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

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JhsLfie QjLm hJtWL... THE SYMPHONY The dim, hushed atmosphere of the theater fills me with a quiet calm which is in sharp contrast with the world I have just left behind me. I settle my- self in my seat to enjoy the beauty that is to come. From behind the stage there come weird sounds. The melancholy voice of the bass, the sweet, vibrant tones of the ' cellos, and the lilting violin stand out from the bedlam of other sounds. But in a moment they fade and the cry of the trumpet pierces its way above the others. Then they all engage in a series of weird noises which reminds one of a zoo before feeding time. Soon the musicians are coming onto the stage. They take their places and the adjustment of instruments continues along with a spatter of conversation. Three minutes before starting time the oboist sounds his A. That A from the oboe nags at you long after it is gone, like an argument you didn ' t win. Two minutes to go. The concertmaster walks in, tunes up his violin, and proceeds to draw his bow across the A string. This is the final check. The A has been established, firmly and officially. Everyone makes the final delicate adjustments. Then in a burst of applause the conductor makes his appearance and takes his place on the stand. There is a moment of silence. The conductor raises his arms and the symphony has begun. Joyce Meredith Advanced Composition MARCH 22 FROM A CLASS-ROOM WINDOW Broad Ripple High School (A group- written poem) Through the open class-room windows, we see The delicately azure sky, a canvas for white-trunked sycamores, And stately elms, their bows lace-tipped, Feathery with greening hoods pushed from brown-cloaked buds. Massive boles and boughs throw black shadows Across the expan sive emerald lawn, where green blades Carpet the soft, dark earth. Upon the grass the twigs have cast spider-like lines Which move to and fro, to and fro as the gentle breeze directs. Beyond the rain-washed pavement, the muddy river flows, Brown with silt deposits from the flooded lands upstream. It winds its swollen way, pushing high upon restricting banks. Beyond the strip of green meadow, a low leaf-covered hillside Is still the bed for bulbous roots Which feel the warmth of this March day pulling them from their slumber. Upon the white curved walk, beside which bow Graceful branches of glowing forsythia, Stroll or hurry glad teen-age boys and girls — Bare haired, curl tossing, gaily clad in checkered shirts, Light cords, bright sweaters, white scarfs — Books tucked under arms, Hands in pockets or swinging jauntily at sides, they depart— - Carefree, responsible, vivacious, serious, — America ' s thoughtless, thinking Youth as sweet in promise As the spring this day. 12

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Painting miniature masterpieces and drawing eye-catching advertisements, Ripple ' s Raphaels sketched their futures on canvas. Their versatile fingers designed fashionable jewelry and useful household ornaments in Miss Bonna Lees ' crafts classes. New to Ripple ' s curriculum was music appreciation, a semester course for students who cannot make, but can always appreciate, fine music. Skilled tradesmen and draftsmen, masters of precision, served their appren- ticeships with Misters R. Nelson Cooksey and Hubert Wann in the work- shops of Rooms 2 and 4. Sore muscles and aching backs marked us as greenies in the physical train- ing department. Strong bones and sound bodies will someday prove the value of the invigorating exercise of physical education. 11

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ALBERT Albert has been with us, always. He has been puttering around the farm since no one knows when. To this day Albert moves in the same time-consuming shuffle, and retains all of his age-old habits. Though he lives in the Small House, he eats in the kitchen of the Big House. Nowadays he eats alone, for younger men have gone away, possibly seeking more lucrative employment in war plants in the city. Albert eats pie. He loves pie. He also eats vegetables, providing they are green beans or potatoes or (on occasion) sliced tomatoes. Meat? Yes, if it isn ' t beef or pork or lamb. His preference runs to chicken backs and giblets. He doesn ' t like white meat or drumsticks. As he hovers over a choice chicken neck, one pauses to ask politely: How do you do, Albert? His invariable reply: Tollable, quite tollable. And how are you? One must reply: I ' m quite tolerable, too, thank you! He is very happy with his clothes — blue denim coveralls, painstakingly patched fore and aft with the best grade of burlap sack. He carefully washes his clothes each time he bathes, which is about twice a month. By carefully I mean he apparently tries to avoid getting either his clothes or himself wet. Albert now is the reincarnation of Uncle Tom, as played on the showboats, which he has seen pass many times from his vantage point on the banks of the Ohio River. Coal black extends up and back and down to the snow white fringe of hair. His face is framed by white sideburns and whiskers. His sparkling eyes belie his age, which he won ' t (or maybe can ' t) divulge. Folks say he came North by the Underground Railway. He doesn ' t know whether this is true or not, but he swears he remembers Grant and Sherman. It is said Albert still has the first dollar he ever earned. Perhaps this is true, for his wants are simple, and he has always been paid a fair monthly wage. Twice each year he receives a letter. It is not from a relative, for he has no known kinfolk. The letter comes from a bank, and folks guess it ' s a (request for Albert to come in and count his money. Anyway, he always takes a few days off after receiving that letter and comes back without saying where he has been, nor why. One thing is sure: He takes his time to feed the chickens or milk the cows; he is slow to hoe the cucumbers; he almost never gets around to picking the roasting ears. But when it comes to gathering watermelons, you should see him move! Ann M. Hutchison English VI WHOSE FAULT WAS IT? WAS IT MINE? Whose fault was it That he didn ' t come back When he went across the line? Was it that bond that I didn ' t buy, Or that piece of steel that caught in my eye? Whose fault was it? Was it mine? Whose fault was it That he didn ' t come back When he set sail with his ship? Was it just meant to be, Or was it the slip of my lip? Whose fault was it? Was it mine? Whose fault was it That he didn ' t come back When he went into the jungle of green? Could a Jap sniper have got him, Or was it a faulty machine? Whose fault was it? Was it mine? Roy Rhoads English III 13