Central Etobicoke High School - Etobian Yearbook (Etobicoke, Ontario Canada)

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Cfikecib QQ I , Qlln Q! ecmfedgfome rx s.,v-mains -.. I had never known a train to go so fast. All afternoon my sister and I had watched trees, houses, streets, and telephone poles go whizzing by, and we both fully expected to find ourselves sailing through the clouds any minute . And yet, I reflected, we were going so slowly. Sheila, curled up beside me, would have agreed had she been awake. For the last mile is the longest mile, and in one hour we would be home . What would it be like to be home again, I wondered, home on the little farm by the sea? What would they be like-the family and the friends I had left last summer? I remembered the hill covered with blue- berries and spruce trees, the wharves, the odour of freshly-tanned fishing nets, the cows in the pasture. Would they all be the same after my year in the city? Was I? I heard a snicker from Sheila's direction . Was she thinking of the same things, things like the pile of old magazines in the attic where we had hidden time after time to escape the dreadful chore of doing dishes, or of the blankets we had stuffed against the crack under our door so Mom wouldn't see our light and know how long we stayed up to read? No, I doubt it. She was probably thinking of the boys she had met the summer before, and planning ways to 'be with them oftener this summer than Mom thought she should . 7 We looked out the window again . The same old telephone poles were still whizzing by, but the houses and the streets were different. The houses were Nova Scotia houses, nestled in valleys or perched on hills-little frame dwellings that seemed to say, You're almost home , and the streeets were quiet little streets of Nova Scotia, winding east- ward to the Atlantic. Slowly, the train pulled through Bedford and into Halifax. Soon we would see them-Mom and Dad and the kids - craning their necks in the direction of the platform . The porter came through the car to pick up the bags, and the lights came on as we entered the station . Ahead of us was the station waiting . Down the platform we headed, on feet kept from flying only by suitcas and shopping bags full to overflowing, down the platform and into Q rush of , Hello and How've you been? George was a bit taller, perhaps, Mom, a bit grayer, but they hadn't really changed. Neither had the hill, the wharves, or the tempermental old wood stove in the kitchen, we found out later. I don't think they ever will, because to my sister and me, those things will always spell Home . DHNSYDNA I5

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The tree is dead . W We had planted it early on a fine spring morning in a solitary spot of the flower garden, where it would flourish with the aid of the warm summer sun, and the water from the drain pipe at the corner of the house. It was a very tiny pine tree, only six inches high, but the frailty of its branches was offset by the proud way that it tossed its topmost tassle of needles. As I was firmly patting the last handful of the moist earth around its base, Ed had yanked my hair and laughed, If ye let tha wee tree dae, I wiI'na longer court ye. No tree, no me! I remember staring with horror at the stain on his white wool sweater made by that last handful of moist dirt that I had thrown at him in mock anger, but he had iust laughed and had given my arm a playful twist. As the tree grew taller, and the needles grew more numerous, our good times grew more num- erous too. We laughed together at school plays, dances, and parties, we explored together on hikes, canoe trips on the lake, and window-shopping in the iungle of city skyscrapers, and we were quiet together listening to records, and playing endless games of chess. M the tree grew stronger, so our friendship grew stronger. In fact, the tree seemed to be a symbol of our friend- f ' ship, and I shrank from the thought of what might happen if the tree should die . Last spring, on the little tree's birthday, Ed and I spent our - I ' last evening together for the duration of the summer. I was to 519- hfe' W f-A nl Y , ff 4 ' E ff-'E x take a summer trip with my family, and I would not see Ed until X - . z' I the coming autumn. We could almost smell the warmth of the J' .., 'W dying day that evening as we watched the sun set, and a full moon grace the heavens with her twinkling iewels. A cool breeze danced over every blade of green spring grass, and the early I summer flowers scented the air with their perfume. I remember ,' I I . I Q gf:-.i!iL .,,,,.--. 5 I O V N thinking, What a beautifully romantic evening it is , and I had had hopes until Ed leaned toward me and whispered softly, I'II race ye 'round tha block, Stinky. Tha winner decides on his ane prize. I know what I'II demand when I win, I thoughtasl tore down the road. I'II make him take advantage of the beautiful even- as Q I F1 ing and-, It was too late! He was sitting grinning at me when I finally reached the house. WeII , what do you want for a prize? Hoot mon, that isa wee problem, Lass. A wee bit of candy perhaps? Just like a little boy, aren't you? I sulked. Besides I have none. Then let's gae intae tha hoose 'n see wha your mither hae tae eat. Must you always think of your stomach? Ed laughed, I forget sometimes, Lass, but it always reminds me somehoo! Oh, he kissed me good-bye before he left-right in the middle of me wee bit of a nose . But, iust before he left, he said gently in his soft Scotch burr, I'lI watch tha wee tree, Lass, until ye return. I knew that he would too. Ed left for college early last fall, and at that time our little tree was in the best of health, but winter can be cruel to such a little tree. The record-breaking snowstorm, and the freezing winter wind broke the little tree, and it died the other day. No one has ever wept for the loss of a tree as I did, nor could any tears have been shed in greater despair. I wrote to Ed to tell him, and I have his answering telegram here in my hand, but I dare not open it. Did he really mean what he said on that fine spring morning so long ago? Have I always imagined that he might care for me a little in his own way? The tree was always the closest symbol of our relationship. Are my deep- est fears to be realized? I cannot stand it any longer. I must read it now! Turn funeral into engagement party stop Iwill bring ring stop Love Ed. ' I4

