Eleanor McMain High School - Echoes Yearbook (New Orleans, LA)

 - Class of 1945

Page 38 of 68

 

Eleanor McMain High School - Echoes Yearbook (New Orleans, LA) online yearbook collection, 1945 Edition, Page 38 of 68
Page 38 of 68



Eleanor McMain High School - Echoes Yearbook (New Orleans, LA) online yearbook collection, 1945 Edition, Page 37
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Page 38 text:

was ag , . . - Q -ef -1 fill ti.-fiqwffftgf ' ':f.-Q1:w.?T-11-is.-ff 1 '.-g- . .. , - X them with those who are near and dear to him. That would be in a farther future, a quieter time among familiar things, when grass will spring from the earth as if it' came from some boundless source. He will wait for it, knowing, it will be his, for as he had known the face of America, he knows now her heart and her spirit. ' Suddenly hewas brought back to reality and he smiled to himself as the ripples on the beach seemed to echo-"My Old Kentucky Home- Far Away." Casey A HEAVY curtain of smoke arose as the fog of early morning lay like a blanket over the bloody battle- field, where watchful men were try- ing to penetrate the soupy atmos- phere about them. No sound was heard except the distant thunder of anti-aircraft at the front and the closer groans and cries of -the woun- ded. In the trenches and behind the lines, medical men were moving with quick efficiency as the stretcher bearers carried in the slightly wound- ed cases which could be patched up under fire. The more seriously wounded were carried back to the hospital, if possible, or treated as best they could be under the present conditions. As the smoke slowly as- cended, the firing began and soon the noise of machine gun and rifle took the place of the death-like quiet- ness preceding. Like the bouncing up of a jack-in- the-box when the lid is raised, a huge red setter leaped from a distant shell crater and made his way quickly but carefully across the field in the 'di- rection of the front trench. On his back was strapped, a small leather case containing a message for the lieutenant in the trench. The dog, sensing that his appearance was a goodtarget for snipers, ran as close to the ground as possible. At inter- vals, if the shooting became extreme- ly difficult to dodge, and if he were near a foxhole, he would drop into it until the shooting slackened and he was able to proceed amid slighter disturbances. Within a few feet of the trench the force ofan exploding hand grenade near-by, knocked him down andlcovered him with the dirt that had been torn from the earth Thirty-.fix X with the explosion. He lay for a min- ute beneath the debris, not hurt, but only stunnedg then with a final burst of strength he ran for the comfort- ing shelter of the trench, which he gratefully accepted. He was exhausted, and as the mes- sage was removed from its case and an answer written, he lay on the hard dirt floor of the trench with his chin on his paws, and let his mind wander back to his home. He had come to the family as a tiny, silky red pup with long ears and big paws. They called him "Casey,," not for the famous Casey Jones, but because that name seemed suited to him. He was, you know, an Irish setter, though at first everyone doubted it. But as he grew older, he became slim and graceful and indeed lived up to his name. His face, long and well shaped, had a proud, arro- gant, rather superior look and his eyes were alert and watchful. His ears never dropped, even in scolding, but held themselves erect defiantly. His hair was silky and thick and of a rusty reddish color. His tail, long and forever wagging, resembled the plume of a fashionable lady's hat. Casey was loved by-the family and all who knew him, yet he was feared and respected by the dogs and cats of the neighborhood. For it was his joy to fight with the dogs or 1'un the cats up a tree. But if he were scratch- ed or hurt in some way, he allowed no one to doctor him. He was his own physician and healer. Above ev- erything else, Casey loved hunting. Just the removal of the shot gun or twenty-two rifle from the closet would send him into hysterical bark- ing, and if the words, "How about it, Casey, let's go hunting . . . ?" were spoken, his joy was limitless. He could roam through the woods for hours, never tiring, treeing squirrels or chipmunks and chasing rabbits or even cows, if he could find nothing betterq Finally arriving home again, wearily but triumphantly, Casey al- Advice Hazel Muller, Post Graduate Build you castles in the air, Plant your thoughts with flowers fair, Pave your roads -with sbining truth, Start your life in dreaming youth. ways carried' in his mouth one ofthe- prizes, which he proudly lay before the family. Then one calm Sunday evening the peaceful life came to an 'abrupt end. The United States was at war with Japan. The men and boys every- where were joining some branch of the service. Two from Casey's family went, one never to return-and then they decided to let Casey go, too. The next six months were the most difficult in Casey's life. He was taught, not to be loving 'and gentle, as he had been at home, but to be suspicious of everyone. He was taught to run under heavy fire, to jump over deep ditches and high walls. For the first time in his life Casey also learned what it was to be hungry and thirsty. But he survived the rigid tests and landed smack in the middle of trouble, spelled N-A-Z-I. His train of thoughts were inter- rupted with the placing of the mes- sage in its case on his back. Once more he began his slow progress back over the field. His former thoughts of home were far away and he con-- centrated only on getting back to his shell hole. But halfway over, lady luck deserted him and a bullet hit him in the chest. And, amid in- tense pain, he seemed to gain a strange new strength and reached the safety of his original shell crater. After removing the message, the men tried to ease his pain, but he would have no part of that. I-Ie looked at them solemnly, then with a sort of apologetic look on his intelligent face, closed his eyes never to reopen them again. Of the men standing around, more than one had a tear in. his eye and a lump in his throat for their faithful friend who had given his life to successfully carry a message. In a small plot, beneath a tiny mound near the hospital, lies the body of the courageous setter, and over the grave on a wooden .slab these words appear: "He's dead. Ohl' Lay 'him gently in the ground , And may his tombgbe by this verse renowned. Here Casey, the pride of all his kind, is laid 4 Who fauned like man, but ne'er like man betrayed." . Betty Burch, ,'45. E-C4HfO-E75 " ' I - m - if . V ' , :. . ' ' ' -- A , -' '-. - ..kl1'f:'-f'fSf-7: 11.--i-.2 els. 41:5-if-.. - 2 . - - i r . ' V - . 1 . 5 - -13 Q,-elif-'1ii57't" - ww- .:.f.--- J - --., ,-. f-.-' : ' .-. . 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Page 37 text:

