Central Collegiate Institute - Analecta Yearbook (Calgary, Alberta Canada)

Page 27 text:

The Analecta 27 At the next corner I stopped at the “Sorenson and Dingman Newstand” and bought a copy of the “Calgary Daily Herald .” I gasped. There in scream¬ ing headlines was written: “CALGARY GIRL PROVES WOMAN EQUAL TO MAN INTELLECTUALLY.” Miss Muriel Sherring’s plays declared by famous critics to rival those of Shaw and Ibsen.” I turned to the editorial page and read a striking article on a subject of interest to everyone—-“Why the Chicken Crossed the Road”—by Stephen Johnson, the editor. While perusing the paper I tried to cross the road and was nearly run over by Johnnie Souter, who was driving a Taylor Bros.’ ten-ton truck, and was a salesman for the “Wilkie Non-Slip Suspenders”. My life was saved by the timely interference of “Ruff” Bingham, the lady traffic cop. Just then a clear musical voice startled me by asking—“Excuse me, but I think I have met you some place. My name is Simmons, Mrs. John Simmons.” “Simmons, Simmons, Mrs. John Simmons? I don’t seem to place you, Mrs. Simmons, but your face is very familiar.” We shook hands, solemnly, searching eachother’s faces. I was about to ask where we had met, when a picture flashed into my mind of XII A, a general hubbub, a sea of faces from which one stood out. It had flashing dark eyes and laughing lips and wavy hair. The passing years had made very little change in that face. “Why Connie Bramesness!” “Betty, of course. ” “And so you’re married?” “Yes, a missionary to the North Pole. We are home on furlough now. You must come and visit me and see my adorable family, three boys and a girl.” “How time fl es,” I mused. “Have you seen any of our old class lately?” “Oh yes and I met Freda Allen the other day. She’s quite a writer you know—-she does articles for ‘College Comics’.” “Yes, I believe I have read some of her things. And Helen Brown I heard that she had eloped and her family had disowned her. Is it true?” “Goodness no! She married a very decent chap—quite an athlete and now he’s manager of the New York Giants.” “Do tell me about all the XIIA’s you know about,” I asked. “Well,” she began, “I’ve been staying at Mrs Taylor’s—she was Jean Rutherford, you know. She married a fellow who worked in a garage and now he owns the largest automobile factory in Canada. They have just one child, John Junior—-a boy of ten. I had tea at Isobel Becker’s, now Mrs. Abel; she’s quite a charming hostess and a society figure in the little old town. Muriel McPhaul has taken Miss Elliott’s place on the C.C.I. staff and is teaching H. of L. and keeping scores of pupils in at noon. And the human question box! He’s a lawyer now, and on the side dabbles in real estate. 7 hare is quite a string of King Apartments, subdivisions and so on. “Betty Clarke has become a great social worker and ran for Parliament last year. Got in, too! And—-oh, yes—Marjory Reid is a successful music teacher.” “Dear me, what a change, what a change!” I sighed. “That’s all I can remember—no!—there’s Dorothy Begg! She’s quite a lecturer and public speaker. I heard her on the Chautauqua.” “Well, I must run along now. So glad I saw you. Do write!” “Yes, certainly. Goodbye.” “Goodbye.” Then I decided to go up to the old Alma Mater and gaze upon the scenes of my past folly. There was a sign on the east gate—“Please do not park aero¬ planes on the lawn (strange how freely people use that word lawn). On the north fence I observed a deep curve near the centre, worn by generations of school girls, too lazy to go around by the gate. I tried to go in at the front door, but a

Page 26 text:

