Bourne High School - Canal Currents Yearbook (Bourne, MA)

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Canal Currents, Bourne High School home for three long years. The only things that keep me from going crazy are my visitors and my writing. My visiting hours are from 2 to 3 P. M. be- cause I am so busy that I can’t have longer ones. I never go out of this room, even to eat. I have my meals brought to me on a tray — so you see, I am fond of the room. But, anyway, there is no way to get out of it even if I wished because the windows have steel bars and the door itself is made of steel and is locked securely from the outside. Even if I did succeed in breaking the bars there would be no way to get to the ground because the walls are smooth and there is a wdde moat full of crocodiles below. You see, I am a convict myself and the mansion in which I live has been converted into a prison. The writing I do is just for the inmates so they will have something to keep them sane in their solitary confinement. We have all been charged with murder and our sentence is — solitary confinement for the rest of our natural lives. Barbara Gardner, ’43 The Great Drama Three months since she had hit New York and still no job! Three months of planning and scheming concocted to trap managers, directors and ]. lay producers, whom Cathie finally began to think of as illusive phantoms, talked about, but never seen. Even Broadway seemed like an illusive dream to her as she climbed the stairs to her room — a cheap room and already the landlady had taken on that dubious attitude so familiar to Cathie. Cathie Benson” — how nice it would look in lights. She could see the lights at night — they kept her awake, and even when she finally drifted into exhausted sleep, the lights still taunted her. They took the form of demons torturing her with their very brightness. Catherine went into her room and closed the door. She didn’t snap on the light but went to the window. The lights were blinking already — so many lights, so many people all wanting fame. She thought suddenly that if she was famous, her name would be in the headlines — she would be front page news. She wondered if this was so much to ask. She wanted people to dis cuss her over their morning coffee. This Cathie Benson” — they would say — Now there’s a case for you” — . She stood up suddenly, switched on the light, went over to the bureau, and rummaged for a few minutes in the top drawer. She took out a diary — the diary that contained all her hopes, dreams and as- pirations. Then she sat down and wrote a note, a very short note. Tomorrow, she thought, people will be talking about the great drama — the story of Cathie Benson. She would be famous for a moment — like a shooting star — her name would be in black and white, in big letters. The diary gave her name and other necessary information. In the note she gave her reason. She threw up the window. Five stories away the sidewalks shone dimly. Cathie leaned out — the lights were blinking, beckoning. She leaned farther — and yet farther still . . . The headlines were in black and white — big letters. It ivas a great drama — for thousands of people. War Declared” — two words in the headlines. On the third page, fourth column, was a paragraph about some girl who had committed suicide the night before. It was a very short paragraph. Justine Cassels, ’41 Page Tiventy -three

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C ANAL Currents, Bourne High School Flotsam Castle I am Flotsam Castle — at least I am the spirit of it and what good is any- thing, anything, without a spirit ? I have been standing here for years — hundreds of them — how many I do not know. They picked me up as flot- sam in the first place — merely pieces of ships’ wreckage. Every part of me has a story to tell — each story different from the other — each one a story of terror and strife, pain and heartbreak. Of shipwrecks and earthquakes, storms and glaciers. Here is the story of one of my beams who told me it when he first came to be part of me: — It was a warm night in the southern Pacific Ocean, but one of those ominous nights that speak of danger. I was part of a small boat — only a small excursion ship carrying people of so many different kinds — Americans, Englishmen, Frenchmen, Spanish, even Hawaiians. There was a fire in the engine room — a lurking fire that seemed to have control of every part of the ship before it was even discovered. I was even burnt a little. See, I’m still a little charcoaled. There was such terror there — so many people with so many stories — so many hearts saying a silent goodbye to those they were leav- ing behind — so many broken hearts left behind. That is only a part of the story — I wish I had time for more. Every part of my structure is filled with such stories. But rest in peace — I shall not re- vive any more of these memories — they are too near my own heart. Phyllis Stockley, ’4 1 The Story Of A Room I am a young man of twenty; a writer, in fact. I spend practically all of my time in a room — one room in which I eat, sleep, dress, bathe, and write. My room is an unusual on e as far as location goes. It is on the third floor of a mansion in the outskirts of a great city. From the set of windows on the south I can see a beautiful river flow- ing through a cut in the moss-covered valley where the trout fishermen come for a season of solitude. From the three windows in the west I can always see the sun as it is set- ting over the roof-tops of a dark, dank prison. I can see the cars coming and going in great numbers and the less dangerous convicts tilling the fields which smell of the rich, freshly-turned earth. Then, on the north and east sides, I see only the walls of my room which are covered with a dark, pine paneling. My room is very dark in one corner, so I have placed a small table there with a chair, and have set it off with a curtain so that when I am writing something sad I can work in this corner and gather my inspiration from it. Or I can go to the window and look at the prison and just imagine that I am one of its uncomfortable inmates. On the other hand when I write of gladness and joy I have only to go to the view of the river with its beautiful scenery in the background to be- come deeply inspired. My room contains no elaborate furniture, just a large table, a cot-bed, and a few chairs. But 1 have learned to love it because it has been my only Page Tiventy-two

