Miles Macdonell Collegiate - Macadonian Yearbook (East Kildonan, Manitoba Canada)

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THE CONQUEST (Cont ' d) I let these words roll over in my mind, and slowly I began to understand. Then it all came in a blinding inundation and I felt an overflowing, bottomless grief. Suddenly I found myself leaning impersonally against the doctor, shuddering with sobs . . . As the sedation curled its fingers around my senses, my mind began to retaliate. This was life—all this love, hate, grief. Death is merely a temporary separation. After death, we carry on, only with something far deeper than life as we know it to be. Meanwhile, I must fight, fight to preserve love and everything that is good. I felt helpless with grief, yet paradoxically I felt myself surging with mental strength and voraciousness. I knew I would always to able to carry on. I realized I had conquered death and quietly, shamelessly, I wept . . . —Merrilyn Ferguson XI-D THE CONFLICT Across the vast unkown stretch Of time we struggle to make Our way and etch A mark upon this vastness for the sake Of future generations. These unborn Children—the people of the future—will gaze Back upon our meagre works, shorn Of the gaudy flame with which we set them ablaze. Those who have gained fame Will be studied and remembered. Yet the average man remains but a name Upon a marker in some lonely grave yard. ' This a truth as old as life, A man must work to conquer strife. —H. Taylor XII-B THE PLEASURES OF LOAFING The history of loafing dates back many centuries to prehistoric times. The ancient reptile was among the first to master the art of loafing. Seeing the wonderful pleasures which could be derived from loafing, man was quick to emulate the cold-blooded vertebrates. Throughout the centuries loafing has steadily increased in popularity until it has now be¬ come the favourite pastime of countless millions. Un¬ fortunately there are those who have not yet mastered the art, and deplorable as it may seem, those who are diametrically opposed to it. A proficient exponent of the art is able to dis¬ pel all unpleasant thoughts. Loafing brings him peace, rest, relaxation, and contentment. In our age, the importance of peace of mind cannot be over¬ stressed. Today, more people than ever before are suffering from nervous tension. Why? Because they have not yet acquired the art of loafing. A loafer can occupy time by listening to melod¬ ious strains, by reading hilarious books, or he can simply close his eyes, lean back, and dream of trop¬ ical islands warmed by the gentle rays of the set¬ ting sun, of palm trees swaying in the breeze, of the sound of water lapping against a sandy beach, of the fragrance of exotic tropical plants, of sumptuous re¬ pasts, of orange juice, checkers, and song. Vicariously he can travel to distant lands, to mys¬ terious Africa, to the frigid arctic, to the frozen tundra. He can even cast off the shackles of the earth and journey to the unknown planets, to Mars, Jupiter, or Saturn. Loafing is a boon to man, a source from which he can draw infinite pleasure. —Arnold Deltman XII-C THOUGHTS I gaze from my bedroom window Upon a bright new day. And the beauty of the morning Leaves me with naught to say. I see the gentle dew drops As they lie on the window sill; The wonderful world God created; And I am still. A fresh new day and love Never fail to cause me awe, And I think, “This is just as beautiful As what Adam and Eve saw.” A fresh new day and life— What a lot to be thankful for! As dawns each day, we see More and more and more, Of the wonderful world around us; The stars, life itself, and love, Savage beasts and birds of prey, And then, peace, the dove. And thus, it is that I think, A I gaze at the world this way, “Life is, oh, so wonderful As is each brand new day.” —Lynn Ridley X-D 47

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Literary Contest Winners PRIZE STORY THE CONQUEST—Merrilyn Ferguson XI-D PRIZE ESSAY THE PATH TO THE LAKE—Bill Harper XII-A PRIZE POEM THE CONFLICT—Harry Taylor XII-B THE CONQUEST “I’m sorry; we could do nothing. Perhaps if it had been sooner, if you had been able to bring him in before. . I accepted these words as if they had been, “I’m sorry, we have no bread today. If you had been sooner. . I let go of his hand, death-heavy, and watched the nurse straighten his limbs, then draw up the white sheet that moulded spectrally over his form. Now, all life was gone. He was just a body. But where did it go? What was it? I hadn’t seen it leave. It seemed so absurd to me. Death. Just a body . . . flesh that soon would undergo funeral preparations. Flesh that, in a satin lined casket, would be lowered into a gaping hole. I could hear, far off, the thud of earth on wood. I had been to a funeral before. I had felt grief then. I had cried with my eyes and with my heart. Where was that grief now? Why couldn’t I find it for the one I loved so much? I felt ashamed. Yet, what did it matter? Was this what we live for—to die? It is all a useless thing. We are just things—no more. We grow, mature, but it is certain we will be struck down. And that’s all it takes. One blow. There are so many failures in life. Why doesn’t everyone stop living now instead of sweating, fight¬ ing, loving, hating—only to meet death in the end? And yet we do everything we can to preserve such a stupid, useless thing as life. We fight on and on, trying to claw our way over the obstacles placed be¬ fore us. We are poor, footless, stupid animals. Sud¬ denly I hated everything, everyone. I hated my¬ self . . . I remembered how much a part of our plans of the future that house had been—that house that helped to kill him. He had worked late, we had done without, assuring ourselves our time would come— but after the house had been paid for. The nurse put a gentle arm across my shoulders. “Come along now, you can rest and be alone in the next room.” I felt sorry for her because she was so kind. I walked passively beside her and she guided me into a soft, green, room. I sat down stiffly on an old. mushy, and comfortable chair. I stared, straight ahead. I realized the nurse would go back, change the bedding, and, quite soon, someone else would occupy the room. And life would go on. No one would stop to mourn his death. Everything would continue as before. “He won’t come home, not ever again,” my mind taunted. The words were obscure. I heard each word in itself and could not connect them together to grasp their meaning. “Something will have to be done with his clothes.” I thought. “I had better phone Mr. Kelly and say he won’t be coming in for a while. Perhaps later, but not just yet.” Something told me I was not making sense but that too refused to make itself clear and understood . . . “I know nothing I can say will help ease your sor¬ row right now,” the doctor was saying. “No.” I thought, “Nothing anybody can say will help. Please leave me alone. Let me die.” “If it’s any help at all, there was a little pain and he died swiftly.” “Birds fly swiftly too, off into the horizon . . .” Again I knew I was not making sense. “Would . ..would you care to talk?” the doctor gently inquired. I nodded. It made no difference. Suddenly I realized it did make a difference—I had to talk to someone. “Why did God do it? I had so much faith before, and now that’s gone and it’s been replaced by hatred. Do you know what it is to love someone with every¬ thing that’s in you? Do you know the times of quiet understanding, of sharing, and of complete unselfish¬ ness and love? God knows because he is God. And yet, knowing, he took everything I had—for Him¬ self! And now, I’m supposed to be full of understand¬ ing and say, ‘It is the will of God.’” The doctor gazed down at me and I felt suddenly weary. A terrible debilitation began to creep into my brain. The doctor was talking soothingly. “I understand that you can feel this way. It may sound hollow and meaningless—what I am saying— but after a while, after you have fully understood what has happened, you’ll find everything coming to you and you’ll lose this bitterness. But you must find your own peace of mind. That’s something you must fight for alone.” 46

