Catholic High School For Girls - Silver Sands Yearbook (Philadelphia, PA)

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PAPA, by his own admission, was once a Beau Brummel with blond hair, blue eyes and rosy cheeks, and the ladies had to be driven forcibly from his mother's doorsteps. fMamma refuses to corroborate this wild talej. His eyes are still wonderfully blue, but now there are only barely per- ceptible traces of his fabulous beauty. However, if the years have filched from him his youthful charm, they have replaced it with a magnanimous heart and mind, and he has created a deep and lasting influence over his children. I can remember well my first trip to the seashore with the blue-and- white sky overhead, the sunny sands on which Mamma had us youngsters seated, and the vast expanse of spar- kling waters. Out there in the deep somewhere, Papa was frisking around. Mamma always referred to him as a fish, Mamma herself was inclined to pick her way down to the ocean, test it cautiously with her big toe, and then ease herself gently into its waters. This was a source of amuse- ment to Papa g and feeling reckless with the power of the elements, he crept underwater upon Mamma who was gingerly finishing her testing routine, and pulled her in with a plopl The water must have been all of two feet, and Mamma was plainly visible to view, but somehow some water must have entered her eyes and mouth. To Mamma, this s Tin: 1949 Snvzn Sarms was drowning! She rescued herself from the danger, gasped her way to safety on the beach, and then broke into an angry squawking. Her impress- ionable chicks sat wide-eyed and open- cared as Papa's hilarity faded to a grin and died amidst futile apologies and explanations. We went home in- stilled with a new sense of danger, and Papa went home with his tail dragging and his ears down. To this day, though maturity has erased many childish fears, none of us will become so familiar with the ocean as to cultivate the art of swimming. We all follow Mamma's routine at the seashore. When our only boy went overseas to war, we were not so con- cerned with his being shot on land as we were with the fact that he might die on the waters. Life with Papa has developed in Mamma the skills of the plumber, electrician, and general maintenance man. Every summer our screens are erected according to a pattem. It will be Memorial Day, or some equally rare and precious day of leisure, and Papa. will be contem- plating pleasant relaxation while Mamma calculates means of employ- ing this source of available labor. So Papa finds himself in the cellar where he totes the screens while Mamma issues the orders. When the screens are assembled in the back of the house, Mamma considers Papa's ability suf- ficent to dust them with little inter- N a .

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Tm: 1949 Sxnvmx Sums ference from her. However, the screens usually have to be straightened and adjusted and require all sorts of nails and screws. Mamma is not particularly fond of Papa's manner of wielding a hammer, nor does she have confidence in his method of placing nails: therefore, Mamma proceeds to give directions which Papa never understands. Her efforts to impart her ideas and Papa's inability to com- prehend often get quite loud, and the noise of Mamma and Papa together with the noise of the hammer makes any kind of concentration by their children well-nigh impossible. Mamma can be heard to exasperate, joe, it's a good thing God made you a boss. You don't appear to be much good for anything else. Shortly thereafter, Papa will seek the solace of his arm chair in the living room, and casting his eyes, martyr-like. to the ceiling, will ejaculate, O Lord, nobody knows what I go through l However, it is my private opinion that Papa is capable of a really pro- fessional job if Mamma would only get out of the back seat, for I recall the two-inch patch that he so skillfully applied to our screen door this year and the air of quiet satisfaction and pride which emanated from him throughout the entire day. Contrary to the usual order in families, when they plan to go out, Mamma is always ready before Papa. Papa's hair-do can be the source of maddening delay. Mamma restlessly waits downstairs and sputters inter- mittently, ujoe, for heaven's sake, hurry up I Papa is upstairs engrossed in the problem of covering a broad dome with a few hairs. It presents a. challenge, but Papa has become quite skilled. With the aid of a long, slender comb, he spaces each hair with mathe- matical accuracy, and with the aid of a wide, flat hairbrush, he plasters them into position. His patience, his ap- plication and his technique are wonderful to see. On occasion, when a nettled Mamma and a self-satisfied Papa finally leave our portals, a play- ful breeze has been known to play havoc with his coiffure and instantly ruin the tedious work of an hour. I see the years already beginning to settle upon my Papa, although he is yet remarkably slim and grace- ful of figure. I behold him quietly hard-working and conscientious, and when I notice that his hair is less blond and a little whiter, I am aware of the sweet comfort that pervades my life and the wonderful opportunity he has made available to me, and my heart wells up with love for my Papa.