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Canal Currents, Bourne High School Turning The Tables Dashing Pete Johnson, in buoyant good humor over the great success his tour through the small western town was creating, smiled admiringly at the surrounding plains as he sped along in his yellow roadster. Yes, little did the admiring public know that the wild bronc he stuck on for a record time was Glitter Pictures Studio’s trained horse, or that all his other astounding feats were just used to insure his position as Box Office No. 1 Favorite. Now his pale blue eyes set in his too-handsome face kept smooth by Lady Abigail’s Cream” noticed a group of tall, lean men in faded, blue jeans and bright, plaid shirts arguing over a herd of cattle near the fence which bordered the highway. He sensed their problem was how to get the cattle from one side of the highway into the plain on the other side. Stopping his car, he went up to them and said gallantly, I believe, my good men. that I can solve your problem for you very easily. With your permission I’ll take the cattle across the highway myself.” Dumbfounded they looked at him and one of them, the big one who had led the argument drawled out, Reckon you have our permission, Mr. Johnson, if you’re goin’ to be so kind!” So Pete led the cattle down to the gate; fumbled with the lock; stopped a line of cars as the herd milled across the highway; fumbled again with the other lock; then turned back to the half-smiling group of men. With a despairing look at his soiled hands, but with the comforting thought of his boosted popularity, he addressed them. You’re entirely welcome, gentlemen. Not a word now! The task was nothing to me. Adios!” We sure are grateful, sir,” the big fellow yelled after him. As he sped on his way again he heard the hearty laughter behind him and he also chuckled to himself. Poor bunch of dudes, stuck with the problem of taking a herd of cattle from one pasture to another across the highway! Guess he showed them w hat kind of a cattle man he was! As the Bar-X cowboys climbed on their horses to ride home, one of them, with eyes still brimming full of laughter, said to the chap Mr. Johnson had conversed wdth, the foreman, Well, Bill! he certainly solved our argument as to whose turn it w as to lead the cattle down through the underpass!” Jean Matheson, ’42 The Great Divide Last summer, returning from Montana, we stopped high in the Rockies to view the Great Divide”. That is, the actual place where the waters part — some to flow into the Pacific, the others into the large rivers — the Missouri, the Mississippi and their tributaries, and finally into the Atlantic. It is a won- derful spot — so symbolic of . . . well, just something. Bill, our westerner friend, told us a story about the Great Divide. I don’t know yet whether or not it is true, but I like to think that it is. It was about a century ago w hen my dad was only a boy, perhaps ten or eleven. Dad would tell me how they used to come here, his dad, my grandpa, and my dad and w atch the sunset sometimes. My grandpa had a great love for beauty, even if he w ' ere a rough and tumble gold miner. Maybe chat’s why he w anted gold — to give my grandma beautiful things. Well, anyway, they used to w atch the sunset. One evening they w ere Page Twenty- four