A Q . .a rf- if5"ff 2' f' i ' ' i K ' .T ",1"ffff."3A "'wfi"J'f fjeT.f.'l'ii .-rE .ff5i' i 4 if7 'ff-iiiliilfii'ff':5b'.E'f7's ,-15-'f5uL.1 1' 'S ,,,- , i ' , .A ' ' . - ' - in 1 7--flag - - . . 5 ,- ,fafgjry D , S ld' D 'times since the mail came, HI- OCS A O 1Cf I' C3111 . eyening, that he ,didn't have. to' the writing to know exactly W'hat'iiliQiffi1.29 ,. . . . - ,-'-'.-. said. He knew it d1dn't say all .off -A-1535.25 , By Shirley Siegel evening after supper. Yes, Dad was the things She wanted it to SaYS'hQ5'?'-diff: - getting old nowg his hair was turning knew hvw . to 1-'Gad things' iUl?0 it! THE moon seemed to stand still. Its gray and the twinkle in his me,-ry though, and he knew that shemeant I 'f1'Q7i,e soft light spread over the inces- blue eyes was growing dim, but he them to be them' They had 'always ' N -'NFL sant Pacific. the pale beach, and up across the full brown tents. In the soft, unreal night. the pyramidals looked like aboundant shocks of corn. Rv the wire near the beach, a rangy soldier lay on his back. his banjo on his stomach awkwardly strumininor on the strings. He pecked out sin'I'e notes and sent them whining into the night. He could hear the men in the tents checking and recheckiwr their efiuinment. He wanted to write a letter home. but knew he couldn't nut the things he felt on paper. There was no wav of describing the uncer- taintv' and loneliness. They were shipping out in the mornineq, and no on.e knew where they were going or what they would find there. It was a winter's moon on a tropical hear-la. naradoxically warm to them, enticing. yet its unfamiliar light was disturb- ing. He was playing "My Old Ken- tucky Home" and the bitter notes that came from the banjo were like a young Negro whose memory holds tragedies he has inherited but never known-"For my old Kentucky home +far away." . ' Andnthere he lay, strumming his banjo, and dreaming of home. The little house on'a curving street facing the hills was a beautiful sight all year around, but in the winter, when the fir trees wear white collars and the shadow of the fence is purple on the drift, when the birds take tiny stitches in the snow and our 'footprints hurry toward the house as dusk draws nigh, there is an enchant- ing, and unforgettable warmth of home. The warmth of home, its fragance, coming from the outside- from the winter air-the waiting look the rooms have-the dining room where the little blue cupboards with pretty things are in the corners! The was still the best companion, the truest friend, the only--Dad. And then, there was Mom at the station kissing him good-byg trying hard to keep from crying, but as he boarded the train, he could see tears in her eyes, shining like drops of rain in the sun. The train pulled out and from the back platform he saw her tiny handkerchief dab at her eyes as she strained forward lest she miss the last glimpse of the train. And those goodies! Everyone enjoyed them so. Gee, Mom surely is a good cook! She knows just what a fellow likes. She was always working so hard to please everybody, but you didn't think about that 'until you were away from home and you couldn't ask for your favor- ite pie and, presto, at supper time there it is before you. You just don't appreciate anything until you've lost it. . But it isn't gone forever. Some day he'll be back home in that old corn- er room with the school pennants that Mom has kept so neat and ready. Heid been eating K rations for so long that he no longer thou-ght of fried chicken, salads' or cake, except at the peak of a growing description of things longed for. He thoughtnof fried eggs and crisp strips of bacon sizzling in -. hot grease, the aroma penetrating the thickest walls to drift under one's nose and arouse him from his quietest slumber. He could remember the way the green