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

Page 63 text:

Tonya rubbed her motheris massive, black arm affectionately while she told her about sheets with flowers poppin' from 'em and a gold dish filled with little soap dolls and bottles of perfume - musta been fifty in all. You didn't pick up somethin, that don't belong to ya, did ya, baby ? Mildred remembered an incident at school. No, Ma, lid never take nothin' from Mrs. Bailey, anyways she gave me this here. Tonya held up a tiny basket stuffed with sweet smelling flowers. For what ? her mother asked. Not for nothin', Tonya answered, as if it were something secret. Mildred's mind joumeyed to the present as she slipped her swollen, aching feet out of her scuffs and walked to the bedroom, a doorless cavem where Tonya slept peacefully in spite of pink rubber curlers in her hair. She sat on the edge of the cot and its legs moaned and spread as her mountainous body settled deep in the mattress. Slowly, she caressed the worn blanket with its frayed binding that skimmed the edges here and there and then, suddenly, she squeezed it tightly with both fists. Oh, Tonya, she sighed softly, touching the small back turned to her. Her head bowed low and then lower, weary from monotonous days and years, as she sat motionless for several minutes thinking of empty yesterdays. Somehow the prospect of tomorrow, bright or dismal, never came to mind. Twinges and thoughts darted in and out of her body and mind - a hodgepodge of envy, hate and fear swimming through and consuming wisps of yellow hair, sparkling bottles of perfume and Tonya's smiles and excitement telling about two days of living out of nine years of life. Her drowsy eyes lifted and welded themselves to the bare window. It seemed to toy with her senses, drawing her into an unending blackness that concealed any illumination from the street below. Slowly, she lifted herself with a tired push of both arms and walked to the dresser. Tonya's picture stood out among the clutter, and as she looked at it a tainted mellowness enveloped her and tears saved for a lifetime unexpect- edly filled and then spilled from her eyes. Her hand furrowed aimlessly through a drawer and she buried the photo deep in a corner. Mildred shook her head slowly from side to side. It'll do that child no good goin' back again, no good at all, she whispered.

Page 62 text:

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.

Page 64 text:

Last Night's Ride by Thomas H. Finnegan june bugs, rabbits, and chuckholes. Not to mention rocks, railroad tracks, and drunken drivers. In spite of all that, I like riding at night much more than in the daytime. Fewer cars. Cooler. The very comfortable black of night amplifies all these sensations and feelings a millionfold. Nosier, crisper, stark vision and non-vision. Following the quartz-iod- ine eye as it bounces and trembles and shows the roadsigns to come. I'm not a padiddle, l'm a bike. Bikey? Hell, they're all bikeys! Shit. Taillight's out again. Where's that connector? Ah, forget it. It comes on once in a while. Tell The Man I never saw it. Been watching where I'm going. Thunder. From the blur of tappets and ticks and the fiery throb, the frenzied pulsebeat racing faster, faster. Sensual. Mellow and strong and it's half the thrill of riding. The eye skitters around ahead, and bigger bumps blip the throttle. A burst of rumbly, throaty noise. A clamoring request to get on with it. Try fifty-five hundred, six grand. Pure gut sensation. What could be aesthetic about something so crude? We're not so suave after all, I guess. Ninety. And I feel so free. God damn taillight!! Look at that - I can even see the little blue flash where the connector touches the frame. Will that do, officer? A blue taillight? No? All right, I'll fix it. On the run. On the fly. I'm Flyyying. Hi. Well, where do I stick the damn thing? 1,11 tape it up. You're kidding! Right now?! Yeah, man, I'm very talented. What's that noise? Hom. CAR!! lkllflklkik As the car passes, Amy and I wave animatedly at its gawking occupants. She is sunbathing in her bright green- yellow bra. They probably saw it from miles away and careened all the way across town and up into the park just to catch a glimpse of some skin. Cretins. Can a semi-nude girl lying on a blanket possibly look elegant? Amy is like that. Many of our friends have confided that they think her the most attractive young woman they've known. She has all the prerequisites - very handsome features, soft and thick mahogany hair which all but smothers her throat and her shoulders, an unmistakable, fetching look of demureness. And she's mine. She will look devastating when she's carrying a baby someday. Amy? Hm? Look. Incandescent orange. I would never have believed a sunset could be so boldly colored. She gazed at the receding light for a moment. How can we treat them as cliches? How can we be so insensitive? It's all your fault, lovely lady. We'll have to make every person on earth line up and pass by here, to see these sunsets while lying on a hilltop with you. Then they'll seef, Theylll see how alluring her smile is. Theylll see how completely irresistible she is. They'll also see those two grey squirrels who just romped up over the grassy crest of our hilltop, and, like curious but timid children, hesitated, star- ing at us and listening to us, before they finally winked and chirped at each other and scampered off to play their own loving little games. Or at least I hope they play loving little gamesg I'd like that for them. All living creatures should play frisky, sexy games. Amy? Hm? You're all right.