Gordon Bell High School - Purple and Gold Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

Page 71 text:

Let me breathe! Let me live!” Yet, what is there to live for? I know a man. He too is blind, has been so for many years. Yet, his voice is no longer raised in useless lament and rebellion, for he has accepted his fate; he has found peace on the bosom of the God who took from him his precious sight. He speaks to those who are new to the rough road of darkness, speaks of courage, of faith, of hope. His strength flows into the hearts of the despairing, bringing light to the stumbling soul. He is an example of what is possible, to those who fear all is impossible. Per¬ haps some day, I too may find the hidden well from which he draws his priceless gift of peace. “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.” This is not easy to say. For I am blind. Marilyn Boyd fcqq-ChacksA. Suite- Ping! Crack! Splish! Those are the melodious sounds of a breaking egg that bring only discord to my memory. Now to most people, these tones are unfamiliar and mean¬ ingless, for these disillusioned folk have rarely been ex¬ posed to the whims of an egg. Ah, once I was also one of the firm believers in the perfection of this delicate, oval-shaped object, but my dream has been most cruelly shattered through painful necessity. During this summer I had the unusual occupation of breaking countless eggs all day long. That might sound like a rather simple task, until you have heard the remaining “movements.” Bright and early at seven o’clock in the morning, I began my first day at work. With almost uncontrollable impatience, I endured the long, elaborate demonstration on how to break eggs most efficiently. Then at last my mo¬ ment as a soloist had come, and filled with enthusiasm, I confidently snatched an egg from the conveyor belt. The directions had been to nick the shell slightly, deposit the yolk gently in a spoon-shaped structure, then smell the egg shells, and sit them upside-down on a chute. Obe¬ diently I followed my instructions, but to my utter amaze¬ ment, instead of just cracking the egg shell, I made a precise bi-section. Several times» I repeated this annoying performance, producing a mess that scarcely resembled the accurate results of my neighbours. Slowly my skills improved, however, and I actually had the occasional egg with an unbroken yolk. How great was my relief at the end of the introduction! Yet, that was only the beginning of future rhapsodies. Every day eggs, large and small, white and brown, danced along in front of my eyes. Not two of them were alike, for each yolk had its own distinctive colour and texture. Once in a while X found an egg with a peculiar pungent odour, and fighting a strong feeling of nausea, I rushed my egg to the garbage. Of course, after every such in¬ stance I wasted some time washing soiled machinery. Not always did my efforts bring disaster, because occa¬ sionally I experienced a rather brief streak of luck. These rare times were greatly outnumbered by spasms of dis¬ gust when I felt the most terrible urge to throw eggs in¬ stead of breaking them. I am not naturally spiteful, but when a supervisor scrutinized me on one side and an inspector peered mercilessly over my shoulder, such vengeful impulses stirred in my mind. After many similar, joyful experiences, I felt much like the listener who can hardly await the “finale.” As I look back upon those weeks of torture, I shudder involuntarily. Luckily I have been able to forget how often I staggered home under the added weight of dried egg splattered on my face. Sometimes I still suffer from terrible nightmares when I am surrounded on all sides by an impervious wall of eggs. In spite of my antagonism, an unseen force compelled me to endure the fumes. How¬ ever, this meagre reward was soon spent; all that remains in my recollection now is briefly said in three words, “Ping! Crack! Splish!” Dagmar Falk, Rm. 17 CL fiosit at thsL J ' DoibalL ' fyamsL It was pouring rain on a Saturday afternoon in Sep¬ tember, but as usual the football game went on as sche¬ duled. In the bleachers sat a lonely, rain-soaked and bedraggled figure who looked as if he was wrapped in all his worldly possessions. Carefully, he watched every move made by the players and every few minutes jotted some¬ thing down on a note pad. I thought he was a sports re¬ porter, covering the game for a newspaper, but then, if he were, he would be in the press box. By the end of the quarter my curiosity got the better of me and I carefully moved to the seat behind him. Craning my neck I looked over his shoulder onto the paper and to my amazement, saw this written on it - The rain was pouring on the field, In endless drenching columns. The players move with lightning speed But the coach sat looking solemn. Our team is losing “ten to one” With a poor chance of winning, But still they grit their teeth and fight While the other team is grinning. Smith has the ball on the “thirty-third” Running toward the goal The other team pursues him . . . I read this far in astonishment. What was a poet doing at a football game? Certainly he couldn’t have much in¬ terest in it. None of the poem was true, our team was winning, the coach was hopping up and down like a rab¬ bit, and we don’t have a player named Smith. The wind began to blow strongly and the paper blew from the poet’s hand into my lap. I slowly leaned over and handed it to him as nervous as a kitten in water. It turned out he was very friendly and asked me to sit with him. We began conversing merrily. I discovered he was writing a poem for a magazine, and had come to get the proper atmosphere. My curiosity was satisfied and I had found a new friend. Mary Fabris, 7-41 69

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