Battin High School - Red and White Yearbook (Elizabeth, NJ)

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f. I B l wgn b- 1 4-1.1 6 S 1151-susan! - 1 - , i . . x my Kanacla I have always been proud of my Canada. It is the country of my mother's people, and I have been going there every summer of my life, so I feel it is really a part of me. Each time I cross the border, I think I am in the Old World, because French is spoken there at all times. After I cross the Saint Lawrence River by ferry from Quebec, I am surrounded by the typical Canadian countryside: rolling hills, furrowed fields, and old dirt roads dotted by an occasional wooden farmhouse, or small villages with tall church spires reaching heavenwards from cozy green valleys. By the side of each dirt road worn by wagon wheels, stands the Crucifix, a symbol of the Quebec faith. For centuries, peasant women with baskets of blueberries picked from the fields, or farmers going to their work, have knelt beside the humble wooden Cross. The village of Sainte Claire has always been especially mine, for La Flammes have lived there for centuries. It is typical of all small Canadian villages, with its elaborate church, small brown schoolhouse, and little brook which passes right through the main street. Our house, like the others, is small. It is all one story, with large French windows, and a low-hanging roof. Its wooden walls have withstood the heavy snows for many years.

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UA.. Rf 0 Sap When I reached my thirteenth birthday, I felt important. I tried to dress in a more sophisticated manner by wearing dresses only half an inch above my knees instead of two, by eliminating those dreadfully big child- ish hair ribbons, and by wearing a bit of make-up on special occasions. I also thought that learning to cook was a must Mother agreed to let me prepare an entire meal for our family and we set the big date for the next Friday evening. I chose the following menu: vegetable soup, weenies, sauerkraut, baked beans, salad, jello and cookies, milk for my sister and me, and coffee for Mother and Dad. On Thursday, I learned that Mother couldn't be home for my din- ner. At first I felt a little dejected, but soon a fine feeling of independence overwhelmed my fears. . , To make up for her absence, Mother had helped me with the prepa- rations, so when I came rushing into the house Friday aftemoon, I found practically everything I needed right in the middle of the kitchen table, including a long list of suggestions. It was 3: 35. I took the weenies out of the refrigerator, and started to set the table. In less than live minutes the once-crowded table was completely empty except for the suggestion list. Mother had written that she had put the soup into the pot in which it was to be heated, so I turned on a low Hame under the only pot I saw. Everything was going according to plan. In fact, I had twenty minutes to spare before serving time. Thus I elaborated with flowers for a centerpiece, and made place cards for my family guests. VVhen Dad walked through the front door, I started to dish out the simmering soup. There were crackers to go with it and also freshly made croutons. Dad, my sister, and I sat down to a meal which was to be long remembered in our home. Before I took my Erst mouthful, I was mentally double-checking everything for the next course. While I was meditating, my Dad ejacu- lated, What in heaven's name did you do to the soup?. It's the most vile-tasting stuff I've ever put into my mouth. While he was storming, my sister ran to the refrigerator, opened it, and fell into paroxyms of laughter. Between convulsions, she managed to bring out a pot of good-tasting soup from the refrigerator. I barely heard the conversation that ensued, but I comprehended that what I 'had served so elaborately was dish water from the pot that mother had put to soak! CAROL CHANENSON, ' go

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Throughout the year, the kitchen is the center of all activity, for it houses the only means of warmth: the woodstove. Water is obtained through a pump, which is inside the village house, but outside the farm house. The oil lamp is yet the only means of light, and it gives off a warm glow upon the plain wooden walls. The kitchen cupboards are usually furnished with immense loaves of homemade bread, fresh butter, bottles of rich, red wine. Fresh Gaspe fish, pea soup, and potatoes are standard fare at a Canadian meal. Most of the clothing and linens are made by hand, and the beds are always covered by thick patchwork quilts with splashes of green, blue, and red carefully stitched in. The daily family gathering takes place after supper, when the women work on their sewing, and the men smoke their long pipes. It is here that the happenings of the day are gone over, while the children tend to the woodstove. Each time I visit my Canada, I gain a greater sense of belonging to both our great United States and her friendly neighbor, Canada. SUZANNE HOFFMAN, '50 lard Wglif , It's dark out here on the steps, yet I can feel movement all around me. The day has been warm and now an evening breeze is gliding among the overcrowded houses to bring relief to the thousands who sleep. In the apartment house next door, the remainder of a breath of air pushes against a stubbom shade in an effort to let a breeze whisper through the room and cover the restless sleeper with a sheet of cool comfort. A I like to sit here on the porch and feel the darkness of night close in about me. In the distance, I can hear a shrill train whistle. The sound is abrupt and sudden, disturbing the stillness. Then, in a moment, peace has drifted back, and the night is again the same. It's nice to sit here and think: just over the railroad track, the sun is coming up for daybreak. Life is just beginning to stir among the deserted streets in a distant town. The rising sun spreads its fingers through the slits of Venetian blinds and prods the eyelashes to open slowly. The insistent jingle of an alarm clock keeps rhythm with the clanging of milk bottles being set on the steps by a sleepy milkman. The steady clip-clop of horse's hoofs walks toward the rising sun and a busy day. ' NANCY WINTER, '51