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

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a million and one other things. Naturally enough, they elected me a com- mittee of one to sit with Alan and keep him company. Not being one of Alan's closest buddies and feeling the difference of three years in our ages keenly, I tried to produce a subject which would be common ground for us both and entertaining to Alan. Naturally, the closest thing at hand was Sis and her preparations for the Prom. I enumerated the preparations emphatically and in great detailg the man hunt, the infamous phone call to Alan, the purchase of the dress and its accessories, the new hair-do, the arrival of Alan's flowers, and Sis's last minute attack of nerves. I guess I didn't hit on the right topic of conversation because it has been a week now, and our dog, Crumb, is the only member of the family who seems to recognize my existence. as as as If that's the way women behave every time they go out, I'll be hanged if I'll waste my good time on them. SUE MOSKOWITZ 6990 'G When sadness fills each lonely day And clouds turn black and then to gray, When twilight comes and day is done We pray the Lord to see the sun. But yet we mortals all should learn That sun can blister, often burn, Its rays may hurt the searching eye Of those tormented, asking why. Reviving hearts may lift them high, And warm them with a happy glow, Then slip away from the pale blue sky- And let them crash to earth below. Oh, yes, we mortals all should learn That sun can blister, often bum But without faith what can life hold? For with the warmth we have the cold. ADELE LEFKOWITZ I4

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gentle nudge. x 1 I This time she did not swerve from her bid ave Cynthia a firm, but Oh, by the way, said Cyn, as ' thd t d just come to her, so t What are you doing the night of e - 's Senior Prom--it's formal-it's going to be lovel ll e? he whole thing led from her lips at cmpe y icat istserlgvas no longer so is ' ted so far as I aecon . ' a yo er er, t ou can bly ppr iate my position in famil airs. All my life, s far b as I can emember, I have always been t ' ' al Hard Lu Kid.' f a o ll went through a neighbor's window, it was always my oo atm o . If a little girl's doll was broken, it was always I who rokeQ4 B no every one seemed to forget that I was the modern Peck's ad Bo .' C ia started address- ing me as Roger, instead of the usu Jai B t I wasn't so dumb! As soon as she started that, I was o y guard, a - not a ' ute to soon. Mother and Cynthia began t clam fl n I- '-- I er of the day was Roger, get the '- mg so . ' oger, ll for 1- : s 's dress at the tailor's, and so f . E e i en y ' if r est in some small way, there s7 ix - to ec tj m protestations. Much to my reli , the day of prom finally e . I must confess that I neve I ought I ould live to s the da . And now t think of it, perh s it would ve been better i I had j ' ed the orei legion. Cynt a and Mother ose with the s . I rose it em o because th ' woke me to go another errand. N er in my li did I see two pe ple fuss nd fu e the wa ey di an ever in my ' e did I hear of ch ridicu us err ds as I was mad o run that da In th course of e same mo ing, I h d to go around t the beauty arlor to c ange an pointment, e Cynthia s evening shoe t th aker, go Mrs. rdiner's to see ' she had tumed Mother' ironing wire, an o lon ' to the day. That is w I ent my Saturday. Wh' e he other lc s were in th emp y lot cking e regular ball team, I was doi g antics ar und th 0 If t i t a su eme sacrifice, I want to kn wh t is! W PROM EVENING ally a rived, nd ith it e a re- splendent n. Mother says he l ked a solutel han ome Father was busy ith a jig-saw puzzle. ch famil crises mean no ing to him and Mother s still ing aro nd with Cy g her d s, her hair-do, and Rfb? ,.

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I SPIRATIII The fiddler leaned his violin against the curb and wiped his forehead. The street was empty except for two men who now turned out of sight at the comer. The blistering heat of the summer day showed in every muscle of the man who was trying to bring beauty to a dirty street-a street that wanted to remain stretched out in the sun, in its smells and cries, and with the per- sistent sun beating down upon a people who had long since been conquered. High above the same street, a young man in shirtsleeves sat listlessly at a desk on which was a typewriter, and an abundance of crumpled: papers. His handsome face was unsmiling and his eyes were without expression or hope. A letter that was lying near the edge of the desk, once more caught his eye, and again he scanned its contents. It contained his first assignment for a large magazine. His story was due on the following day, but he could not meet the issue. He had struggled with all his heart and soul, but it had been futile. With all of youth's crushed spirit, he cursed the summer heat, he cursed his room, and his efforts, but mostly he cursed himself. The fiddler sat down and rested. As he did so, his eyes fell on his violin, and suddenly a cold feeling crept over him, and he felt old and unwanted. He thought of his first violin. Ma saved for two years to surprise me on my eighth birthday. When Father heard of this he was angry and shouted, 'What will become of this childish fancy?' Ma had smiled, a wan half-hearted smile, as she kissed my cheek and said, 'My son will be the greatest violinist in the world. People will stand for hours to hear him.' And so, Ma died, dreaming of me with musical fame. But, I can't sit here musing. My public is waiting for me and I must not disappoint them. The fiddler rose, picked up his violin and began to play. Would God, I were a gentle apple blossom --a beaten man seated before a typewriter followed the words of a tune the fiddler in the street below was playing. He rose, walked to the window and watched him. Suddenly, the song was forgotten as he stared at the fiddler, and his eyes shone with inspiration. Yes, he would write about the fiddler. He would make famous that lonely man who played so sweetly, and he would give him dreams of glory. The author laughed, That man will never know the dreams I shall give him. That man is my masterpiece. The fiddler walked on, not knowing that the notes of his violin had given hope, courage, and inspiration to the heart of an author. JOYCE GROMBECKER I5