linole- um was worn by the sink, he could -hear the radio playing and see 'the evening paper droppedf under the light at the end of the blue divan. These are some of the little things he looks forward to. For it's the little things-the small familiar pleasures -that to him, as to all of us, add up to home. ' i - understood each other ever since they had been very young. Then he was caught in a 'whirlpool of imagi- nation that sent him spinning back to dreamland. She was a quiet kid with a small face and her eyes were soft, sort of like a kitten's. He never thought anybody could- ever feel the' way he did about some things. And here was another per- son, even if it was a girl. They had grown up together-loving and un- derstanding. Once in a while they'd go to the movies 'with the gang, but lots of times, they'd just stay home and play checkers or go over the old Latin. They had planned everything just as it should be' and when he gets back, there'll be newer, finer ways of enjoying the land he fought for. Maybe he will have his post- war meals in pink and purple pills: maybe he'll swoosh to work in a rock- et car-maybe so! But there are ,a few things that eleven million G. Ig Joes want to find just as they left them-just as they've dreamed about them through all these long months. Such as the unchanging love of the girl who waited and the corner room, and the old fireplace and America. He knows what America means now. He had known her rivers be- fore, her towns and her slow climbing mountains. He had learned the places where Ehe could go and Where he could not go, but after serving her, he knew there was no place that was not his, no part of America that was not his. 'A little courage had earned him that right, because rights arexnot granted. No group of men can grant other men rights of any kindg they are achieved and acknowledged. He had achieved .them because he recog- nized them in himself. There is nothing at home he' wanted that he H Q Jil' ' '.gf'j K. eat: . , Y J. X :L ' . ,.. . , M.. -. -My 'fi ...., 'i A i r . 'fif- . 5. . Q2 N . . .Fqji-ii :Tiff Wi .' 'fy I!-Hifi .- .- , ... i.. .ly H -c I.. v.. n ,,-i. -1 .x ey Z' . w-,::x '. - 'Cf' P' It ,W I, " .15 rf 55.1 f .c fi -',f- 1 -- - . ' .V.',. ' . ' 3' ii' .3 .Alf .4 . U, . ' 'J'- . , .afgf ! , 41,1 ' ,. wiv .- 'vi- viiiq. ?j Q! X " gal f 3'f."i u. 1.2 I '1-li ' .7 ,l- i . ,-.ra . ' jff- '.1 ri -,f- ff.. I K p . .1,,wg,. . 55 ii., .wit ' .- -1-Ki' 'E--51 ' X 4: . V ,Z mi 4. l - .. sf- -"Fi . Fil K, ' 1 K, 5, K 'iid' i ul Lg, , Fifi . .f .s,. 1' "W filf ' 'V . 7 'xiii . -:iff .. :in-i : 'I "EQ . ' .1 4 ' .15"! ! , 1. I I' in .- si' 5 . J? -ri . 1- -r" I f 'TT' .E ' 3515 If I. 'vi 1' z .lim .- q.L'.'. ', 'Q :ti-. ,g . -fi f ' 'iii- I'-f M- :I gl.-r . living room with its huge fireplace An 'alert sounded, and ' he had not had here. There was no iff is where he had popped corn and roast- scrambled to his feet, clutching his charity of mind, no freedom oft + ed apples .as a kid. And there, banjo in his hands, but the planes thought,!no denial ofworship, no, 'V ,QE sprawled out, in front of the fire- were friendly -and seconds later the hungeixunwillingly shared: there wasp, A'A. place is the deerskin he got on that all clear blew. Kickingaside the co- no one who was abject in the faceof if last hunting trip with .Dad. ,Good coanuts and dead frondis, leaning duty. These things he knew,he.liad xg old Dad, he remembers him best, sit- against the gray, broken trunk of a gained, deeply and unendinglygas' ify..j . ,ting before the fireplace smoking his tree, he pulledxa rumpled letter from they had beenirevealed iii the ,blq9,d'-j- 4 j pipe Sand reading the -paper in the his pocket. He had read it so many of his veins. someday he will . . 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Page 39 text:

