Isaac Newton High School - Newtonian Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

Page 84 text:

82 Isaac Newton High School HUMANIST Look for a moment with Death’s perspective scope, Her rounded circumferences, her convex senses, Seeing him not through the coarse world’s virtual lenses, But, probing past the clouded imagry, The widening breach of earth, Behold him for what he was, unbound by creed, Color or birth. For well he bore and justified in Man, Man’s failure to act as God’s exemplary, Stretching the measure of compassionate love Beyond capacity. And well as he knew the taste of ridicule, Bitter as aloe stinging the curled tongue’s hollow, Yet should Death loose his hand, and set him free, Back would he follow. Worn from the nagging maggot’s malicious jibes, Jealous bone and rival soul disputing, Quietly now he closes earth’s lid down, Deaf to the guns’ saluting; Dead to the tinny whimperings, the jangled sobs, The pompous oratory at length bewailing Full detailed census of his servitude, Full census of his failing; So, even now, his judgment unreserved, Concedes their praises, their righteous blasphemy, That floods across his body in a sea Of angry voices; breaks, beats down the door Of his closing mind; the walls of his body’s house. Even now, in accord With the spiced sheet that seals, that laps him round, Earth’s shaken with the piteous human sound That swells, that rises from the shattered ground, In words of grief outpoured: “Forgive them for they know not what they say. Forgive them, Lord.” —Myra Lazeczko Haas. THE PLANT Each flow’r, each leaf has been designed By God, the Master workman. He drew the plans, arranged each stalk, Tinting every petal purple, He called the sun, and cast its rays Upon the growing, greenish stems. And when each flower was in bloom, We took the plant and placed it In our home, that we might gaze When winter storms raged near, Upon this masterpiece of God. Corinne Langston (18). A SMALL PRAYER “Oh, what shall I do?” I asked one day, And Margaret smiling, as t’was her way When seeing me idle, or deep in despair, Said, “Why don’t you sit down and and write God a prayer?” “Tell Him,” she said, “about the earth, Tell Him of laughter and joy and mirth, Tell Him of rivers, mighty and wide, Splashing and crashing on either side. Tell Him of lazy, limpid, lakes, With nought but the motion a fairy makes. And God will be happy to hear you tell About all the flowers that grow in the dell. Oh, picture the sky, so vast, so blue, The sun’s first rays and the morning dew, Tell Him of kittens and spaniel pups And dandelions yellow, and buttercups. Show God the fields full of yellow corn, And the man with his scythe in the early morn. And mention the horses who patiently wait For a brisk rubdown and the pasture gate. Tell Him of spring with the bird’s return, And the graceful arch of the lacy fern. Tell Him the sound of a drowsy rain As it trickles a path down the window pane And when you have finished, it seems to me,

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Newtonian 81 ning, I don’t know which. Slowly, slow¬ ly, I was losing my mind. “Oh God, have mercy on me!” I rubbed my eyes and looked again. Yes, the house was gone. Years have passed since that incident. Yet I am still tortured, torment ed by that memory. Many times I ventured up that hill. Many times I searched GOING In the community in which I grew up, only our native tongue was spoken, with the result that I knew not one word of English when I started going to school. I remember to this day, my utter confusion and surprise when one of my playmates informed me that a stomach-ache was an ailment, not a kind of cake ... In winter, when my dad was unemployed, he would take my sister and me to school on a home¬ made sled. One particular day was in¬ tensely cold, with a blistering wind that swept the loose, surface snow across miles of prairie, and whipped the ragged clouds across the grey back¬ ground that was the sky. Mom bundled my sister and me into the sled, and we ventured out against the wind with Dad. I was sitting at the back of the sled and somehow, along the way, I slid onto the snow-covered road. I saw Dad and sled fade slowly into the distance, but I was too paralyzed with fear to move or cry out. Dad told Mom, later, that he wondered why the sled had become so much lighter, and that when he stopped to see if the girls were well covered, he became quite panic-stricken at seeing only one child under the blan¬ ket. Running back along the road, he found me squatting on the snow and on the verge of tears. After being com¬ forted by our doting parent, my sister and I were delivered at the school with¬ out further mishap . . . As I grew older, I begged the older girls to let me carry their books to school, for their contents fascinated me. Soon I was boasting to neighbors that I was in the grade where they were studying “literature.” It seemed such a long word to me, and was so sugges¬ tive of hard work, and much study and glamour, that I thought the neighbors would think I must be a girl quite ad¬ vanced for my years to be allowed to for the house . . . but in vain. It seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth. I made inquiries. I asked people who had lived in the district all their lives. I always received the same answers. “House, what house? You must be imagining things.” —Barney Gorenstein. BACK study such a difficult subject . . . One Saturday evening, I decided to go and see my father at the site where he was helping to build a new church. I sauntered off with just a faint idea of the direction in which I had to travel, and quite unaware of the exact loca¬ tion. I don’t remember anything after leaving the house, but Mom has often told me about the anxiety and worry that my disappearance caused. Mom, Dad and all the neighbors went out to look for me, and the police, too, were asked to help in the search. Finally, one of my neighbors found me sitting in a drugstore window. The proprietor had stuffed me with chocolates and ice¬ cream, to prevent my crying, and had placed me in the window, so that I could be taken home by anyone who might recognize me . . . I remember other things, too, as a little girl—how I hit the neighbor’s daughter on the knee with a huge stone, then fled and hid in a deep irrigation ditch, until I was discovered at supper- time. I was a very repentant child when I was informed that the girl couldn’t even kneel to say her pray¬ ers. I felt I had done a great wrong, and thought that God would never for¬ give me. I remember how, one night, I woke with a start to see my grand¬ mother, who had passed away, stand¬ ing at the foot of my bed. Summoning all my courage, I bent to touch her, and found it was only my Dad’s shirt play¬ ing a trick on my eyes . . . I recall many other incidents of my childhood, but they are too many, and some are too intimate to reveal. No one can ever tell me that my life is dull or uninteresting. No one’ life is. Just delve into the dark interior of your mind and dust the cobwebs from your secret Book of Memories and “go back.” Mary Bodnarchuk-Rm. 7.

