Farmington High School - Laurel Yearbook (Farmington, ME)

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THE LAUREL 13 INTERESTING BITS OF OUR EARLY LIFE My First Poem T was a dreary Friday morning. The rain peltered down with quiet deter- mination on the hosts of brown leaves which were falling from the nearby trees. An atmosphere of restlessness pervaded the classroom. But the old clock on the wall seemed to pursue with a more mono- tonous trend its continuous tick, tick, tick. The minutes passed slowly. A paper rustledg and there was heard the low dron- ing voice of a boy reciting. And yet under all a strange silence, I leaned lazily back in nIy seat, wondering, if it would ever stop raining-why one must go to school -if teachers always conduct themselves as they tell us we must. Suddenly a bell rang. Clarion and shrill it pierced the thick drowsy atmosphere. I sat erect, the instructor was speaking. If any of you feel that you can, or would like to try, I would like to have a poem for our Good English Club Paper. A poem! The words burned in my brain. Could I? The sheer bigness of the thing overwhelmed me and I started guiltily. Of course it was all nonsense. I, Meclora Hogan, writ- ing a poem! Aibsurd. And yet something whispered, Why not? The moments Hew by as in a dream, and I found myself home-thrilled with intoxicating hope. VVords tumbled over themselves in eager- ness, incohercntly at first, to be sure. Then they sang swiftly, maddeninglyg faster and faster my pencil flew until there it was in childish scrawl, my Hrst poem. How I loved it for it was my own-my very own! New worlds opened before my eager eyes. The dreariness of the day was changed into mystic, joyous beauty. Every rain drop glistened witlI a new luster, every swish of the giant elms was music to my ear. Life was glorious. Crude, trite though it may be, still it will always be a lovely t'hing in my memory. My first poem! Zlfledora Hogan. My Ford THIS story is made possible by a Ford, just a common, ordinary Ford, not as good as the new ones and not as bad as the first ones. In fact I ride to school every morn- ing in this same automotive contraption popular in earlier years. 'Dhis story begins with a very excellent Thanksgiving morning. It was morning because it seemed the right thing for it to be. The day was such as our poets write about, but I Yhad work to do. The chief task was, crank Miss Ford. After two or three hours of physical strength had been exerted, the inevitable happened, Liz kick- ed, breaking my arm in Hfteen or twenty places, I really have forgotten the exact number. The usual procedure was faithfully car- ried out and I found myself in the clutches of our family physician. My arm was set but it failed to heal properly. After sev- eral settings had taken place the doctor decided that to insure perfect results I should go to a hospital. My father and I prepared for the trip and journeyed to Portland by rail. I could tell the intersec- tion of every rail, every jar was registered in my aching limb. We arrived in Portland and I was taken to the Children's Hospital, the inmates varying in age from one day to twenty-one years. The arm was set again and many X-ray pictures were takeng it was also placed in casts of various kinds and sorts. The one trouble was, I was obliged to re- main in bed. The doctors were very kind to me except in a few instances when they would sieze my arm and strike it several forceful blows asking if the procedure hurt. You know how doctors are, espe- cially surgeons, very kind and thoughtful. My neighbor in this physician's paradise claimed all doctors were ex-pugilists. I often thought he was correct in his con- jecture. The nurses were exceedingly nice to us. However, I will not give any eluci- dations of their treatment of us. Q