Julia Richman High School - Spotlight Yearbook (New York, NY)

Page 17 text:

NAN MATE Yes, one can grow to love inanimate things like the rain, or lonesome, black trees, or a violin. What makes me think so? I know because Ilve done it. Listen: I was small, oh very small when it happened. All day it had been dark and wet. Music was all about the house, in the corners of rooms and tumbling up and down the staircase. What kind of music? I forget, but it was played on a violin by my father. It was played by my father, my tall, care-bent father, on a violin. I had been looking at the cold, swift rain. My chin rested on the window sill. There was a lonesome, black tree outside, so near I could almost reach through the rain and touch one of its lean branches. But I dared not open the window for Mother sat in the corner, sewing, and Mother hated drafts. Yes, Mother hated drafts and she hated the rain and friendless trees and 'music and the violin. I can believe now that what happened was best and that the f retful unhappiness of the day was leading up to it. You see Mother had never loved the violin, nor had she ever liked music. Today, she sat here in my room, pretending that the silver lines of melody winding about the house weren't scratching at her heart. What about my father, my tall, care-bent father? I'Ie had lived with the violin as I have with the rain and leafless trees-always. We hadn't had dinner yet. Father had practiced all day and Mother was unhappy and weary over it. You see, there was a Wall between them, a hard impenetrable shaft of music. I had seen it in the dismay in my father's eyes. I had heard it in words that were never spoken. When dinner was ready, Mother took me downstairs. The music stopped. Have you ever noticed how the air vibrates when music stops? In reality it doesn't stop. It never can. I I saw Father put down the violin, so thin and fragile. He layed it on the deep couch in the parlor. The instrument was so light that it hardly sank in the cushions. There was strange, stilted- conversation at dinner. It went like this: 4'Spring is so soon now, do we need more coal? MNO, with Spring so near we can think of shrubs and flowers and a gar- den for Annf, ..- 1 r it - Fl . I I sf v r I If at f' I f v

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nl E, lil E H956 The talent that is the English departments' business to develop is writing. At least that is the more obvious deduction. But in reality, skill in writing is only one result of our training in English. All of us should write correctly. We cannot all have a special talent in writing, however. But there is another great skill to be learned from the study of English that is more important than creative ability. Proficiency in reading is an achievement for which we should all strive. 'GBut, you are saying, UI have known how to read for a long time. There is nothing more than can be taught to me about readingf' Of course at this late date if any of the Seniors did not know how to read, their education would have been a sad failure. But merely calling words off a page is not skill in reading. Have you not often read a sentence over and over again to grasp its meaning? Have you not ever come to the end of a paragraph and found yourself without the slightest knowledge of what it was about? Have you not ever had to read a poem time and time again to understand the thought that was expressed in it? These situations have happened to almost all of us. lt is probably because they miss the meaning of what is on a printed page that some people say they do not like to read. Real reading, real enjoyment of literature is a talent. lt is a talent that can only be developed by living with books and by setting your mind to the task of understanding them. We often have thoughts that cannot be spoken. We often imagine that if we could sit at a desk with a piece of paper in front of us, we could write down those thoughts. But if we ever actually tried it, we would find that writing our thoughts is a talent in itself. It is not easy to convey what we mean by using words. The less of a barrier the paper and pen becomes the greater is the talent. But still greater a talent than the conveyance of thought is the ability to express feeling through words. It is only practice that makes for correct writing. Where our writing is correct, one barrier has been broken down. Clear thinking and sincere feeling will do the rest. MQ V 3 3 I T u , 5 81 1: 7 I ' KY

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Must Ann have a garden?,7 uOh yes, gardens can be to children like-like music to grown-ups. HAH right, if it won't be too expensive. It won't, I'11 help with itf' 6'Are you ready to go in the other room? 4'Yes. Come Ann dear, comef, We went in the other room, all three of us. Father led me to the window and we looked at the rain together. I cooled my hands on the glass and he whispered words to me about a garden and the springtime that was not too far away. Father asked what melody I would like to hear and I knew I must go to bed soon. We both turned around. Mother stood looking down at the deep couch where she had been sit- titng. She bent forward and picked up the violin. It was crushed to pieces! How had it happened? Later she said she sat on it by mistake. I can never forget her face. It looked so cold, almost frozen. Father, tall and care-bent Father, was life- less for a moment. A tiny part of him must have died with the passing of the music. Father came back to life soon and Mother grew less cold. Words be- came more frequent. Violins are expensive, you see. There was no music for Mother at least. But there were ghosts of melodies from the dead violin for Father and me. In the spring he made me a garden, and the lonesome tree bloomed and before long the rain stopped falling. Yes, one can grow to love inanimate things like the rain, lonesome black trees, or a violin. What makes me think so? I know, because .I've done it. MIGNON HOMER SORROW INTELLIGENCE -5- OR - Flight of laughter Thereas nothing like an I.Q. Glistening and free, And how the students know it Now nought is left To boast of their bright genius But the 6ChO in II16- When their marks, alas, don't show it. RITA SCHWARTZ RITA SCHWARTZ