Grant High School - Memoirs Yearbook (Portland, OR)

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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

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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.

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Angelyna finished buttoning her smock and stretched out beside The Blimp. The two lay on their stomachs, peering out of the sun parlor windows. The Blimp pulled out her jewel-bok and wrote on a clean page: Further notes on The Adored. Fellow adventurer and I await third glimpse of ideal. Meanwhile, the fellow adventurer extracted a bag of peanuts from her pocket and began to crunch them vigorously. But a violent shove in the region of her well-padded ribs soon distracted her attention. Look, Angy! Here He comes! See, isn't He su-perb? This must be His lunch hour. We saw Him yesterday and the day before at this same time, didn't we, Angy? He's awful dark, ain't he tho? commented the stolid one. Why look, Angy. He's still wearing that handsome tan smock. Oh, I just know He's a sculptor or something artistic like that. Don't you think so, Angy dear? Uh-huh. Want some peanuts? Oh, Angy, He's going up the steps now. Oh, I'm so thankful that He decided to live in that boarding house, right across the street from us. But that was Kind Fate, Angy, really. The Blimp jotted words excitedly in her book. The Adored has just passed my window. Still wears smock. Profile perfect. Nose Grecian. Hair wavy and—,” here she paused, then wrote triumphantly, black as midnight shadows. Angelyna scrambled to her feet. I gotta be goin'. Mom wants me back early, she said. Well, g'bye. I'll call you t'morrow. The Blimp laid her right hand upon her companion's shoulder and spake in ritual solemnity. Farewell, fellow adventurer. May thy Ideal come to thee soon as the dew of dawn. Next morning, The Blimp basked in the sunlight and attempted the description of a rose, in free verse. Suddenly a breathless, smockless, but beaming Angelyna dashed up the steps. Oh, Blimp, I've got the best news! I’ve found out everything about The Adored. Angy, what? Now you can see him n' talk to him n’ everything. I did yesterday. I've found out where he works. Angy, my dear. Oh tell me, child, quick. Why, he shines shoes at Rowendon's on the second floor. I knew him right away. He's Greek, I think—somep'n kinda foreign, 'cause he don't talk very plain. Isn't that peachy, now? The next time you're at Rowendon’s why—. Gee, what's the matter? The Blimp's eyes were rolled heavenward. To think, she murmured, that Fate has dealt me such a blow. Then, turning to the stricken Angelyna: Go, fellow adventurer. Let me bear my grief in solitude. And The Blimp walked slowly and impressively away. Six minutes later, she came down the stairs, clad in a sports outfit of brilliant yellow. Her hair was combed over her ears. She swung a racket in her hand. Come on, Bugs, she said to the youth sprawled lazily in a hammock, let's go play tennis. . . . Jennie Hanson.