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Newtonian 83 You ought to thank God, you can hear and see.” “But Margaret, “I cried in my childish way “That isn’t a prayer, it’s just a ‘say.’ ” She, patting my head, (I was only ten) Said, “You’re right. We’d forgotten to say ‘Amen.’ ” Corinne Langston (18). GUEST I shall lay my table with sweet warm hay, And a cloth of white. There, light a candle at our Mary’s white dove feet; There, lay my Sword Upon the silent heart of God, my Lord. He shall be guest, and He shall eat with me. There shall be fish, set in a bowl, pearl-white, And yellow pears in a dish of yellow light; And purple-clustered grapes, SCHOOL ACTIVITIES (Continued from Page 78) members of the Junior Red Cross Council. The Dramatic Clubs This year Mr. Robson supervised the Junior Dramatic Club and Miss Mac- intyre the Senior Club. During the course of the year two Comedies were presented for the school’s entertain¬ ment in the Auditorium Periods. The Junior play was directed by Libby Kolt and the Senior play by Olga Ya- remko, who was assisted by Margaret Black Del Placentine was in charge of stag properties. Rehearsals were held at the early hour of 8 a.m., which, perhaps, accounted for the falling asleep of some students during the course of a day’s school work. During rehearsal many moans, terrible wailing, hysteri¬ cal laughter, and groans could be heard issuing from Room 10. These clubs, however, were very successful in their productions. Isaac Newton Tag-Y Leader . Margaret Bannatyne President . Vicki Rolski Vice-President . Helen Prochera Secretary . Olga Sytchuk in black beads strung, From vineyards of the Night; lush, heavy-hung, Beside the loaf of bread, the glass of wine. My thoughts like birds, hushed low into the air, Brush the horizon’s line, Flutter against the shutters of my mind, Beating their wings in prayer, Until I find My eager fingers thrust the windows wide, And peace eternal enters there inside. I shall light a candle at Mary’s white dove breast, There to find rest; There, lay my Sword Upon the silent heart of God, my Lord. And He shall bide with me And be my guest. —Myra Lazeczko Haas. Treasurer . Jessie Douglas Programme Chairman . Valerie Prochera Sports Chairman. Ina Andruskow Publicity . June Shaley Council Representatives . Joan Sagar - Vicki Rolski Every Tuesday, at 7.30 p.m., a group of enthusiastic ’teen-agers meet at New¬ ton to play games, take part in educa¬ tional discussions, and to do handicraft. They are members of the Isaac New¬ ton Tag-Y, a Y.W.C.A. group. The club members first of all take part in whatever sport they find ap¬ pealing to them. When their energy is spent they all troop upstairs to hold a business meeting. Reports on Y ac¬ tivities are given and then ’Teen-age Council suggestions are discussed. After the meeting is adjourned handi¬ craft is brought out, or the girls discuss topics that interest them. All socials are planned and carried out by the girls themselves. The girls look forward with enthu¬ siasm to these weekly meetings, and derive much good from their associa¬ tion with other girls of their own age who partake in the same interests as themselves.