Mitchell College - Thames Log Yearbook (New London, CT)

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Different Beat by Glenn R. Turgeon If a man does not keep pace with his companions . . . june 16, 1973, was a memorable day for all the seniors of Anderson High School in Worcester, Massachusetts. At precisely 8 P.M., POMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE would sound as does AULD LANG SYNE on january first. Some 487 students are gathered here for the day which will mark an end to their twelve year wait. The drum roll begins, last minute touches on hair, gowns and caps are made, then we finally move. Each abreast with his or her partner, footsteps fall in unison. The left, right, left, right command of our supervi- sor is silently recited at each fall of the marshall's baton. We march, file into our seats and, as everything else has been, seat ourselves in an orderly manner. '. . . perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. The speaker recites his speech, scholarships are presented, and diplomas are distributed. Together we rise and pro- ceed to march away from the school, away from our parents and teachers, away from all ties of apron strings. For the majority of us, we cannot walk away fast enough. The unison ends and becomes a disorderly bout of hand- shakes and kisses. Most will go to college because of the theory that without a college diploma you won't amount to anything in life. A few will join the service, but only one will do something out of the ordinary. His name is Ty. President of the senior class, voted most-likely to succeed, and a straight A student since grade one. Coming from a good home with well-educated parents, Ty has chosen the profession of a do-good wanderer. He plans to scour the United Stated searching out problems to solve and abolishing vice. Let him step to the music he hears . . . But Ty, you're wasting your skills and abilities. Congratulations, Ty, I wish you the best of luck. What kind of a job is that? I wish I were more like you. How will you live? Where will you stay? What will you eat? How will you make any money? Truly courageous of youli' You're going to find out what life is really like, and when you do, donit bother to come back home. A Good Samaritan may not be the highest paying job, but it's by far the most rewarding. One of my best pupils and he's throwing his life away. You're really doing something worthwhile. Is this what they teach you in schools today? I'm proud of you, Ty. '. . . however measured or far away. Bye, Mom. Bye, Dad.

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A Song For An Unsung Nelghbor My quiet neighbor, World War II, Tank driver, Allied offensive, German bazooka, Stopped you cold, Your two buddies, Surrender bound, Hell no, you said, We're not dead yetf' Submachine gun, hand grenades, Ex-track star, Vital commitment, You ran out, Fifteen Krauts, Dead, By your own initiative. I know it, I saw the script, From some senator, Who wrote the citation, Silver Star, Cross de Guerre, De Gaulle kissed you, On both cheeks, Calling you, Connecticut Yankee. Greatest hero, In our locale, Shy away from, Banal Legion meetings. Frank Sabonis, I love you, Hell is war, But credit's due, To those, Who never cashed in Clike Audie Murphyj America's silent sentinels, Like you, Frank Sabonis, Turned the tide, No glory, Guts and will. , Few know your tale, It's true, Frank Sabonis, I love you more. joseph Krakol

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A Little Life By Doraine Riley It is not in the storm nor in the strife We feel benumb'd, and wish to be mo more, But in the after-silence on the shore, When all is lost, except a little life. - George Gordon Byron Mildred Coleman stared at the dull kitchen floor and squirmed under her own enormous weight. She wondered if Tonya was lonesome for her, wondered what she was doing just about now. She smiled as thoughts of her daughter came to mind. She had looked so big that morning with hints of curves pressing through her blue dress. Even her breast buds, timid but proud, were showing as she primped in her Sunday clothes to go with Mrs. Bailey. Slowly, aware of the quiet and drab in the room, a sense of emptiness gripped her. Father Hubbard! This was all his doin', she thought, him and his buttin' in to get Tonya signed up for visitin' with white folks. She didn't like the idea from the start and told him so. But that man had a way of talking, and she finally agreed saying, It couldn't do no harm gettin' Tonya out of the neighborhood what with all the cussin' and slappin' around the young'ns had to put up with? And Mrs. Bailey had seemed friendly and polite to herg even though she had never known them before, she had taken Tonya by the hand and walked her through the door and down the hall - a windowless tunnel with words, as Mildred says, not fit for sayin' scribbled on the walls. She wondered if Mrs. Bailey noticed any of them, and suddenly she felt ashamed. She recalled that as the two figures had disappeared around a corner, she had stood briefly until familiar odors sneaked past her, and then she had stepped inside her apartment and methodically locked the door. After two days of loneliness, Tonya was safely home and sound asleep. Mildred kept remembering the smiles on both their faces when Mrs. Bailey brought Tonya home. She saw Tonya hugging Mrs. Bailey around her little waist. The woman seemed so fragile to Mildred with her blond hair shining and all in curls. Tonya had skipped right past her and into her room where she poked through one drawer after the other looking for something. Grinning, she pressed a little picture of herself to her chest and told her mother it was going to be a surprise for Mrs. Bailey when she visited her next time. She seemed so excited, like a kid getting ready for church. Tonya said, Had a fine time, a real fine time. I ran in the front door 'n out the back. They don't have no elevator, no need to, and only one family there in the whole house! She's got flowers growin' and we sat on the grass and ate lunch, all in one breath.