Broad Ripple High School - Riparian Yearbook (Indianapolis, IN)

Page 19 text:

POEMS AFTER SANDBURG ROOFER J. saw a roofer in Harding Street, witn a voice like a fire taking over a forest in October. He pounds on shingles witfi a rnytnm identical to the rhythm of a clock pendulum. Working in the hot summer sun, in the winter ' s cold blast. He goes about his work with a calm, decisive manner. Proud to be creating roofs. Virginia Reese II VEGETABLE MAN J, know an Italian vegetable man at market With a voice like the deep bell notes of the organ at Saint Paul ' s. He sings worship of his vegetables to his customers In the same joyful tones that ring out in the Ave Maria on Sunday morning. His face is that of a man who believes that his vegetables are the most beautiful, the most delicious, the best vegetables ever created by a beneficent God, And who has complete faith that the customers who buy his so-beautiful wares believe in their supe- riority also. Ann Bishop RAGMAN III J, saw a ragman in the alley, with a voice like rumbling thunder disturbing a meditative church service. He expands his chest like a robin in spring and prepares to shout for his daily bread, En -nee— olc ' - ' rags -. His thin stooped shoulders or his claw-like hands cannot hide his sparkling eyes, as a prospective custom- er steps forth with a rusted stove pipe or an armless chair. Mary Evelyn Davis IV CHOIR BOY CZZ know a choir boy from an old church downtown, With a voice as clear as bells in a steeple. He stands tall and unafraid before his beloved audience With the graciousness of Christ before His disciples. His face is that of a little boy glad to be alive. Innocently thankful that there is a God, And radiantly happy to be able to sing about Him. Nancy French

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J-ltetdtu ON BEING TAKEN FOR A (HAY) RIDE I awake ana lie serenely watching the dust motes peophng the single golden bar of sunnght that slants across the ceiling. Tonight, I think: tonight is the night. Yes, il I wor k it right, John will surely propose. Lii.xuriously I stretch. Yes, my Sleep-tite mattress is everything the salesman had claimed it would he. I am going into the day as fit as a fiddle. But then, of course, I drank my SleepWeepy Brew last night in hot milk. No wonder I slept so well. The chromium alarm clock at my side begins to equal Big Ben; it is almost like awakening in the midst of a London fog. A moment later I bounce out of bed and glance casually into the mirror. HORRORS! THAT THING! But it is only my Strap-O-Bottle mask, really a combination heat pad and hot water bottle, guar- anteed to chase the wrinkles. That s the third, morning the darn thing s almost scared me to death. It is two hours and a half later. Yes, I know that seems like a long time to take in dressing, but a girl has to take care of her looks. I have washed my hair in Bubbly-Gold. (Isn t it dandy to be dainty?) My teeth have been scrubbed with Kleansobright, and I have gargled enough Noxo-Toxo to choke a horse; but I will be safe for the next eight hours— and what if I do smell like the charity ward at the City Hospital? Now down to breakfast— and a great big bowl of those golden broAvn Krunchy- Wunchies is waiting. They taste like ground rag-weed, but my dear, they re so beneficial. They put roses in your cheeks — or is it lilies in your hands? Now that I have started the day out right, according to all the fads and fallacies, it is time to tune in the radio and listen to the adventures of the Blatt family— and are they in a mess of trouble? Then right after, comes the Blattburgs, and then the O Blatts. Shure, an they ve got troub»e, too. I study my dance manual until four-thirty, when I have an appointment at the Bon Ton Beauty Shoppe. They give you the works for only five dollars and ninety-six cents. Speaking of dancing, I don t know what Mr. Slickshoe would think of me. I just can t get the Big Apple down pat, and my Minnesota Brush and Lambeth Walk are a total loss, or rather I am. But, as I always say, a girl can t do everything. It is almost time for John. I had a terrible time getting myself to look just so, but I finally made it, and I think these new Slinko garments are just divine. I have my new lip- stick, Naturalo— The New Nut Flavor, on just right, and the mirror says I am kissable. Tee bee, I hope someone else thinks so. Now to read the book reviews in Time— you have to talk about something. Oh, here ' s John now. Hello, John . . . What? We ' re going where? On a hayride. . . ! ' Well, can you beat that? Virginia Lee Stokes

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ON GROWING SHELVES Shelves are just like rabbits ' — they multiply. There is no way to stop them. No matter what you may do. they re as sure as aeath or taxes. They come in all shapes, colors, sizes; and once in a while you rind them hiding under a nom de plume like bric-a-brac stands. We II take an average American home. The Potters have started out simply with rive shelves, classi- fied as such and known as such. Two of the shelves were wedding presents and are gaily decorated with gilt. They repose in the kitchen and are used as holders of string, recipes, baby s rattle. Mr. Potter ' s pipe, and two decayed bon bons. The other shelves are used for books and back issues of Liberty. Then comes the spring. Mrs. Potter decides to try her hand at canning. Two days later there are four more shelves in the basement. Before long they are covered with enough jam and jelly to feed all of the starving Armenians. Then the Potters really go shelf crazy and buy thirteen more shelves. These are scattered through the house. The shelf in the bathroom is covered with old razor blades, seven discarded tootpaste tubes, and a bottle of mouthwash into which the cork has slipped. The shelf in the nursery (a gaudy affair) is replete with two of baby ' s first teeth, one blue ribboned mitten with a piece of caramel in the thumb, and a wheel from the perambulator. This is but a small portion of what is duplicated throughout the house. The last I heard, the Potters were moving out to make room for the shelves. You must realize that this is merely a cross-section of all American homes. There are societies to stamp out war. Why not societies to stamp out shelves? Will we let this evil raise its ugly head in the midst of our American society? Will we? The answer is, we probably will. George Taylor FAREWELL RIPPLE 7. here is a winding river That swiftly flows along— It passes by Broad Ripple High, Far famed in tale and song. You were a little school house once, In days not long gone by— But now you tower with the best. You Grand, Old Ripple High! We 11 ever sing your praises As we pass life ' s way along. For in your buildings are your courts But in our hearts, your throne. Irene Westervelt