a ray of light in an eye and please the indolent brain that commands the eye. But these did not please the brain when they were in darkness. Each one lands on the bottom surrounded by different ones, or in the middle or on top. What does it matter? It is just one in a million. Its fate is in the hands of something greater than itself. With one movement, all of these may be dis- turbedg they are forced to rush, teem, pull, and break the stillness of the others. They must go because there is no end until they all lie in stillness at the bottom again. They lie only to be dis- turbed. Then they come alive again. When each one passed, it took with it the moment it needed in the passing. But what does this matter? There are endless moments to pass. Endless moments unless someone should smash the container. Then what becomes of them? What becomes of the millions? What becomes of each grain of sand, or life? Bu'r'rY NIC'HCJL-fil'2lfl9 XII Q1 C33 23 C33 'S' 'S' JA in tiff? ig c..is.1aefl., .ig ,io ig BEFOR5 -rm: G-FMS fi? IL Ijillf. tif? A f 7258 QQ fry Gi I' ,f ' iihggii. ii gwfx? ivi L' i 'ifj I X-lb f 'N .20 S9 Jffiieqg 9 Q ,gs- FIFTER D B. Nichol The Sacrifice A large tear rolled down Marianne's taut face when she discovered that she could not move. Vividly the accident came back to her mind. Marianne and her brother Jamie had been driving down Campion Avenue when the truck struck them broadsideg the steering wheel crushed her legs, paralysing them. Having lost con- sciousness, she remembered nothing but the im- pact of the truck against their Volkswagen. With her straggly blond hair spread over the pillow, and her eyes wandering vaguely around the room, she wondered frantically where she was and what had happened to Jamie. Angry with the thought of being in bed, the normally energetic sixteen-year-old struggled to pull herself upright. Finding herself surprisingly weak, she fell back. Why, she thought, feeling annoyed, isn't anyone here? Almost as if someone had heard her, a crisp white figure came softly into the room.