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

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THE 1951- SILVER SANDS CULTURE nys ff AD ALWAYS said, Everyone should have a hobby. And he was right, I suppose. Anyhow he thinks so. Dad is a great collector of artg in fact, our house is so full of art that I sometimes wonder why some of this so-called culture doesn't rub off on me. However, at present I am inter- ested in an altogether different hobby -very ditferent. This hobby answers to the name of Johnny. Noyv I wouldn't go so far as to say that Johnny is uncultured. I mean, after all, he is star halfback of the local football team. But, of course, Dad doesn't seem to think that playing football demands much in the way of artistic talent. Can you imagine any one's dreaming such a thing! Well, this is all leading up to the night that I was to have my first date with johnny. He just had to impress Dad. If only he didn't say anything, Dad wouldn't know that johnny was illiterate. fHe's not really-well, not exactly, but you know how football players are.J So, I thought if Johnny didn't talk at all, maybe Dad would think he was the quiet, intellectual type. On that memorable evening when the doorbell finally rang, I hurried to answer with a prayer in my heart. By Mary Ormsby, '52 Oh, johnny, please let Dad like you l I opened the door and there he stood. I smiledg he smiled back. Oh no! My hero lost a front tooth in that big game todayl Oh well, if he just keeps his mouth closed . . . I brought Johnny into the living- room to meet Dad. I thought to my- self, This is it I After the brief introduction, I heard Dad say to Johnny, How would you like to see a few of my prize paintings and draw- ings, son P I knew this opening line by heart, for Dad said it to every boy who called for me. Poor johnny! The only drawings he knew about were the usual rathes at school for the football team's uniforms. Nevertheless, Johnny, always the perfect gentleman, let Dad lead him into the study where the masterpieces were kept. Johnny, silently suffering through Dad's little explanation of each picture, really tried to look inter- ested anyhow. Then Dad turned sud- denly to a color creation that had a place of honor among the others and asked, Well, my boy, what do you think of this one? My dream man looked at the speci- fied painting and brilliantly replied, That's nice. It's a . . . a . . . R . . . Rembrandt, ain't it ? Oh no! What a blunder! Even I

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Reserves, ,was called back to active duty. Cathy, he had said, our own happiness will have to wait just for a little while, and then I'll come back to you. I'l1 be glad to iight so that our children can grow up in a happy world. His words had consoled Cathy. Before she realized what was happening, Dick ,was on his way to Korea. f Tm: 1951 SILVER SANDS And. now it was raining again. To- morrow Dick was coming home. They would be at Mass together as they had been so often in the past. She slowly took the telegram from the table be- side her. Though the words were a blur, she knew all too well what they were: We regret to inform you that Private Richard McNealis . . . The rain fell faster. 'k 'k 'A' ERE I SIT admiring your puzzled figure. You have caused me no end of trouble, but there you sit storing back at me with a blank expression. Furthermore, you make no effort whatsoever to explain yourself. Have you nothing to offer in defense of these accusing words! ' You're impossible! You have no feeling for me or any- one else. You merely accept the cutting words and retain 4 school. that plain-Jane look. Figures like yours have kept the paper factories in business and people like me in late after I stab you with my pencil and curse you with my eyes, but still I am not satisfied with your figure. Your lanky lines, crooked posture, and enormous capacity are beyond my comprehension. Everywhere I look I see ports of you staring back at me. I put up with your sarcastic grin and smirking shrewdness five days out of every week, and even then you haunt me over week-ends. You bore me, tire me, and make me with I had never met you. But why am I arguing with you! Well yes, I suppose I do get some satisfaction out of it. My chest does feel a little lighter and yet my heart feels heavy. I suppose I am being mean and inconsiderate. After all, it im't your fault that you have a figure like a twisted wire. But you irritate me so,' it makes me very angry to think that such a confusing little you could cause me so much anxiety. Oh well, I suppose I'll just never understand-you and your geo- metric figure! MARIE McDs1zMo'r'r, '53 11

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knew it couldn't possibly be a Rem- brandt! But will wonders never cease! Dad actually beamed at Johnny, then turned to us and said, You two run along now and have a good time. When we got outside, Johnny smiled his sweet, toothless grin and THE 1951 SILVER SANDS said, What a character l Then I smiled back and replied, Yes, what a character l But what johnny didn't know was that Dad liked him a lot, a whole lot. How could he help liking someone who mistook one of his very own paintings for a Rembrandt! 'A' i' 'k OTHER AT ONE time resided in Atlantic City which is suitably called The Playground of the World. Some of us go there to take advantage of the health-giving air, but most visitors usually promenade the boardwalk Molina Wu fl Gai as part of a most enjoyable routine. One afternoon as Mother was doing just that, she noticed, as she approached New Jersey Avenue, that o crowd had gathered. As she went nearer, she could discern a handsomely dressed couple, each with a large Boxer dog on a leash. A photographer was trying to take a snapshot of them, probably for the rotogravure section of some magasine. He had difficulty in getting a picture because of the pulling and straining of the dogs on their leashes. The owner of the dogs, turning to a gentleman in the front of the crowd, asked, S ir, would you mind meowing like a cat! The gentleman gave a distainful look and walked away. In another attempt he turned to Mother asking, Miss, would you be obliging enough to meow like a catf' Mother was curious and obliging. Instantly the two Boxers became very alert and still, looking over in the direction from which the sound was coming. Thus the photographer secured a perfect picture. After the crowd had dispersed, Mother discovered that the owner of the beautiful dogs was none other than Francis X. Bushman, former matinee idol of the silent screen. Lonnnlun BELIN, '51 13