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

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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

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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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GB 0 Barron, Bafffm, 'IXUAOQ got' Me Miran- The interests of people are varied. Some collect stampsg some collect autographs, some collect books, some find scrap-books an interesting pas- timeg others have discovered that collecting humorous sayings and witti- cisms is fascinating. I guess I'm just different. I collect buttons. Buttons? Those ornaments on one's dress, coat, suit, or blouse. They serve their purpose. Some say theyire old-fashioned. It's zippers that are in vogue. But, I like buttons-modernistic cork, old-fashioned pearl, wooden Mexican sombreros, tiny Schiaparellian hands, classic circles on men's suits, sparkling sequin discs on girls, gowns, huge moon-shaped knobs on a manis overcoat, minute delicate specks on babies' undergarments . . . buttons! To me, buttons are not solely, ua fastening to be sewn on an article of dress usually as a catchf' as Mr. Webster terms them. Buttons are people. Individuals with a life of their own. They come into the world shining and glistening in their immaturity. How do they go out? As a child of average intelligence, my parents were ever trying to comprehend my total lack of interest for dolls-those adored objects of girlish devotion. I refused to play with Mary Jane of the flaxen curls and Patsy Lee of ringlets. For hours I would sit in the remotest corner of my father's department store, oblivious to all my surroundings. There Was Johnny Doughboy going off to war, marching in the midst of all the other soldiers. I had hundreds of round brown buttons. And there was Mary Rhine- stone-a dazzling creature. The illumination of her character showed itself so aptly in the brilliancy of her features. Perhaps she was destined to marry George Broderick F itzmaurice Patent Leather-the happy-go-lucky playboy of her dreams. The blackness of his tuxedo always recalls the density of his career to my mind. And Andre Splotched-who was destined to become a great artist. I can visualize the Vermilion, the green, the aquamarine and multi-colors of his palette. They were in readiness for the slightest wim of his brush aspiring towards a great masterpiece. The study of buttons is the study of people. Yes, richman, poorman, beggar man, doctor, lawyer, Indian Chief-theyire all there. BEVERLY SUSER QD ef Qt' Q o Q52