. , wr-1. " . - 7 ,1-rm, K -We-in 3:1-.-. -.--.- 1 ---pg-,i.,,,-, .. f, ix, gi., ,, , p I -I Q K i'i-::5'il"iJ?59-3.1-'277gilEfi5"-I" ,532 1. I X ' A V 'A I '-TIT? "1"S'Eil'l? fl 12-'1iT:f?r7-if A' :,1. :n'vfT"2Z'r.- w- -een . aff:-' N 'I - ,,.1:,,,,5, 3 'ff - .5 -in-Vu, .'fQ1.-gi'-.' 1, 'L , Y-X 3 , Y 11 JT, 'f' ,A Y g 'f -. I " ' ' ff-j,',"i ,.f,ro,:. vii, 'm ir ., 53334,,LHYE-.,w1::i:"Cfj3fi.i ,QQ at - is ' -- . 1 ' ' f. I c , - - ' r -P.: V sf-ir? 1 1 , ' ' ' -- s' M' 'W :'9:',-- -,A-'-lr, agar 4 -1'1" L Theres No Place Like Home WHEN Life becomes too difficult, when the cares of the world are piled high upon my shoulders, when everything is apparently set against me, this is the time that I think of home. These are dangerous thoughtsg for I'm afraid that quiet sanctuary in my mind and the often- times madhouse down on Lowerline Street never seem to coincide. If the reader will be so kind as to permit me, I shall attempt to tell him what I mean by this statement. I arrive. "Home, home at last!" I cry. , My mother looks up absently and, sweetly pecking me on my cheek, says cheerily, "I'm so glad you're home, baby fughljg I want you to go to the grocery store." Now there are many combinations of words in the English language, but none of them hold so dread a memory as the above. I try to think of something cut- ting to say, so, after thinking furi- ously for a while, I pour forth with, Nob !!l ' I take my coat back out of the closet, comb my'hair, and then ap- proach Mother to see if I can find out exactly what she wants me to get at the store. "Oh," she says, "just get me some bread, onions, potatoes, and, . . . er .V . . just look around and get me anything you want." That command just thrills me pur- ple, because I know that if I don't get exactly what she wants, I trot back to the store. -Q Well, I go out the door, feeling as if someone had just used my only shoe coupon, -and start darkly down the street. Now I should give an account of my experiences at the store, but they are too boring for my inadequate pencil to describe. The general idea, however, is that I return home laden with a bunch of nothing, walk into the house, deposit my loot on the kitchen table, and try to get into my room without any- one's noticing that I have returned. However, I do not succeed, and Mother spies me. 'After setting the table, making some cream sauce and generally ECHOES making myself useful, I pick up the evening paper and eagerly scan the pages to find "Little Abner." As I settle back to enjoy it, thoughts fill my mind of the cheerful atmosphere and peace of one's own home. "Ah, there's nothing like it." But, wait. What's that? It can't be true, it mustn't be, oh-o-0-o, it is -MY SISTER. She comes in and glares at meg I glare back. A "My blouse," she says. ."My necklace," I retort. We finally agree on armed neu- trality and she leaves the room. I return to my paper and find my place-you guessed it-my Daddy comes home. This means dinner and I still haven't read the paper. How- ever, I'm not complaining, because my mother is just about the best cook in the world las whose Mother isn't?J. To get back to the subject, however, we sit down and eat, and talk, and gave a good time. Ah, I just love my family. After we fin- ish, Mother excuses herself. We talk a little longerg then Daddy ex- cuses himself. Gloria and I sit there talking until the cold realization comes to us that we're alone-with the dishes. - We sit there a little longer thinking that maybe they'll go away, or wash themselves, or maybe the house will burn down, and we'll have to rush out leaving the soiled dishes on the table. We aren't very lucky, however, and the hour of doom approaches. If Fib- ber Magee comes on .at eight-thirty, and it is