Grant High School - Memoirs Yearbook (Portland, OR)

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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.

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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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 A PICTURE IS WORTH TEN THOUSAND WORDS” Had Charles Lamb been the subject of a graduation photograph, his essay would have read something like this: A portrait photograph—is the most irrelevant thing in nature, . . . —a preposterous shadow in the noon-tide of your prosperity, . . . —a perpetually recurring mortification ... a triumph to your enemy,—an apology to your friends,—the one thing not needful . . . —and we would add—the world's greatest devanityizer. Not even slams about our personal appearance dampen our self-approval so much. If we are accused of being a funny looking fellow or of having a very conspicuous mouth or a pug nose, we can console ourselves with the thought that our accuser is an ignorant slanderer whose aesthetic appreciation, if any, is incurably stunted, and who undoubtedly is only jealous of us. Anyway, our nose is not pug: it is retrousse, and large mouths indicate generosity of character. Only one thing approximates a portrait photograph in devanityizing. It is one of those very surprising images we glimpse as we pass some store-front mirror. Becoming vaguely aware of an awkward fellow with a smudge cheek and disordered hair, we realize with a start that it is our own reflection! This is unexpected and embarrassing, indeed, for our dressing-room mirror was somewhat complimentary just before we left home. It may be that store-front mirrors are of a different species from dressing-room mirrors. Though it is very changeable, our mirror at home is rather flattering sometimes. Yet I have never known of a storefront mirror to be anything but the opposite. (Speaking of uncomplimentary mirrors, could you ever dine in front of a restaurant mirror without becoming so self-conscious that you felt the desire to sneak out and hide in some dark place until you learned to handle a knife and fork less clumsily?) But for creating lasting chagrin there is nothing like our photograph. At the worst, mirrors cause but a temporary embarrassment, and we soon learn to ignore them completely. On the other hand our picture is a perpetually recurring mortification smirking at us from the piano top, and in years hence probably will provide no end of merriment for our grandchildren. Several years ago when we first became aware of some mysterious attraction possessed by young ladies, we would stand before our mirror and wish ardently for a higher, more noble brow, a more vigorously chiseled nose, or any of a few hundred similar facial enhancements. But no matter how ardent, wishing seemed not to improve our appearance a whit. So, realizing that we could never hope to be a John Gilbert, we gradually assumed a great indifference toward our looks, though the feeling secretly grew on us that we, very likely, were as handsome as the next one. But alas! We can never hold contentment when we have it. We have had our picture taken! While we wait our turn in the photographer's reception room we suppress our stage fright as best we can and nervously wonder if our hair is maintaining proper order. From past experience we know that it is almost too much to hope for, but we feel that perhaps this time our picture will resemble those soft, shadowy, artistic portraits of musicians and actors which adorn the showcases of photographers. If they can do it with actors, why not with us? we reason. Our turn comes, and the deed is done. We have performed our part as best we could: perhaps they will turn out good after all.