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Salad Girl at Bigwin Inn Now that I look back on it all I believe it was the best summer I ever spent. I went to work as salad girl atone of Canada 's largest summer resorts, Bigwin Inn on the Lake of Bays. Here dwelt the epitome of wealth far from the reach of the outer world and surrounded by virgin wilderness. The main lodge, called the Rotunda, reminded me of a medieval castle. lt was immense, rustic, and beautiful. Great massive beams arched the lounge, and a woollen shop in the upper balcony had rich plaid blankets draped carefully over the railing. Wealthy, bored-looking guests strolled across the long, oriental carpets or played a game of chess by the fire. The atmosphere breathed importance, elegance and aloofness. In this big, white-washed barn of a place, fifteen cooks, twenty-one salad girls, ten dish washers, a head chef, an advisory chef, and a dietitian lived together amid the rush and confus- ion of culinary activities. I saw this life through the eyes of a pantry maid. I can still smell the trays and trays of lettuce that littered our counters as we feverishly worked to fill one hundred and fifty little lettuce cups by twelve o'clock with iust the right amount of salad garnished to please the eyes of our kitchen superiors who demanded nothing less than perfection even to a sprig of parsley. lt was usually at this moment that Albert, our little advisory chef, would appear from around an ice-box and demand in his Swiss-Austrian accent, Vat are you doing? You cannot send dose saladz out like dat! Look! l'Il show you! and in a second, one hundred and fifty salads lay in a heap while Albert made the example to copy. And we began again. He was a philosopher in everything from making caviar to peeling onions. Look here! he would often say, l don't care if it takes twenty crates of lettuce, you make dise saladz and you make dem right! They must be beaootyful, dey must have colah, life, build them up, high, like dis! Not flat on de plate! I had never thought of building salads as an aesthetic accomplishment, but I soon learned that unless one worked with fruits and vegetables as an artist does with paints and brushes, one never was allowed to make salads. l literally felt like Picasso himself the day I made my first three-fifty salad plate. And it was beautiful! It was like a lettuce sea shell and it was filled with lobster salad. On top were some shredded almonds, three carefully placed Spanish olives, and two half slices of tomato, the climax was a lobster claw on one side and a sprig of parsley on top. This was a creation of the salad pantry. But never think we were .a world apart. Often it was necessary to go to the cold meat table to get a tray of sliced turkey or ham. Here Tony, the Austrian king of gravies and dressings, held sway. He couldn't have been better fitted for his part as a cook if he had stepped from the cine- ma. His favourite expression was Holy Shmokes! and every salad girl was Duchess. Yet he was a master at arranging a tray of hors d'oeuvres and spicing meats. One of my jobs was arranging cheese trays. This was a very boring, laborious task taking about three hours of my day. For this reason, I was always glad when Bill, a scholarly youth who was in charge of cooking the steaks and filet mignon, would stop by to chat. After I had presented him with his favourite bit of roquefort cheese, our conversation usually turned to books. He was not a college student, but his knowledge of literature was amazing. What have you read of Milton? he would ask, or land this literally was truel You know I find some of the translations of the ancient Hindu treaties very interesting. My iaw would drop!-and I would go on cutting cheese. There were other colorful people in the Bigwin kitchen. I remembered first hearing a volley of cursing and then seeing Max, the head chef, trying to get a banquet out on time. There was the tall, butterscotch-complexioned Latvian soft-pudding chef who, I heard, came in second in the ski olympics. Paul, a young French-Canadian chef across the way, suddenly received much sympathy when a stove blew up in his face. Honey, a blonde waitress, was the only one able to brag a date with the head of the hotel. She could even ruffle Albert's hair and get away with it. I shall never forget Mr. Lyons, dietitian, who, more like a mouse than a lion, silently appeared from time to time and left iust as silently. Let the Brahmin guests walk the forbidden paths, fill the exclusive dance pavilion, and stroll the Rotunda. This was my kitchen, I wanted no more. I6