Kelvin High School - Kelvin Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

Page 90 text:

Room X-41 Janet McFarlane Michele Taylor Stanley Jorowski Lonette Bowman Christine McLeod Donna Carriere Kathy McVittie Jacqueline Davis Penny Nicol Sandra Alice Cheryl Dean Fairbairn Golden Carol Nitikman Cynthia Partridge Diane Rankin Cheryl Hogan Susan Scott Shirley Keening Sharna Simkin Barbara Levack Bette Smith CAMERA SHY Sue Thomas ft Jack Leschinsky June Trojack Mike Martin Don Doug McLean McNaughton Chick Bell Kick Martell Rick Jack Dixon Gowanlock CAMERA SHY Donald Hart Natch PeikofT Ken Hull Dave Reycraft Tony Jardine Brian Waters Bob Aitkenhead Grade X Kappa Sigma Award Winners Room Name Average X - 13 David Starr . 92.57% X - 36 Gunther Pacher . 91.57% X - 13 Alan Guberman . 90.93% X - 13 Lawrence Halparin 90.00% X - 13 Helen Wellwood . 89.85% X - 15 Norman Wilde . 89.85% X - 13 Walter Hollenberg . 89.42% X - 13 Margaret Marling . 89.14% X - 13 Peter Grout . 88.64% X - 13 Rochelle Adam. 88.57% X - 13 David Boulton . 88.21% X - 13 Hart Katz . 87.30% X - 13 Peter Duffy . 87.21% X - 15 Carole Isaac . 86.85% X - 15 Peter Davies . 86.70% X - 13 Lorna Bartlett . 86.35% Grade X Schnnl Board and Schnnl Awards Mathematics . Marlene Williams X-21 Science Alan Hart Guberman X-l 3 English . Lorna Bartlett X-l3 Social Studies . David Starr X-l3 Foreign Language.Walter Hollenberg X-l3 Practical Arts.Norman Wilde X-l 5 86

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ESSAYS 1. All Alone in the Big City by Terrence Moore, XI-37 2. Dinner is Served . by Linda Vincent, XI-30 3. A Question of Evil by Horst Packer, XI-37 All Alone in the Big City Portage Avenue was as still as death. Looking in toward the heart of the city, I could see no living thing, Behind me, the ever-widening ring of fire con¬ sumed the suburbs, Silver Heights and Tuxedo. A mighty pall of smoke cast its suffocating shadow over the rubble-strewn plain. As I walked eastward, flam¬ ing wreckage was replaced by charred, smouldering timbers. I stumbled slowly along, and found myself at the bank of the Assiniboine River. The muddy water swirled around a pile of concrete and twisted steel that had once been St. James Bridge. I resumed my painful progress toward the centre of town. My way was paved with shattered glass, erupted pavement, mangled metalwork, and splinter¬ ed, fire-blackened planks and timbers. Had cars and trucks and buses streamed along this route, carrying a work-weary city home to rest? Had street lights bathed the thoroughfare in glaring light, and flashing signs measured the heartbeat of a vibrant town? The reeking vapours of a ruptured sewer main filtered through a mountain of broken brickwork to add their ethereal mass to the thick, low-hanging cloud above. The mushroom cloud of yesterday had long since dissipated and settled back to earth, but the smoke from an atomic age bonfire, from an insatiable con- Darkness is falling on Renfrew Street and at 249, promptly at six, Mother announces, in dulcet tones, that dinner is ready. Five minutes later in not-so- dulcet tones, she again proclaims this fact. Finally at 6:08 a stentorian bellow resounds throughout the house and we emerge from various parts of our home to take our places at the “groaning board.” Don comes from the kitchen where he has been constructing a model “dragster” which, in his worthy opinion is “real neat.” Chris ascends from the base¬ ment and for some time after seems to be afflicted with that well-known disease “Television Stare.” Father, with visible effort, rises from the couch where he has been enjoying his “pre-dinner snooze.” I come from the living room floor, having furthered my education by reading about the adventures of Dick Tracy and the creatures of the Okeefenokee Swamp. Mary Jane comes to her place with a “headful of hardware” — she has just washed her hair and Mother comes from flagration which devoured a city, swelling as it ate, the smoke from this inferno of wood and flesh now blotted out the sun and moon; the sun, that had once fried an egg on the steps of the city hall; the moon, whose love-provoking beams had poured through many a bedroom window on a summer’s eve. But that was in another world, the world of reality. This was all a dream, a wild, delirious dream, in which a telephone cable of yesterday morning was now a slack, meaningless strand of metal, snaking across my path. Once, there had been a thriving city here — a day ago. And once, the golden boy had gazed across it, and in his gaze had counted prostitutes, policemen, and Salvation Army Santa Clauses. Now, he lies in a ton of rubble, his torch extinguished, his sheaf of wheat scattered to the four winds. And here I stand, at the windiest corner in Canada, near the ruins of a bank, a railway station, and a furniture store; near the ruins of a monument to the men who died in the war to end war. Around and above me, the sides of a cavernous crater bristle with gas mains, water mains and steel to reinforce a city. I brush from my clothes a layer of filthy radioactive dust, but more settles in its place. Served the kitchen to place on the table another of her culinary masterpieces. It is greeted with appropriate comments, “Not liver again!” or “Ugh! I hate scal¬ loped potatoes!” At first there is no sound. We are all too busy soothing our fierce pangs of hunger. Gradually, the silence is broken by witty, scintillating conversation — “I had a raw carrot before dinner so I don’t think I’ll have any beans.” “Would you please move your elbow? I’d like to see what I’m eating!” “Chris, when Donald wants a bun, don’t throw him one, pass the whole plate!” Usually, at this point the table becomes the site of a verbal battle over some question of earth-shaking importance, as which of the boys is the better hockey player. The sides are mostly in the ratio of three to one. When the battle becomes heated, with words like “stupid,” “idiot,” and “half-wit” flying through Dinner is 88