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

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Driving Lessons There comes a time in almost everybody's life when he wishes to graduate from the foot-sore class of the pedest- rian to the relaxed class of the driver. Psychologists say it is a sudden wish to be the hunter instead of the hunted, and if the individual locks himself away in a dark room for a few weeks, the condition might pass away. lf, however, it persists and the patient succumbs to the urge to get behind the wheel, there is nothing that anyone can do about it. After this decision has been made, quite naturally the patient will begin to look for an instructor, as driving is not an art picked up from last month's Ladies Home Joumal or similar mechanics magazine. Assuming the beginner has acquired his teacher from the local driving school, rest home, or ulcer ward, he is now ready to hit lamong other thingsi the road . This road, by the way, should be long and straight if possible, however, this is optional, as the beginner will be too busy with more important things than the road and where it is. The instructor will inform the novice about the various pedals, levers, and dials that confront him on the first run. For instance, he will point out the difference between the choke and the nob that opens the ashtray. After the pupil has learned for thinks he has learnedl the importance of these items, he is now ready to take over at the helm with his trusty instructor who is trying to look as confident at his side as is humanly possible. The command to start the engine is given . Nervously the novice turns and pushes the various objects he knows will start the engine. We're off! shouts the instructor. The accelerator is cautiously pushed down now-nothing happens except the gurgling groans of the dying engine . At this point the beginner learns of another lever device, the brake. The trainer casually infomws the novice it is a customary proceedure to release the brake when pulling away. Several tries later the two occupants of the ill-treated car are speeding along at the dizzying rate of first gear. Next step is second gear. Grind-groan . Oh, yes, the clutch goes down when changing gears, doesn't it? Quite a natural mistake. Sooner or later fin the case of females much laterl the beginner progresses from this stage and becomes a full- fledged driver rushing around the streets with houses and most of the people whizzing by. Naturally even the professional driver is not perfect. For this reason l have concluded with a list of books which he will find very informative. - One Thousand and One Methods of Removing One Thousand and One Dents. - Law Courts and Their Operation . - Crossing the Bar. - Taxidermists' Handbook. Johnnie Gopher and the Dance There was a time when animals lived exactly as we do, and here to prove this is the story of Johnnie Gopher and the dance . Johnnie was worried, here it was two days before the annual school dance, the Stay-at-Home , and Marilyn Mongoose hadn't said that she would go. As he rounded a corner in the hall, he saw Marilyn talking to Joe. A wave of iealously swept over him, for Joe, the Goat, was a great football hero and played alongside his brothers the Rams. But he, Johnnie, was only a Gopher. Visions of Marilyn, dancing in her white strapless formal, were fast becoming dreams in which he would play no part. Then he thought maybe he did have a chance to take Marilyn . Joe, a great football hero, was conceited at times. So when noontime came, Johnnie hurried to find him. He walked up in his most unassuming manner. Say, Joe, he said, who are you taking to the 'Stay-at-Home ? Why, I thought you would know, he replied, Marilyn Mongoose. Oh, her, Johnnie answered, is that all? l'm taking Ruth Robin, one of the cheerleaders at Hill and Forest School. ln fact, l shall be meeting her at her house iust before the dance . She lives quite a ways, maybe ten miles walk or so. But gee, he added, it's sure worth it! Bye, kid, Joe shouted back. Hope l see you at the dance. l hope it will work. Will he be surprised when he gets there,-a good ten miles from nowhere. Johnnie said . When after the next class Johnnie saw Marilyn in the hall, she looked as if she had been crying. What is the matter? he asked . Oh, Johnnie, she sobbed, Joe iust told me he had another important engagement and he can't take me to the dance. What can l do? Don't worry, l'll take you, said Johnnie. And when the next night came, Johnnie and Marilyn, in her white formal, were dancing beneath the stars. Joe Goat was also under the stars, about ten miles away though, still looking for a Ruth Robin's house. So you see, even then, long ago, things were much the same-dances, parties, and football games. And if you have ever heard of a person on the wrong end of a joke being called Joe Goat it might easily have come from this incident. You never can tell. i7

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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

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She .fion As the first ray of daylight reflects off the brown and purple veldt, The lean and muscular body of the lion emerges from its lair, Walking unpurposely over the vibrant veldt, blossoming with vivacious hues, that once was his kingdom. But now fear is in the heart of this mighty and brave monarch, Like a coward he crouches low, hiding among the mysterious shadows, Age! Once he was a brave and a mighty monarch ruling his huge kingdom, As his roar, like a rolling thunder, angry, maiestic and commanding, would break the silence of the peaceful plain. But, man, the destroyer of living things, has cast a shadow of death . X If fe , ft if V! , M fs 'F 17 lx ll ll ltlxll X 1 it il Nl X I A K! xx QPK4.. With Uhoughts of ,fave The pine trees swayed softly, The sun glistened above, His heart filled with gladness, He had fallen in love. His love was no mad one Of passion and flair, But one filled with kindness, With trust, and with care. And he thought, as he sat there With her at his side, That they could be carefree With God as their Guide. Then the sun slowly faded, From the old hollow log, Home trod the two lovers: A boy and his dog. I8 Uhe GOUACY Who 's the stranger, mother dear? Look, he knows us, ain't he queer? Hush, my boy, don't talk so wild. He's your father, dearest child. He's my father? No such thing. Father died away last spring. Father didn't die, you dub! Father joined the golfing club. Then as seasons always close, He comes home to sit and doze. No place left for him to roam, That is why he's coming home. See he's not so queer my child All those golfing guys are wild. feflections When you are bitter and filled with doubt, Rest awhile, and dream, and think of the world about A winter tree etched on a sunset sky, At dawn the wild geese winging by, An evening star, new born, The sweetness of early morn . June-bugs droning in the noon-day glow, Street-lamps spraying diamonds on the snow, A mountain top, serene and cool, Still leaves mirrored in a mountain pool. A Springtime song you can't quite recall, The golden haze of early fall, The warmth of a beloved friend, The lights of home as you round the bend. Seek love and faith, and ask not proof, ls not God 's earth the simplest truth?