Buffalo Seminary - Seminaria Yearbook (Buffalo, NY)

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SEMINARIA 1944 29 But, inevitably, I passed the magic age of twelve and became grownfup. Pushed far to the back of my mind were thoughts of Pierette and Pierrot, Alice' infWonderland, and the romantic conception of my house and me, its lovely mistress. Yes, those thoughts were gone, but, yet, they were somehow still present. I remembered how I cried after my first, horrible dance. Dances, al- though I had always thought of them as balls, were part of my dreams, and I discovered that my dreams had deceived me. The small notice in the paper that an auction of Mr. Zolonkowski's paintings had been held this morning claimed my attention. I know that it is silly and child' ish for a girl who is sixteen, and very adult, but, somehow, I wish that just for the sake of the lonely little girl and her dreamfworld, I knew who bought my picture. -MAR-ri-:A Covnss, '45 LITTLE SISTER 1 She's a sweet little darling' Is the visitors' sigh. The cute little angel Who's terribly shy. She snags your stockings, And borrows your sweaters, And tattle'tales after Reading those letters. She listens to 'phone calls, And loses your lipstick, She steals your candy, And then gets sick. But she's still an angel, CAS you grit your teethj For her friends' big brothers Are awfully sweet. --MARY HAMMBRLY, '47

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28 SEMINARIA 1944 'I'imu's Pell Hand I was surprised when mother came home tonight and told me that Mr. Zof lonkowski was dead. Somehow, I had always imagined that Mr. Zolonkowski was immortal. He was eighty-seven years old when he died, but he had a kind of vibrant, almost childish exuberance that had given me the impression that he was deathless. There was something about his bent shoulders, thin delicate hands, long white hair, rusty black cap and sharp, twinkling blue eyes that made him a kindred spirit of all who are young at heart. Each time I saw Mr. Zolonkowski, he put me under an unearthly, hypnotic spell. It was not that I did see him very often. Mr. Zolonkowski had an Art Gallery where he sold everything from lovely handfwrought silver pins to soiled birthday cards and calendars, and occasionally I would go there with mother when she took a picture to be framed or to buy some old flower prints. But from the first time I entered the dark, cavernflike room that was the Art Gallery I would go immediately to one pic' ture which stood in a corner that was a little dustier than the rest of the room, hidden behind old gold frames and odd lengths of taffeta and velvet that seemed magnificent to me in spite of their faded condition. It was a small picture, as Mr. Zolonkowskfs pictures went. The frame was not as pretentious as most of his ornate gilt ones. And the picture, I suppose, would never have won a Prix de Rome. But to me, at the impressionable age of twelve, it was the most wonderful, most gorgeous, most eloquent painting of all. Underneath the landscape was a little copper plate with the words The House of Dreams Untold inscribed on it. I did not know exactly what those words meant, but there was something about the large house framed in the golden sunrise, the peaceful cattle grazing and the tall, quiet poplars that stilled a rest' less surging inside me, and gave me peace. There was a certain mystical, clairf voyant beauty about it that held me enraptured until mother called me to go, and a kind of promise of fulfilment of my dreams untold that quieted and placated me when mother refused to buy it for me. It was not very long before my house of dreams became a family joke. But I did not mind, because, after all, in a way, I was wiser than they, for I knew that dreams are the only real things in the world, the only things on which to pin one's hopes, and my picture made me realize what they had known, and forgotten, that in the abysses of one's inner world, everything has a meaning. No, only Mr. Zolonkowski shared my secret. In a way, he was a part of it, the door' keeper of the unattainable house, and whenever I went to his shop for a brief furtive glance at my picture, I had only to look at Mr. Zolonkowski and he would nod understandingly, pull the picture out of the corner, silently dust it off, and beckon to me.

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30 SEMINARIA 1944 Dreams nf Eighteen Ever since I was a child in pigtails, eighteen had always seemed a glorious age to me. The day when I attained my eighteenth birthday would be the day of days. Oh, how I looked forward to that day! Frequently as I sauntered down the street, I would pass a young girl who, I was sure, was eighteen. Her selffconfident stride manifested her popularity. Like a cascade of gold, her silky curls gently caressed her shoulders. Her beautiful curved lips were vivid with color. Her eyes were deep brown pools which brought out her sunftanned complexion. From head to toe, she was always attired in the latest fashion. Her legs, slim and wellfshaped, were enveloped in the sheerest of silk stockings. The most exquisite, highfheeled pumps adorned her feet. To a gawky adolescent, she was the dream of perfection. She was my ideal, beautiful and exalted. But I wanted to be not only the queen of beauty, but also master of myself. I thought of my eighteenth birthday as the day when I should officially reach maturity. I would no longer meekly have to reply Yes to everything my father said, or obey his dictates without protest. I should be an adult, a person worthy of respect. I dreamed of that day. I lived for it. It was the goal of my dull ex' istence. I had read stories of the gay, exciting life of girls of eighteeng I had reveled in their love affairs. Already, I had formed the picture of my lover, a dark, hand' some, exciting man. Every girl he met fell madly in love with him. But he loved me, only me. Then came the exalting moment on a moonlit night when he asked me to be his wife. A bride at eighteen! I would be the proudest and happiest girl in the world. Yes, I dreamed of that day. I lived for it. Tofmorrow I shall be eighteen. But what a different girl I am from the one of my dreams! It is true that I no longer wear my hair in pigtails, that I do wear brilliant lipstick, that I follow the latest fadsg but I am a long way from my childhood idol. Tofmorrow I will depart for school as usual, dressed in a sweater three times too big for me, with my sleeves pushed up to my elbows, a plaid, pleated skirt, a ribbon in my hair which badly needs a permanent. Instead of silk stockings, heavy, white wool socks will leave the greater part of my legs bare, while sloppy loafers will encase my feet, too big for the dainty, highfheeled pumps of my dreams. To be sure, I have a beau, short, snubfnosed, towfheaded. But the moon is only a heavenly body so far as he is concerned. There is no hope of a proposal, no hope of being a bride at eighteen. Tofmorrow will be the day about which I have long dreamed, the day when I should be my own master. Tofmorrow, approaching on leaden feet, seemed as if