26 The Analecta “FOR I DIPPED INTO THE FUTURE” The evening breeze wafted the sweet-smelling scent of refining oil through my open window . The silvery moon beams cast dancing sprites of quivering rays as they filtered through the glistening, crystal-hung branches of the fir- trees, and shone in fantastic array on the shining, snow-covered floor of my garden. The Analecta was out at last. I had just come home from the Senior Literary Society debate on the “Yellow Peril,” and was really resting for the first time in two weeks. As I sat there in my window, I came under the mysterious spell of the moon (not love—this time). I seemed to be sinking, sinking. The whole world was sinking, sinking through time! Vaguely I remembered some¬ thing Mr. Woodman had told us about the fifth dimension. My alarm clock ticked faster and faster. The hands moved like those at the Universal Film Exchange which claim “Paramount Pictures make time fly.” The moon sank faster than Helen McKenzie sank in the Crystal Swim¬ ming Pool. It became daylight. Yet scarcely did the light last two seconds. The sun sped across the sky faster than “Rube” Gardiner doing the hundred yards. For a long time the sun chased the moon around the earth in a game of tag. It was like a cat trying to lick molasses off its tail. Finally they stopped, all tired out, with the sun on top. Looking from my window, I was struck with amazement; for where my garden had been, now stood a huge automobile factory, with a big sign on the roof, reading: “Ask to see the Taylor Bros.’ New Twin Twelve Speedster, 1941 Model.” Fifteen years had passed!! Well, I walked outdoors and down what had once been Eighth Avenue, but was now Higgins Avenue, after the new Canadian Senator of that name. I felt strangely out of place. My 1927 “Colleen Moore” sports dress seemed old-fashioned when compared with the new Honolulu Straw Dresses, which signs in the nineteenth floor window of Waterman’s Emporium told me had been imported by Mile. Irene de Marcie, dressmaker de luxe. At the corner of Higgins Avenue and Webster Road was a gigantic theatre, Pat Lang’s “Eyeopener.” Multi:olored posters (by Mary Hughes, sign painter) told me that Miss Lenor Brairesness, concert violinist, was on the bill for the week. The movie featured Marjorie McAsh (legally Mrs. Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.) in A. Sin ' .lair Abel’s screen vsrsion of “Abie’s Irish Rose” (Still running!) Looking through the glass entrance, I saw Reuben Gardiner, in a nice plum- colored uniform, taking tickets. How the town had changed in fifteen years! They were even paving Tenth Avenue and some said that the sidewalks along Eighth Street were cleaned once every winter at least! The fo intain in Mewata Park had water in it—except during rugby and baseball games—and the clock on too of Daniel’s Radiator Company (now controlled by Taylor Bros.) was only fifteen minutes wrong. Frederick Cooper, manager of the Calgary Municipal R. R. Company, told me that sometimes the South Calgary and Red Line cars made connections at Eight Street and Higgins Avenue; that is, if Conductor Waines wasn’t in a hurry to get home to lun ' .h. And so things went. Madge Irvine and Lorraine Ritchie were in the undertaking business and said they “hoped business would be good.” The law firm of Hillocks and Herring was practising (yes, they need the practise alright) and rumor had it that Doctor McLaren was about to consolidate with the Irvine and Ritchie Company. I found Emerson Borgal shining shoes at “Ye Olde Countrye Barber Shoppe” where Mrs. Emerson (formerly Miss Beatrice Anderson of Delia) was head manicurist; Layton Gardner was slinging hash at the Club Cafe and Isobel Cooper was still in the synthetic ink business. “Reggie” Foulds and Peggy were married and extremely happy, raising chickens on their farm near Okotoks and Reggie preaches at the Okotoks Pres¬ byterian church on Sundays.

Page 28 text:

28 The Analecta janitor with a long white beard told me to use the side door. After gaping at him for some moments I decided that he was Mr. Andy Hill. Well, I used the side door and finally wended my way through the long lines of baby carriages and nursemaids in the hall. (This seems to prove someone’s theory that the grade nine kids are getting smaller and dumber every year). But the school certainly had improved. Helen McKenzie ran a restaurant on the new roof garden. Ted Neilson had the candy concession and bowling alleys in the basement and did a little private bootlegging on the side. Doctor Hutchinson had retired, and who do you think was principal? None other than Harry Gibson, shell rims and all. He had reached this position after years of honest effort. And the teachers—! Helen Carr taught French and Joan Inglis was dispensing Algebra. What a difference fifteen years made! A sign on the bulletin board an¬ nounced that the Board of Education with Bill Ludlow as president was in¬ troducing horse racing as a special course, and dancing for students every night from 9 to 3. At this point I awoke and found it all a vision, but every time I think of that dream, when 1 see Emerson Borgal, I have to laugh. GRADUATION! Graduation—what is it? The term, generally speaking, signifies one of the important events in the life of the boy or girl of today. It means the end of school days and a taking hold of the duties of life—the end of youth and the entering into adult life, manhood and womanhood—-the end of class work confined within four walls, and the commencement of the world’s work where space and distance are negative quantities—the end of obtaining knowledge under paid tutors, and the beginning of the acquiring of wisdom through experience,—the end of dependence and the beginning of in¬ dependence,—a testing of the strength of one’s wings, and the first attempt to stand on one’s own feet. All these and more are what graduation means. Now, just how would the average student sum it up for himself? Probably, something like this-—a breaking of old ties, a separating from old associates, and a feeling similar to that of a young bird standing on the edge of the parental nest. Nevertheless, the majority take it rather philosophically. A few see a good time ahead; a number, whose thoughts are on University life, picture themselves rolling peanuts with their noses, or imagine what a cold dip would be like, when least expected; still others, wonder how it will feel to teach instead of being taught. A very small minority, either from natural timidity, or from the faculty of seeing what rare opportunities await those capable of mastering world-wide problems, with excusable nervousness or temerity, as the case may be, engage in a private chat with their instructor, a successful business man, the family doctor or any one whom they think would be likely to give them the advantage of his experience. The result, to their surprise, is a different viewpoint from each one with whom they converse. The instructor stresses concentration; the minister, faith; the dentist diet; the lawyer peace “at all costs”; the manager, work; the physician, health, and so forth. The wise student will find in these friendly chats hints, helps and much food for thought. But, he will be convinced that he must carve out a line of activity for himself irrespective of others, and that success depends entirely on his own efforts. ZELLA JEANNE OLIVER, XIIB