Midwood High School - Epilog Yearbook (Brooklyn, NY)

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A Bag in thv lflifv nf ihmnnh l. 'LHey joe, Wait for mel 2. Now I know what sardincs feel like. 3. I had to take a calm. 4. So, like it says in the newsletter .

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Zin Evtrnapvrt Somebody once said, It,s the thousands of little things that matter-the multitude of individual sensations and thoughts that when put together make up the world about usf' Ten or twenty years from now, looking back at our lives in Midwood, it is the small things that we will remember and they will mean the most to us. Remember that first day you entered the school? Almost a lifetime ago, wasn't it? And somehow, looking around now, doesn't it seem incredible that these are the same walls and rooms which, just four years ago, had such power to fill you with fright and awe? Things have quieted down since then, but that first day was all a mass of confusion. Delaney cards, program troubles, people selling tickets . . . all was seemingly without purpose. You wondered if you would ever be able to take these things in your stride. Then gradually everything began to take on a semblance of order, and you had time to look about yourself. Where were you, and what were you doing? Having gotten used to the idea of education at night, late bells, the swimming pool and the fifth floor, you began to see that there was much more to Midwood than appeared on the surface. It was human after all. Weeks passed and changed into terms. You went to your first Midwood dance, a bit disappointed perhaps when your blind date turned out, with dramatic irony, to be the fellow whom you had been avoiding all day. But you went, and you felt good because you knew you were doing your part. Then came Sing, Midwood concerts and football games. Spring and autumn, winter and summer, and finally you were in your junior year. Then, in the spring of 1950, the ground was smashed from under your feet. All extracurricular activities yvere halted. You were amazed and righteously indignant. So you decided to do something about it and went on strike. But the situation continued, and soon you realized that something vital had gone from your life. But time passed, and you adjusted yourself to do without them. It was never quite the same though. You knew it couldn't be. However, classes continued, and meanwhile the walls were painted in various shades. Eddie Cantor, and the dedication of the field to the long suffering gym classes had come and gone, and presto, you woke up one morning and found yourself a senior. Wha' happen? you asked yourself. And later when you went back to school after the Easter vacation, you looked carefully at the building to see if it seemed any different. Perhaps it did, perhaps it didn't, but suddenly all of the other terms looked very young. You were a senior, and most of Midwood lay behind you, untouchable, unchangeable. The teachers were the same as when you entered, and after you left they would still be the same. You began to do things, look at things for the last time-wondering and feeling a bit sad. At graduation you tried to remember all the things you had done, and all the places and names you had known. It had all gone so fast, and you wanted to remember it all. For in the sum total, it's the little things that count the most. 7

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Stand as the Hag passes your aislef' an H.-Xnyluody got 21 gllS mask. Knees, toes, knees, up . . Honest, Mr. O'Brien, I've got a pms