Bowmanville High School - Screech Owl Yearbook (Bowmanville, Ontario Canada)

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Playing on a Smile What a perfectly rotten day at school! I could feel the steam being liberated through the holes in my head. I entered the house, slammed the door and stamped through the kitchen into the living room. There, I collapsed on the chesterfield facing the piano. I sat there indulging in a tantrum and frowning at the piano keys. It suddenly dawned on me that fifty-two ivory teeth were smiling at me. They were offering friendly advice to my flattened brain. 'Pull up a seat and we will make music together? It was inviting. This was an instrument which I admired. More than that, I was familiar with this particular one. It was adopted by our family when I was six years old. It was a difficult relationship at first, myself not knowing how to speak its language and the poor piano craving an in- terpreter for all it had to say. Now, eleven years later, we are old friends. The piano is somewhat faded on the side that the sunlight hits, but the keys aren't yellow with age yet. As long as we keep it tuned, our piano will serve us well. It knows me well. Every day I burden it with my moods. Still, the piano accepts. It challengesame to a dialogue in notes. Listen, piano. You are going to get a beating today because I'm mad! You and I are going to play rough! I threatened. I was in no mood to be kind. I walked over to the piano bench, turned gracefully and deliberately to the audience fthe chesterfieldh and bowed. Then I sat down and played . . . 'Bangl Bang! Bang! Craml' This first piece didn't sound very pleasing. I didn't mean it to be. I was playing hard without thinking about the notes. In this way I could release tension. However, it did nothing to stop my reflections on the foul hours I had spent failing an exam. 'Get busy and distract your mind,' I ordered myself. Why, of course! It was a good time to play a new game with my piano. . 'While searching through the piano book, I began to regret that I could not play by ear due to lack of inspiration, originality or whatever one labels it. Before I could become depressed by these thoughts, I stum- bled upon a creation by Bach. Bach is good for one's mental health. He's neat, clean and delicate. The notes are fairy-like, tiptoeing across the page. 'Don't be deceived, I told myself. Learning to play this study will be like turning frogs into fairies. Here was the challenge. This struggle was going to demand great attention. There would be no time for troubled thoughts. For my ego's sake I tried to make it through the first line, non-stop, with both hands on the wheel. It didn't work. By the time they reached the end of the line, my fingers had fallen into disgrace. I tried again. This time each hand did a solo and both reached the end without trip- ping. Over and over they traced the notes until they were ready to play together. I united them again in that first line. There was peace in the harmony. My fingers tickled the piano with trills, and the piano tickled my ears with the notes. Such a delightful game! Peggy Clark 5C

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By His Hand When the breakers swelled high and the sands creamed, I watched for him. Winds from nowhere would put the fever in his cheeks as he paused on the beach. Experienced eyes would reach the farthest shore. He would wait for the music as lost as the land that sent it. He would feel it come before it touched his sight. A low tone moving with the waves, but deeper, much deeper. It brushed across his fingers and he understood. Footsteps ran in even lines through handfuls of tiny grains. They opened up to him, layer by layer. He would bend the curves of the sea in his hand, to hide the troubled heart of a single shell in his palm. He would twist and shape the cautious cloud that would never leave him. He would cool the pregnant bank with an aged touch before she turned to catch his eye. He would hurt a child in the strength of his hold to smooth the sand at his feet. He would lose his eyes in the winding rhyme and search for the child he had hurt. When the breakers pulled back and the sands chased warmth, I would leave him. The artist in him would sleep. His hand would be stilled when the colder months left his summer scenes unpainted. But now I watched for the sensitive stoop of the shoulders, the element of searching in the walk, carried by an aging man with the suffering of years directing a painter's hand. Footsteps fill behind in cultured steps as he came closer. Foreign canvas challenged the natural carelessness of the beach. I would not stayd The artist needs the loneliness that urges coloured emotion by his han . Jane Cattran 3B B.H.S. To leave is to remember, With kindness and regret. And always keep the memories, In a place we won't forget. You've always been so good to us, And helped us to abide. You've shared our victories and our loss, Stayed faithful by our side. At times we thought you cruel and mean, And unfair to all of us. But if we could give a mark to you You'd surely get A plus. Kim Burgess 2C

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My Friend I know a dog named Seymour Jones, I loved him very much, He was big and strong and Huskey like, And his owner called him Dutch . I took Dutch down to the creek one day, To see what we could find. He ran away across the field, And I was left behind. A shot rang out from in the woods, I saw him fall right down, I ran to him with all my might, To take him back to town. I took him to the vet's clinic, For I know it hit his head, The vet examined him and sighed, Too late my boy. He's dead. Garry Perfect IA