Kelvyn Park High School - Kelvynian Yearbook (Chicago, IL)

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Z9 THE DH! UF IIIU UEHRS Talk about chaos and confusion! That morning my home could have held its own with any madhouse! Mother was tearing madly around with an iron, pressing my blue and yellow ribbons from grammar school. To my protests that no one wore gradua- tion ribbons to high school, Mom only smiled a devastatingly sweet smile, and said in a tone of voice that one might use to an utter idiot, But, darling, you'll be different! I would be different all right! As for my carrying the diploma along, I was helpless against this particular woman's intuition that they might want proof! Grunts and mutterings were issuing from a corner where my father was sweating and laboring feverishly at a self assigned task-shining my shoesl And what shoes! Black patent leather-with straps! I knew all the girls wore sporty saddle shoes, but I also knew it would do no good to voice my in- dignation. In another corner crouched my kid brother, toiling over a ten pound brief- case that my father's father had used! It was awfully battered with age, and it was Sonny's job to shine it up! I could throw that in my locker because a person couldn't carry such a heavy load around without feeling the effects, and, anyway, I knew very well that when you enter high school, you don't bother much with books! I was nearing the end of my rope when Grandma bustled up and handed me a lunch box as big as a breadbox! It was a treasured relic that she had dug out of her trunk. I smiled feebly and thanked her in a thin voice. What else can you do when your mother is glaring at you with o: Go-on, take-it-or- else look in her eye? So I took it, but I was sure that I'd have no use for it! I had been reliably informed that when one enters high school, a strict coke and hot dog diet is a necessary part of the curriculum! I did reach the end of my rope when mother dragged out the dress I was to wear. I shrieked so that even my best friend, on the next block, must have heard me! But there was reason for my madness! It was a horrible, icky- colored green monstrosity that was at least six inches above my knees, one I had always hated!! Visions of high school girls flashed through my mind- girls in sweaters that would fit the aveage 6'4 burly lumber-jack, sweaters so enormous and long that only a few inches of skirt showed. And how would I look? All the while I was being dressed I heard bits of advice. Use big words when you recite. That's how you get good marks! This from my mother. When they put you up for class president, l'll let you use a speech that cinched the election for me! Dad's two cents! Finally I trudged out with my old lunch box, heavy briefcase, ugly green dress, blacked strapped shoes cmd long braids! The family all stood on the porch waving and shouting last minute in- structions. Every time a neighbor's head would appear, Dad would shout, Look, my daughter is going to Q , Q' high school! Too bad a scout for We the People wasn't prowling around looking for prospects, or I'm cer- tain that next week my dad's voice would have been booming through millions of radios telling the world l of his extraordinary daughter! I- But I swallowed hard, turned and waved to a proud and grinning family, and disappeared down f - - the street-off into a new life! .. X - - V I Lois Schaefer rf I! !'l !I I X.. ! it .

