Grant High School - Memoirs Yearbook (Portland, OR)

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W II o ? V II E It E ? W II Y ? lUy knees were knocking; my teeth were chattering; my hair was stand- ing on end. I was harassed with every known affliction that attends would-be actors before they enter upon the stage. No, this is not an actor’s autobiography; it is just those little remembrances of trying out for the senior class play. I wonder what this all avails us? Can it be that we are minute playthings for some great unseen who juggles us in and out of life? (Burr! These are cold thoughts, but they at least take my mind off this tryout.) What will become of these seniors? Will they be swept out into humanity, the dazzling world, and be lost in its whirlpool, or will they ascend the heights to fame and glory? It is said that “Life is just a bowl of cherries,” and possibly our seniors take this attitude, kissing goodby to Grant without any feeling other than that of leaving any building, forgetting it almost instantly. But can we forget Grant so soon? Do we consider it a real stepping stone to enlightenment and a place where enlargement and expansion of the mind takes place? I hope we do have this view somewhere in our mind. Some of us will step out and set our aims and ambitions for high attainments, such as science, medicine, banking, history, law, education, and many other fields of expression. Will we go through life riding Fords, learning contract, playing with “yo-yos” and other general nuisances? Gaining experience from these various activities may enlighten our minds to such an extent that we shall wake up and realize that all in all our high school studies are attainments towards true education. To most of us Grant and its teachers have been a perceptible influence that will attend us through our lives and will be a real milepost. This class has acquired a background that at least will better the world to some extent. Whether we shall be doctor or lawyer, our goals will be the same: to better mankind whether for our own benefit or for someone else’s. Tish, it is now my turn to be the tryout goes on. the fool. I feel that sinking feeling again, but —Warren Burton Walker O Y V I i: W I U M T. II O O II The majestic peak, Golden in the rays of the setting sun, Seemed to symbolize the awfulness Of Divine power. The city, With its noise and bustle and triviality, Was lightly covered o’er With a veil of white nothingness. So are our petty cares, When considered with the eternity of nature, Extinguished. At that moment I understood Why men are content to spend their lives In meditation. —Byron Kitching

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“The memorial of virtue is immortal because it is known with God and with men. When it is present, men take example of it; and when it is gone, they desire it. It weareth a crown and triumpheth forever, having gotten the victory striving for undefiled rewards. Honorable age is not that which standeth in length of time nor that is measured by number of years.” Since the final arrangements for installing the murals and the first large contributions toward the fund to purchase them were made in our freshman year, and since it was during our reign as seniors that the murals were finally completed and dedicated, our class feels an ineffable sense of pride in them — almost a sense of ownership, which can be experienced by neither previous nor subsequent graduating classes. We feel a more fitting memorial to Mr. Fletcher could not have been erected. We believe that every class that enters our portals will derive the same enjoy- ment from them that we have this term and profit by the same principles which we have found so clearly and nobly set forth in these murals. These principles will never become anachronous; the beauty and truth embedded in them will endure forever: the upraised arms of the youth will never be lowered, and the torch borne by the maiden will never be extinguished, but they both will forever symbolize truth. “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” and “a thing of beauty is a joy forever.”

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THE O IK E Ip O X A T I O X A L E O IK E S T WWave you ever stood on a mountain early in the morning, looking down at the top of the clouds, or heard the tinkle of the sheep bells echoing from canyon to canyon? If you have, then you’ll know how I felt on my last trip into the most secluded parts of the Oregon National forest. I can never explain to anyone how I feel when I am in some exceptionally beautiful place. I can only say that I am closer to real religion than I am in Church. The last trip that I made was late this summer. Two other boys and I rented some good trail horses on the spur of the moment and decided to go to the Plaza Ranger Station, one of the Government stations in Oregon, twenty miles from the nearest civilization. We started about three o’clock one crisp morning as the moon was hanging low in the sky and stars were twinkling brightly. Every once in a while a star would flash red against the sky and make me think of an old Indian legend that an Indian sheep herder told me when I was a young “sprout” — as he used to call me. He said that every time a star shot across the heavens it meant that some soul had gone to the “Happy Hunting Grounds.” I shall never forget the strange thrill that went up my back as he told me, and to this day when I see the red flash of a falling star I still have the same feeling. After getting started on our trip, we climbed four miles to reach the top of Huckleberry Mountain. By that time it was almost light, so we decided to rest the horses for a while and cook our breakfast. After eating a hearty meal of scrambled eggs, bacon, black coffee, and rolls, we watched the sun come slowly over Hunchback Mountain and smile grandly down on the billowing clouds in the valley between Hunchback and Huckleberry. None of us talked much, and when we did it was with hushed voices, for I think the inspiration of the scene made us feel very small. We finally rounded up the horses once again and started on our way. We went up one peak and down another for miles along the ridge of Wildcat, a mountain devoid of timber, and covered only with purple huckleberry bushes, scarlet Indian paint brush, lavender lupin, white and green squaw grass, and goldenrod. All of us were in the best of spirits as we laughed, talked, and sang our way over the trail. After leaving Wildcat, we entered into thickly timbered country where the sun shone down in patches on a carpet of pine needles. We stopped for lunch by the side of a crystal clear, ice cold spring that had been dug out of shale rock by deer, elk, and other wild animals. I don’t believe that anything has ever tasted quite so good to me as that spring water and those thick ham sandwiches. We almost hated to leave that spot, but we knew that we shouldn’t loiter too long, as we still had a long way to go. Wandering from one trail to another, we saw many signs of wild life. We stopped several times to water our horses and stretch our legs. Several times we stopped to look over the cliffs into the virgin forest far below. I think that we all felt as if we were in a world all our own. I know that I felt unimportant as I looked at vast valleys, high ridges, and towering cliffs. As dusk came with a lavender glow, the air grew nippy again. Off over a distant ridge we saw the flames of a sheep-herder’s camp-fires and heard the sheep bells echoing from one mountain wall to the other. We knew then that we were not far from our destination, and the horses sensed it, too, for they pricked up their ears as they broke into a gallop.