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ON BEING SMALL I am small—extremely small. To be exact I occupy a space of not more than one cubic inch. I am a stone. Born a citizen of the United States, I moved in the summer of 1959, to Canada. You have undoubtedly heard of the famous red rocks of Colorado. These are my relatives. You must have heard the famous quotation “Thar’s gold in them thar hills.” “Them thar hills” are my brothers. I was born in the Painted Desert of Arizona with a rather sandy texture, and a very reddish color. When the American government began to build a highway through the desert, I was unearthed by a bulldozer and left by the roadside. This was my first look at the desert. It stretched out before me like a large sheet. Often I would spend my time watching cars go by, noticing the various license plates of the vacationers. One day a ’55 Chev. with a Manitoba license pulled up alongside the road. Three people got out and began to look around. They examined the bigger rocks first, and then one approached me, and picked me up. He liked my small size and so called the others. The three of them scratched me, hammered me, and tried to split me in two. Then, because I was small, they threw me into the car. Obviously, I had been given some kind of test and had passed it. But now what was to become of me? Where were they taking me? Why were they taking me? I sadly looked around for a last view of all my friends. As the car began to move, I realized that a new part of my life had just begun. We covered four hundred miles that day. Our travels brought into my view the Grand Canyon, Hoover Dam, and Las Vegas. I can still remember hearing the Las Vegas weather report: “Mostly clear skies today with moderate winds 13-18 m.p.h. low 68, high 106. Yesterday high—105; Forecast for to¬ morrow—warmer.” The next day we left for Los Angeles. By now I had been forgotten by my travellers and, being small, was left to enjoy all the sights of Southern California, through the rear window. I remember speeding down the Santa Anna Freeway; looking with awe at the great Mt. Wilson Observatory, shinning like a great mirror in the bright sun; and finding myself thrilled at the magnificent homes in Beverly Hills. And, I will never forget that memorable trip to Disneyland. All to soon, however, it was over. I was rudely shoved into a boy’s pocket and enveloped in complete darkness. My holiday was over. A few days later, still in darkness, I could vaguely hear the sharp voice of a customs officer. I was at the border! Soon after, I was brought out of my solitary confinement for my first glimpse of Canada, Manitoba, and Win¬ nipeg. I have now retired. The family placed me in what they called a rock collection. Being small of course, I again readily adapted myself to my new surroundings and have already made friends with all the other stones in the collection. Thus, have I moved from the United States to Canada—over four thousand miles, mostly because of my convenient size. As a footnote to this true story, I might add that, a few weeks ago, while the lady of the house was cleaning up, several larger stones were thrown out. I was allowed to stay, again proving that there are great advantages on being small. —Denis Hlynka XII-A CANADA (SUNG TO TUNE OF DELAWARE) What did VAN-COUVER When he heard you GASPE What did VAN-COUVER Tell me do, I ask? It looked like it was THE PAS Of his LABRADOR dog, KICKING HORSE had killed him Now he’s got no dog. At last YU-KON CAL-GARY Tell him right away That OTTA-WAnts to see him When he comes this way, He can bring his CAR-MAN Cause PETERBOROUGHed mine and TOR-ON-TO the highway Leaving no TRAIL behind. —Bill Galbecka XII-C POEM From Canada to lands unknown God spreads His covering of white As though to hide man’s dreadful fears, His sins, regrets, profane delights. A tranquil, shimmering world unfolds Beneath a luminous moon, And carries us back to ages when The wolf and Indian ruled this land And Peace was King. Alas Horizons! Flow you’ve changed No more naked white terrain, But gigantic towers bleached grey-white Pierce the blackness of the night And Confusion reigns. —Sonia Smerchansky XII-B 48