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UUU HRE HH HDDLESEEHT! You are an adolescent! How do you know? Well, your legs suddenly begin to get out of control and relax in the most awkward positions . . . You start to switch the radio, from Freckles Fitzsimmons, the Super Super Super Cmonotonous, isn't it?l Quiz Kid to Iumpin' Ierry cmd his livin' Iitterbugs, the newest, hottest band on the air . . . You begin read- ing boy-meets-girl novels and leave your series of Sherlockia Holmes, that amazing girl detective, to gather dust on the shelves . . . You start to wear make-up and begin the period in your life where one-tenth of your day is spent in making-up and the remain- ing nine-tenths in repairing and re- modeling the original job . . . You get your first permanent and slowly become adjusted to sleeping with half a hardware store in your hair . . . You start to live chiefly on hot dogs and cokes, despite your mother's exclamations that it is definitely not a balanced diet and you are not getting the proper number of calories and vitamins . . . The movies become a greater influence in your life than ever before . . . You stop going to see the Saturday serials in which the hero is practically killed at the end of every chapter and start seeing that new fiery love team, Byron Flower and Nita Gayworth . . . You begin imitating all the new fads you see on the screen, coming to school one day with your hair in your eyes a la Veronica Lake, and wearing midget stilts on your feet in Carmen Miranda style, the next . . . You develop crushes on each male star until you learn he has a wife, three children, two dogs and one toupee . . . You start wearing saddle shoes which look as if they have been through the Thirty Years' War and sweaters that would be big even on Lou Costello . . . You become conscious of the fact that there is such a thing as color in clothes, and perhaps a red plaid skirt would not go so well with a violet sweater . . . You thumb all the latest style magazines for fashions which you think will give you that Fifth Avenue chic, but only succeed in giving you that Third Street droop . . . You start wearing dark red nail polish which you diligently put on every night and peel otf by slow degrees during the day . . . You discover that there is something to dancing besides the two-step: you even begin to practice jiu-jitsu in order to become more hep in jitterbugging . . . You suddenly become aware of the fact that there is such a thing as boys, and that those two-legged animals with slingshots and spitballs whose mere presence used to cause you extreme embarrassment, now make you feel giddy if they just acknowledge that you exist . . . You begin wearing open-toed and high-heeled shoes which you soon regret when the walking distance becomes greater than two blocks and the rainy weather causes water to trickle in the open toes . . . You become a mem- ber of a crowd whose chief function is to exchange the latest communiques from the local romantic battlefronts . . . You start greeting your friends with What's buzzin', cousin? and leave With, l'll be flittin' kitten. Ah, yes! You are an adolescent! Ruth van Vlaardingen 28

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Ill! LIFE UJITH SHHKESPEHRE For years I regarded him with awe. Whenever a friend of mine casually mentioned that he had been reading The Tempest or Henry VI, I politely gasped. Even his name sounded impressive and mysterious, falling from the lips of intelligent appearing seniors. One couldn't help wondering what mys- teries English 4, 5, and 6 concealed when one saw upper-classmen cavorting madly about the corridors shouting, Is this a dagger which I see before me? or, in sonorous tones, Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears . . I wondered if that was the usual effect Shakespeare had on people, and shud- dered to think of spending the rest of my life in one of those institutions always mentioned discreetly in conversations as a result of my collision with those three distinguished gents: Iulius Caesar, Macbeth, and Hamlet. Aside from this, though, I somewhat happily anticipated the day when I, a mighty soph- omore, could languidly reply to the query What book is that you're reading? . . . Oh, just 'Caesar'! Rather decent stuff. At last it came. I smiled amiably at my fellow English-fours as We opened our thin blue books containing that work of works- Caesar. My jaw dropped. Pre-Shakespearean happiness crashed down around me. Here were creatures in gowns that appeared to be replicas of my grandfather's night shirt, brandish- ing knives above their heads, and speaking in-of all things!--poetry. It was a shock, of course, and one that we did not soon get over, but the end of the semester found us liking it, and actually clamoring for more. Class dramatizations were always amusing, whether the play of the moment was Caesar, Macbeth, or Hamlet. The kids roared with laughter to hear some blundering would-be actor. in a monotonous sing-song voice, mumble out the lines apportioned to Mark Anthony. In vain the teacher ap- pealed to his sense of emotion and drama: in vain he beseeched him to put some life. some feeling into those immortal lines uttered over the slain body of Caesar. It was ludicrous to the extreme to hear some mighty football player rumble out the lines of that silly little sycophant, Osric. Equally amused were we to hear some frail, studious individual's voice quaver over the part of the mighty Macduff. Excitement reigned whenever parts were being given out for class readings. Our teacher's eye would rove contemplatively over the classroom, trying to choose a cast that would do some justice to Shakespeare's genius, and not get tangled up after a line or two. Came the great moment: all of the parts had been given out with the exception of Hamlet. For a magical moment 34 minds hung in avid expectation. Who was to be Hamlet? But our dear teacher settled the matter by seizing this savory bit for himself. Thus it was with all the plays: he was always the shining Polaris of Caesar, Macbeth, and Hamlet. And you may rest assured that if Hamlet did not appear in some particular scene, this gifted teacher would then shift his dramatic abilities to the most prominent role in that scene. The rest of us had to be satisfied with minor and disgustingly 30