Grant High School - Memoirs Yearbook (Portland, OR)

Page 29 text:

The fog hangs a heavy stillness over the city; It is soft and slippery—oozy. Dripping and huddled forms scurry past; It is a night for vice and crime. A dim light passes by, The jingle of a cab, The howl of a dog, The splash of rubbered feet in the puddles; Hoarse cries; then silence. The unseen hands of the fog grapple with the imagination; Again a lurking prowler slushes by; Mystery. . . . Ruth A. Wood. OUR CLOCK An antique either in the form of ornament or furniture usually finds a place in any family living room. Ours is no exception, and soon the typical caller will remark upon the queer old clock we have perched up on the mantle. That clock is everything a clock should not be—scratched (though not noticeably); tall and having few lines, and those straight; possessing figures on a face that no one outside of a very limited group can read; having a very decided, clanging gong for its hourly announcements, a loud ticking for its secondly notices; and of such an irresponsible nature as to refuse, on several occasions, to play its part in our home life. Beauty has never been one of its assets, and time has continually been its liability. It has been known to stop at times with apparently no good reason, and later, upon continued promptings from someone, to return to the traces and grudgingly but steadily tick off the minutes for the same reason. The service rendered it by certain professionals has been futile, and in several instances most painful—to us. So now we have become the doctors and nurses, and it is a most stubborn patient. No trivial amount of patience will dominate its action—action that can be so unaccountable and provoking. There is nothing cowardly or timid about this old relic. Whenever it determines the hour—though proven wrong by two other time-pieces, the radio, and the telephone— it acclaims such in loud and very harsh tones, known to disturb many conversations, startle uncles, and waken babies. Through experience we have learned not to rely upon it for the accurate time. Now in the face of all these facts people still render complimentary decisions about it, and certain ones of the family cherish it. How long shall we permit this unreliable character to maintain its place of prominence? I'm afraid that time won’t tell. . . . Freeman Hill.

Page 28 text:

THE NEW MEMOIRS Necessity is the mother of invention. To our own satisfaction, at least, we have confirmed the foregoing maxim. The mother made a stern demand, and it is in compliance with this demand that the staff has produced the January, 1931 Memoirs. For the last several terms the Memoirs has enjoyed a most remarkable and sudden growth. This advancement, however, has not been without its ill effects. Because of the large deficits varying from $200 to $300 per issue, the Student Body fund has been placed in a precarious position. Our first staff meeting last September might easily be compared to an assembly of relatives to whom the will of the dear departed was being read. Alas! The legacy bequeathed to us was the discouraging fact that continuation of the former policy of expansion so that each class could produce a bigger and better Memoirs would mean financial ruin for the Student Body and that a complete change must be made to remedy the condition. Upon our shoulders has rested the work of effecting this change. We have attempted to publish an issue that will please as many as possible, to maintain the high standard of quality established in previous issues and yet to keep the total cost within a reasonable figure. To accomplish such a task would prove to be quite difficult even for a group of experts. And inasmuch as expansion is much easier than retrenchment, the staff has found it no easy task to produce this issue. That the high school annual of the large city school holds a position of considerably less importance than it did a few years ago is a generally recognized fact. The high school newspaper has come to take its place in part. Taking cognizance of this fact, we have made this Memoirs into a book of 48 pages whose purpose it is to record more intimately the activities of the Seniors. It is not a reduced Memoirs; it is an entirely new publication—a Senior book. In keeping with this policy no one except the Seniors has been obligated to purchase a copy. We, students of Grant, wish to excel in scholarship, sports and progress, as well as in numbers. Being the largest and youngest high school in Portland, it is quite fitting that Grant High School should break the tradition of the large, expensive annual and lead the way to a newer and better plan. We take no little pride in the fact that our issue of Memoirs has not incurred a legacy of debt for those who come after us. We hope that in the years to come when the manners and customs have changed some” our classmates will turn through these pages and recall their good old days at Grant High School. . . . Forrest Mills.

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BROUGHT TO EARTH The Blimp was reclining on a sea of gay pillows which overflowed a wicker settee at the far end of the veranda. She stretched her thin bare legs straight ahead of her and studied the toes of her sneakers thoughtfully. The Blimp's eyes grew dreamy behind her horn-rimmed spectacles. She thrust a brown hand into the pocket of her faded green smock, pulled forth her jewel-book, and scribbled: The day devine. There! That was a good beginning for a poem. That word devine sounded so ethereal. The little spider hangeth from his fragile web— Slam! Bugs came out on the porch, shining in white flannels. Wanna go play tennis, Blimp? he asked. The Blimp appeared bored. Tennis? Heavens no, child. Run along and don't bother me. Aw, fer the sake o' petrified catfish! What's got into yuh anyhow? You're always settin' around with your hair back of your ears, lolligaggin' over odes to onions. It's downright pitiful, that's what. You an' that Angelyna Arkin, all summer long, walkin' around in them uh, oh them smockers er whatever they are, and scribblin’ stuff down about dead eggs. Now— The Blimp took aim, fired a pillow at the offending head of her twin brother, then fled long leggedly into the house. Bugs was dreadfully boorish. He didn't understand about sensitive souls cringing under beauty's lash, or love like a foaming swirling tide. When you asked him what rhymed with blue, he said glue. And he'd dubbed her that hateful Blimp for so long that even her slight acquaintances knew her by that name! Oh well, Angelyna understood anyway. The Blimp went to the 'phone and dialed Angelyna's number. One minute later: Greetings, fellow adventurer. Oh, h'lo Blimp. I can't talk that way now, mother's just outside. Oh, Angy, you know what? No. In about fifteen minutes, The Adored will be going by. I'm positively enraptured, Angy. Can't you come over? I'll see. I think so. Oh hurry, hurry, Angy. Bring your jewel-book. G'bye. The Blimp worked feverishly, spreading pillows and robes profusely about on the floor of the sun parlor. She seated herself, Indian fashion, upon a huge pillow and waited for Angy, who arrived in good time. Angelyna Arkin was stout and freckled. Her round healthy face was perspiring but amiable, her straw-colored hair was straight and short-bobbed. Now she dutifully thrust it behind her ears and unwrapped a package hidden in the bosom of her gingham dress. Mom said that if she seen me goin' around in my smock any more I'd drive her to bedlam. So's I had to bring it over like this. Are we goin' through the serrimuny? No, Angy, I don't think we'll have time. I'm too excited anyhow. Come on now, and get down here and watch! 22