Grant High School - Memoirs Yearbook (Portland, OR)

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U. S. Grant MEMOIRS Page 17 Autobiography of a Ford (1910-1912 A.D.) WAM A FORD (the best car made) and I was born in Metroit, Jc Michigan. My given name is Henry, and I have a twin sister, Lizzie, for whom I am often mistaken. My mother was a wheelbarrow, born in Mew Narket, Dichigan. My father was a “Rolls Rough” born in Yew Nork, Yew Nork. I left my home in Metroit when I was sold to Mr. Farmer for seventy-five dollars down, and three dollars a week. Mr. Farmer was the most peculiar piece of humanity I have ever seen. He did not have the slightest conception of driving a good car, and I was in misery each time he took me out of his barn—my special lodging house. He continually persisted in shifting me from low to reverse, and then calling me some queer names if I went backwards. One day he took me out of my house and around the block, stopped in front of a strange looking barn, and sounded my horn. Almost immediately the door opened, and out of the house swarmed all of Mr. Farmer’s family and relatives, exclaiming “Let’s drive to Cill’s Horners! Let’s drive to Cill’s Horners!” Oh, what excruciating agony I suffered that day! On our return trip Mr. Farmer drove me into a telephone post and made my nose bleed; he drove too close to some fence posts and scratched off part of my nice shiny complexion. As his relatives climbed out they declared, “We have spent a most enjoyable afternoon. Please come and take us riding in that wonderful car again.” That cheered me up some. I was then put into my barn and was expected to sleep, but who could after such a day? I stayed awake all that night wondering where my sweet mother, noble father, twin sisters and brothers were; wondering if they had owners more capable, who could fully appreciate valuable cars. Day after day my owner took me over the same roads; stopped at the same houses: took in the same number of quarts of milk; and returned home at the same time in the evening. After ten months of this hard labor. I was deeply wounded to hear my master say, “I have ridden around in that shabby old rattle-trap all 1 intend to. 1 am absolutely ashamed to take the milk around to the houses, let alone go to church in it. I think I will get a Buick, as that bright young salesman told me I had better.” A nice new house was built for Betsy Buick while I was locked up in my old shack. Mr. Farmer brought visitors out to inspect Betsy, and he would point out all the good points, saying proudly: “Look at this powerful engine; look at these new non-skid tires; look at this automatic windshield wiper.” Then for the first time I looked at myself. My fenders were half off ; my doors were half off their hinges; my top was in rags, and I had only one wheezing cylinder left. But had I not been faithful? Had I not traveled the rough, muddy roads where no other car could go? Had I not been Mr. Farmer’s first car, the one who taught him to drive? Had 1 not given

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Page 16 MEMOIRS U. 8. Grant Budding Genius jr [OE, dear, come down. Willie is over to play with you.” “Tell him to come up here, mom.” A few moments later Willie was squatting beside his little friend, gazing breathlessly at the radio which Joe was hauling to pieces. “Gee! D’you think yer big hrother’d care?” “’Course not! Why, I’ve seen him do this very same thing lotsa times. Lookit, Willie. We’ll put this wire up around our castle and it’ll make a keen telephone. Henry, he'll never miss it.” “Golly!” whispered Willie, awestruck. “C’mon. Let’s go right now.” The two hoys jammed the few pieces that would jam into place and the rest they hid. Holding the wire clutched to his bosom, Joe, followed by his accomplice, clattered down the stairs, hanged through the kitchen door, and was off to his castle.” In a short while the wire was strung up, changing the medieval baron’s castle to an up-to-date robber’s den. For most of the afternoon the bloody two found enough excitement in this invention to keep them moving, hut suddenly Willie had an inspiration. “Say, pard, I got an idea. If we hitch this wire to that telephone wire why maybe we could hear somebody talkin’, really and truly, on their phones.” The two leaned a wobbly ladder up against a nearby house and Willie, armed with the shears, and holding one end of the wire, gingerly mounted. With a single snip the wire parted. Just at this crucial point a fearful shout broke the afternoon calm, and Henry, Joe’s big brother, and owner of the radio, came tearing across the vacant lot to where the “castle” stood. “My radio!” he roared. “You’ve ruined it. Gimme that wire!” He spluttered these words out, just as an agonized howl came from above. “Ow! My arm! Oh, golly, I’m bein’ killed!” Both heads turned up to Willie, who had given himself a shock. He was clutching his arm, and dancing around as well as he could on his feeble support. At this point Joe’s mother appeared at the kitchen door. Mothers often have a way of sensing these crucial points. Willie also sensed it, for his howls immediately stopped. Henry directly came to life, and renewed his complaint against his small but sinful brother. Dragging the culprit off to be judged, he continued to air his views, while Willie, seizing this opportunity, got down the ladder as quickly as possible, and was soon speeding from the scene of battle. Just what Henry told his mother I am not certain, but it would not be necessary for one to know if he caught a tableau which the sun saw as its last rays peeped through the window at little Joe, who was tearfully sitting on a pillow. —Adele Wedemeyer.

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Page 18 MEMOIRS U.S. Grant my owner’s relatives their first joy ride? Had not they been joyful and happy over me? And now, did I deserve such abandon? Alas! My chagrin was to be greater! One day a dirty, ignorant, junk dealer drove up and asked Mr. Farmer if he had anything to sell. My master replied, “Well, yes. Over in that wooden shack is a pile of junk which might be of use to you. But say,” he called as the man walked toward my shack, “you might leave the engine. I may use it some time.” Such was the end of a faithful car. —Barbara Jane Averili.. The Tired Sophomore (Inspired by Longfellow) It was the tired sophomore In the seat in front of me, And he hath taken a wee freshman To bear him company. The freshie’s eyes were blue as lakes, And his hair was like the sun, And his little voice ran on and on Like the brook which ne’er is done. “And what means ’hie, haec, hoc’ kind sir?” And the little freshman cried. “It? meaneth ‘this’ and also ‘he’.” Proudly, the soph replied. “And what means ‘is, ea and id?” He asked in voice so sweet “It meaneth ‘He’ and ‘she’ and ‘it’— Stop bouncing on the seat.” But here they both got off the bus; The bell was ringing then. The little freshie had six books; The soph’more had a pen. I saw them not throughout the day; My thoughts were all in ’math’; But when dismissal bell had rung, I saw them on the path. The sophomore was very glum The freshie—he was gay. The soph’more moaned and groaned aloud, To the freshie he did say: “I know I don’t deserve this grade, I’ve learned my lessons, too.” The frosh received an all “E” card; The soph had nought but “U.” —Tom Frewen.