Buxton School - Yearbook (Williamstown, MA)

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THE PAINTED SM ILE ODERICK propped his crooked elbows on the sill of his window and glanced across the soft red brick of the tenements with their splashes of color made by potted geraniums and checked kitchen curtains whipping against the window frames. He followed the slant lines of the fire escapes to their termination in the little dirt squares below where the pachysandra and ivy struggled in the grey sooty earth. He followed the contour of the sagging fences 7 the pathway of the alley cats. He caught the variation of color on the wash lines. Roderick smiled and nibbled the end of his paint brush. It was the time in the evening when the eastern windows hold the glint of the western sun, and cooking smells mingle with clinking silver and dishware to be carried away on a small sighing breeze. The same breeze which rocked the leaves of a tree below and the same which fanned lightly his hollow cheek . . . wafted playfully, laughingly across his hol- low cheek. Then Roderick bit hard on the end of his paint brush and the wood split and splintered inside his mouth. He leaned his head far out the window and spat at the grimy dirt of the square yard below. He laughed now, and his laugh rose to a Crescendo and it roared on the rising wave of the sighing breeze. Laugh, Roderick, laugh. Laugh at the little woman who hangs out her window across the way, laugh at the stooped little man who shakes his cane at a prowling tomcat, laugh at the street urchin who bounces his indian rubber ball against the sag- ging fence. Laugh, Roderick, laugh - but remember the echo of that laugh rebounds on the faces of the soft red brick to mock you. Roderick, remember well your first night here, when you flung open this window as it is now and you smiled at the woman who hung from her window, and watched the color of the sinking sun die on her rounded cheek while the same sighing breeze caught a small laugh and carried it to the trees where it could mingle with the laughing of the leaves. Roderick, remember well the morning. The smell of bacon and coffee grounds that hung in the air before the little breeze awakened. Your canvas was bare, but you painted on it with sure strokes, the warmth of the soft colored brick and the yellow hue of the cornices. You used burnt umber and sooty black in the shadows and in the dark caverns of the windows. You purpled the shadows of the paving stones below, dabbed yellow-green for the sun-touched leaves. Roderick, you nibbled gently on the end of your brush that day and you hummed softly. As you painted, you dreamed of a one-man show. White-haired critics stroking whitened beards, dark, thin young men gesturing with long- fingered hands, women sighing, smiling, maybe even crying. People awed by the power of your color, Roderick, your composition, each object page lwenly-sigh!

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fm-1' 2-vw' we-v--T - - When Chrilrlmac come.r il 111' lime for .ringing and going oul info lhe nighl bundled up wilh a good .rupply of .rong.r-for lhe .rurrounding hou.fe.r. Alma al lhilr lime, we have a Chrilrlmaw parly for everyone connecled wilh lhe Jchool. Each penron draw.r .romeone el.re'.f name a week before, and lhi.r re.rull.f in lhe giving of .filly pre.renl.r and lhe reading of lzumoroua' poem.r allached lo lhe gifl.r. We .ring carolr aflerwardr and end lhe evening with refremhmen l.r and dancing. The winler .reem.r lo go quickly for lhere are .ro many acliviliex and recrealionw lo fill up our lime. Xllany ouldoor job.r are lo be done .ruch am chopping wood for lhe freplacea' and felling lreewfor lumber. Qflen al 5.45 in llze morning a .rmall group would be oul in lhe wood.f. Thi.r wa.r by no mean.r a compulwoly job bul ralher lhe incenlive waffound in lhe peace of lhe wood.r and lhe .rpirilual beauly of an early morning .runri.re plum a greal feeling of accomplilrhmenl. There waw alwaga hol coffee before going oul and lime lo relax and lalk. AJ- French wa.r ollen hallinglzf Jpoken, llze .rleepg morningx were alive and amu.ring. One parlicularly wonderful morning llze group gol inlo lhe car and drove lo lhe lop of lhe lllohawk Trail lo walch lhe .funriwe over lhe valley. Ulher morn ing.f were Jpenl, when il wax loo cold lo work, lalking, lzlrlening lo mu.ric, or walking. Work program on Saturday morning i.r alro a necemraly par! of lhe gear'.r cooperalive accompliwhmenl. I l includew .ruch lhingw a.r cleaning lhe hou,re, working on lhe groundc and converling lhe old corn crib inlo a lhealre. Belween Chrilrlmaa' and Jpring, becauwe of lhe deep Jnow, much of lhe lime i.f .fpenl indoonr and lhiw period .rcemw lhe mo.rl inlenfefor inlelleclual growlh, including mach crealive wriling. Pk HF lk Pk Pk l stopped, I listened, but did not enter ing I heard the whispers, then laughter free and long. I started to enter, but turned away again For I did not belong. S Ann Jlalhewa' wk Ik if lk Ik A soft mesh spreads swiftly over the earth trapping those whose minds have drained the earth of all beauty. Those small enough slipped easily through, and once again called on the Cyclops to hurl away all wretched existence. - Thelma Adelman page lwenly-.reven

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balanced under the dexterity of your trained hand. The picture of great success lay in those fingertips, didn't it, Roderick? Money - clinking in your pocket. Money . . . money for happiness, Roderick. You painted for many days here in this room. Sometimes you carried your canvas and easel and smudged paint box to the entrance of the park, or to the vegetable and fruit centers where stubby Italians smiled at their customers as they wiped their hands on their wide white aprons. You painted brocaded balconies, shaded courtyards, winding alleys lined with overflowing garbage cans. You recorded the cobblestones on the streets where the weary wagon horses hauled carts of flowers. A massive dark shadow has been cast on your soul, Roderick, or is it a shadow? Perhaps, at last, it is light . . . the first light. You wanted happiness, Roderick. Material success gathered with the power of your own hand. Ah, that was valiant of you and you thought it valiant. But, Roderick, let me point out to you the place where real happiness dwells. Look again at the woman on whose cheek the color of the sinking sun dies. She's smiling a deep smile. The man with his cane is now standing under his tree where the tomcat perches in the lower branches. He is laughing now as he turns to his wife standing in the door, sliding the apron off from around her waist. She returns his laugh with a slow smile which blends into her cheeks and whose warmth reflects in her eyes. lt's the smile which reveals itself slowly, and deepens on a face - that is the true smile of the happiness you seek. Roderick, if you look hard you will see the little street urchin through the leaves. He has just caught his ball once more as it rebounds from the fence. Roderick, he is dirty and thin, but he too is laughing as he clasps the ball in the cup of his hands. Do you remember the Italian standing before his fruit stand? He was talking with a woman in a tattered black coat. There were wisps of straight grey hair showing from under the faded silk scarf. She was telling him that her son had gone to serve his country and, Roderick, she smiled a gentle but proud smile. The creation of her life, Roderick, was finished, and she smiled on its completion. The people of your paintings have smiles such as the one you once wore. A painted smile - just as it was only painted on your face. Your smile is as shallow as the paint on your canvas. You have searched for something that was nothing, and now, Roderick, when the dexterity of your hand is no longer there, you realize that it is not your hand that creates a great masterpiece. It is the spirit that lies embedded in your soul. Not money for happiness, Roderick. Your soul for happi- ness. Roderick laughed once more, and the echo of that laugh faded into the face of the soft brick. -Flzkabelh Slzulman page lwenly-nine