only eight-ten then, and it takes us fifteen minutes to do the dishes, we figure that We have five minutes to sit around and talk. we sit around all right, but we can't think of anything to say except, "I wish we didn't have to do the dishes"g to which remark the other says, "Yeah." About eight-thirty, after Gloria and I make the pleasant discovery that doing the dishesAdidn't kill us, we settle down comfortably to listen to Fibber- Magee. Suddenly, the door bell rings, and guess what? Company. Now to let the reader get a pic- ture of the grim humor of this sit- . -' ' ' g.. 51.3 fgg:P.,g-1'-':L,g'j,, ' ' ' x - ' ', .3 w . , ,, - - " 'f:fi.?- 'H 1.?f, fT'l-"P 'gn g3',.'-'f,,-'i'3,f,, g -- ,' , I - '-ii"'J' ' I V-.7 QQ 4 - :ig ' r bi ': 75 .J 'I' 'fi" ""- " .if'.'6 A' ' 'H' 7 B . in fa N ' 'fl' ' -lair,-.1'-',-'-14 if -1. .Ju - ja, Q. 'f 1 l 4, L rl' 5 r an ... v.e:ae,,.g .,1v,1I,,: L' - . V-J ,'. .,., . ,. uation, I must explain a few facts? fact number, one-the Thompsons are a one-radio familyg fact num- ber two-the one and only is situ- ated in the living room'g fact num- ber three+-the company, amidst chatter and laughter, decide to in- dulge in a few rubbers of bridge. Gloria and I look at each otherg our faces are two feet long. We drag ourselves into our room and decide to read. I pick up the Mc- Call's, and start looking through it, when Gloria comes up and says, "Why don't you let me read that one? You have all the afternoon to read it and I have only night." All after- noon, indeed! AThat finishes it! I'm going to bed. That ends my little tale of a peaceful, calm, tranquil, and a string of other adjectives, day. All I do then is to give my hair the cus- tomary five strokes, get ready for bed, and leap in. Now, beloved reader, I have de- scribed one type of day to you. If you think you can stand it, I shall make a futile attempt to tell you of another type. In case you are too discouraged, I shall try to re- late it in as few words as possible. I came home, full of fun, ready for anything, energetic as a tank- ful of gasoline, to find no one at home. This type of afternoon is usually spent in reading, lolling around the house, and using the telephone. This type, too, is entire- ly unsatisfactory. Now, I should like to describe to you that wonderful, beautiful, ex- quisite day, that day of days, that culmination of all that is ideal, the day when everything goes right. Ah! I should like to, but it is im- possible. In the first place, I have used up all my time, and in the sec- ond place, I shouldn't known any adequate words to describe it. The only thing I can say about it is that kind of day is what makes one real- ize what home really means, what a family really means, and what Life would be without them. It makes one realize that her home is her- self, as much as it is anything else, that it is Mother, Father, sister, brother, cat, dog, everybody. As for me, I think mine is one in a million: I wouldn't trade it for the world. Mary Anne Thompson, '45 Thirty-.steven .. .-, ,,,v., X . K. -...I 7 .. V ,. rl' - ' '1---1" - 'H 2 ' :Y 1 ff- : fr . f kmkf M.-"4-'w"-zw' F: Qi,1,':ik'-k'- . --,jeg -'1' 5 i "hifi 1 ' f.:'-:-.. -.,, -,Q -1,--rg --ff: , - I H - U .v 15- ' I ,, 1 1-1 ,V-Ulf,-3,3 . 4 A - -4:1 --' -:rw f-, Ls 1 -. ef. . .- e - ls- - .i ziiagriei-,iWd.." A riti - . . 1? .- 'Ei 'WSW' " ' ' ' fu rf. - H '51 V' l. 2-.mi I fi:- Y " 'J' w li. ,im Qi 5 ll 5' 4: .-.1 4 'bf- M2 W . ll 4 't P x . is .4 A v u f b v -' H, Y wc .- . I R W 1 fi, ..,,1' .x I ht . ,L y v ,3- ,tr-1 -5.55 .1 a J I I 'I - A 'li ' L 3, l 5' ,V ll 9 sl fl . lx . 'Y' 1 'F . 1' . '-' C 'Q v I 1 1 X L J Y 9 A I . "' 1 -.. 9 'il 'I I V 4 J Us L '1 3 'W n I 1.3, .w- 5. E55

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