Buxton School - Yearbook (Williamstown, MA)

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dn oulrlandlngjaclor fha! ham alwayw lleen parl of llze currzculum fm llze annual .rchool frzp. W'e have gone lofve dljfferenl placew l.l'I.hyK't' tflzlfdfflll .zfearm and have alwayf premenled a play. Y7Il'J'.1ft?t1l' lhe Hlladwoman of Challlolu wax given fn lhe .fall lerm lo .reveral audfencem fn a t'l.L'l.l71lll lhal nzowl of um know .ro ll wa.r no! acknowledged a.r a regular fchool lrzp, al- lhough Il wax an exlrenzelzf e.x'cz'l1'ng lour. W e decide upon lhe lrzp wflh lhe Idea of acquzrfnlzj new eJcperz'ence.r ,for our.relve.r and QIIIIUIIIZQQ pleawure lo olherm. Zhe world aw fl flanafr loday pre.renl.r .ruch an unlrellled pzclure fha! when we came up wflh lhe Idea of .111'vz'ng a l'f?ll1Ill.0Ll.I' pageanl wflh lhe words' laken jronz len .areal .rcrzpluref everyone agreed lhal would he an en ornzoum challenge. The pa-oeanl wa.r laken lo .Yew Yorkbfor Iwo dayf. Yhere wax a per- formance .given al llze Turlle 1361-lf ,llumic SClI00l-l.0f-fbf6ll0l1 .rludenl.v, and olhem' who were fnleremled. live hroughl hack .vfxbforezlqn J'lllI2,El1h1'Qflll:f7't l'Kl1l I'Illll'0lIl1l1.ll't'J'fbi' a weekend conference fn Wl.lll.dm.Vl0WH. Uur lopfc, lhe haxfc unllu of all relzlqfonm, ,reenzf alnzomlxforqollen loday. lffejeel lhal lhe idea of one Godfor all, fn H1'.r l.l'ldI.l'l.dlldl way, wax .rlmplzf prefenled and lhal ll wax on lhzlr common l1a.r1'.r lhal lhe .uoufh.r of many lzackgroundr could dzlrcum and correlale lheir 1'dea.r and unfle In lhe .rpfrflual undenrlandfng of all.fa1'll1.r. T he fprlng comew and wfllz If all .rhadem of .rplendor and excflefnenl. fl lrrealh of jre.rhnelr.r louchem lhe weed, lhe Nower, and llze hearl. .llany people wander and walk in llzefeldm and woodr, ana' al.ro expre.r.r lhrough wr1'I1'ng lhelr ,feeling of lhe magnflude of lhzlr relzfrllz, afler lhe requiem of wfnler. page lhirly

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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

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A SONNET There is a constant withering in the heart Which saddens the mind when we are left alone For gesture, joy, we cannot hold as stone Ceasing to be remembered fall apart. When I look at you your eyes impart Stillness, golden-static music tone Which sends a tonic fluting through the bone, Yet when you cease to be it will depart. We are complexities with too much soul Marring the simple with our spider minds. We thread an aimless web without a goal Which unaware catches the fearful winds. Because I can't divine the storm above, Longing, I must return to you in love. - Xllary Laihrop lk HF lk lk lk DO not feel as though l am here tonight. Not here, now, where l will always love to be, but far off in the sky gliding across heaven with the moon. My body, although touched, feels no warmth, but only the desire to comfort the ones who so readily withdraw. The desire to express this natural tenderness that floats across the heavens with me. The tenderness that remains enclosed in tangible shape. Words which wander about changing in height and length but never in meaning. Were I to say these thoughts out loud, I would glide easily from the sky and once again feel the warmth of the hands on my back. The natural emotions of association would flow warmly through my soul and the hesitation present would cease. The moon glides further along the heaven and my words are chilled into silence. -Thelma ddelman lk Ill lk Ili if GOD AND NATURE Nature is not god For god is the soul of man Who looks upon nature. And he who perceives nature most deeply Is the artist. And it is he who is most pious. - fllaqzf Lalhrop page lhirly-one