North Bay Teachers College - Polaris Yearbook (North Bay, Ontario Canada)

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Susan Nicol GOODBYE TO TIM The giant oak cast its massive purple shadow protecting the now shrivelling grass. Cutting its way beneath the shadow slipped the tanned road. Ahead it gradually rose to the crest of a small hill. From this the sun reflected all its strength with a dreadful glare. Through this mass of brilliant yellow two figures appeared. The larger of the two dragged his feet, kicking up great clouds of dust which all but covered the straggling creature behind. Closer, closer, the gap between the coolness of the shadow and the pair closed. Under this protection from the unbearable heat and glare the figures became distinguishable--a small exhausted boy and his aging collie dog. The small face reflected pain as it gazed down into the uplifted brown eyes. l'm sorry we had to walk so far Tim, but we had to get away. Com'on, we'll rest under this tree now. lust look at ya, all caked with dust. People are gonna thinkl never bath ya. Well never mind, just rest now. Together the pair moved to the base of the tree. The boy slumped down and leaned his back against the rough hewn bark. His dog flopped down at his side and lay his drooping head into the small lap. Uncle Andy should 'a never said what he did, Now they'll be sorry. Now we're gone. Don't worry boy, I'll never go back! Well--at lesat not till they promise --the tiny voice quivered, --promise not to shoot you. Anger and frustration rose with sudden gust. The young face showed set lines of determination and rebellion. The once tiny voice rose to a fevered pitch. I won't let them do it! Frail arms flung around the dust caked ruff and the tear stained cheeks disappeared into the mound of fur. There was no response. No flip of the tail, no loving whimper, no flick of the eyebrow. There was nothing. Tim didn't move. He lay still, his quiet head resting in its original position. Realization slowly dawnedg deep, tearing sobs broke forth. Wake up Tim. Please wake up. Oh, Tim, you have to wake up. We have to get going, Com'on boy! The pleas went unanswered. The golden hulk lay still and silent. Gently, very gently, the boy lifted Tim's head and softly laid it in the crushed grass. He slowly rose and dragged himself towards the distant cluster of trees. Shortly he reappeared carrying an armload of wood. Sinking to his knees he began digging with a flat, shovel- like stick. This ritual completed, the boy blinded again by tears stumbled to the side of his beloved dog. Well Tim, he won't shoot you anyways. Here you can sleep in peace and I'll visit you often. The giant oak cast its massive purple shadow protecting the shrivelling grass. Cutting its way beneath the shadow slipped the tanned road, Ahead it gradually rose to the crest of a small hill over which a small figure slumped out of sight. The countryside was still and unchanged except for the small, crude cross which stood beneath the protection of the purple shadowof the giant oak. Karen stood alone, Surrounded by others, Yet somehow -- still alone. Her face, Pinched and white, Held no childish gaiety, Warmth or delight. Any hint of laughter Was hidden behind her sorrow. For she was no one's daughter! She had done this before And would do it again. It was useless Parading with the others Across the floor In front of likely parents. She felt her throat ache. Silently she promised to be good If only someone would take 104 Her for their daughter! THE ORPHAN Form 8 Tears stung her eyes Yet did not fall, While she quietly dreamed For a mama doll, And toys and clothes, And friends and swings, And this and that, So many things -- But most of all A Mom and Dad. She trembled as the tension Mounted -- and broke, When, strangely kind, The Matron's voice Said, Karen -- please stay behind' -- Jane Boorse Form 32

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ATTESTATION OF A MAJORITY OF ONE When They cries out the need for more, more, more, I count my wealth of family, friends, and happy memories. When They sighs about the insignificance of one short life span, I think of the lifetime I have to rejoice for each day, When They shouts the horrors of war and race riots, and then sits down: I hear the words, Have we not all one father? When They practises free-love and infidelity, I remember the pure true love I share with another. When They wallows in alcohol and drugs as an answer to problems, I give thanks for my help in time of trouble. When They weeps for our decadent society, I whisper the story of hope--the first Christmas. They says that I am too idealistic, I need to open my eyesg I say that I have seen the Light. Kenna Iohns Form '7 CHECK THAT LIST, MYRT The door of the dusty blue car opened and a tall man unfolded himself from it. He took out the car's ashtray and knocked it against the gas pump. Korn chips all you want? llYeah. ll A car hood slammed somewhere. From the darkness of the big garage door appeared the mechanic dressed in greasy green coveralls and wiping his fingers on a piece of old underwear. At the approach of the attendant the gaudy-shirted tourist looked up from his ashtray, D'you have any Korn chips? Nope, sorry, don't carry them kind. Windshield? At this point the mechanic took from his hip pocket another piece of underwear, slightly cleanerg with this he quickly swabbed the windshield. A woman's voice from the ear belatedly shrilled out, Like the ones we got in Vancouver. Oh, yes, Vancouver, says the tourist, Vancouver, lots of interest points there, Yessiree, we couldn't stop long there of course. We've been down through the big timber, Ever seen 'em--like Redwoods. I think I liked them best of all. Gosh, it took us the better part of a day to pass them. I'll take six bags. We need a lot to keep us going the rest of the day. We won't be stopping till IO p.m. 'Bout how far's Lethbridge from here? Mister, I don't carry Korn Chips! Lethbridge's 'bout IW61lty'S6VCIl, twenty-eight miles northwest of here. There was a tone of finality here. Twenty-seven, eh. Got that Myrt -Lethbridge. Myrt pushed two sticky blond children back from the window and retorted, l think we 'did' that place already, dear. I'll check the list. Yeah, daddy that's where they had all those stinky oil wells. Yes, Rick, it's crossed out. We've been north . . . There was something in the expression of the mechanic standing with his arms akimbo that suppressed further utterance from her. The tall man, equally irritated at the idea of having to speed along for the next four hours without food, wedged himself back into the car, slammed the door and revved the motor. Well, must be getting on--have to stick to schedule if we're going to 'do' the provinces in two weeks. The engine roared and the car sped away engulfing the resigned mechanic in a choking cloud of dust, The dust gradually settled and the sun dazzled down strongly as before. The mechanic knowingly peered up the road at the quickly receding car. He said more to himself than to anyone else, You meet a lot of folks like that, 'doing' the provinces in two weeks. They call themselves tourist. They never really get out of their own back yards, Kathleen Proud FOIIT1 9

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MY PLACE IT'S ALL WORTHWI-IILE Here the waves come to die-- I think with awe of distance far, Noisily, yet noiseless. That blue mysterious wink, a star. The heat of day The way the seeds grow in the spring Surrounds, suffocates and encloses The beauty found in everything. With the glazed and burdened odours Of blossom and pine. With sighs I think of happy days The pond nearby re-echoes Fulfilling in so many ways. The sounds of life, I think of the joy, the sadness too As the gelatinous amoebae The uncertainty in all I do. Divide and divide . . . Here is time, yet timelessness, I wonder why I carry on, Both gone and unnoticed When my motives all seem gone. By the occasional visitor. Then some happy child, his face a smile, The elements carve the face of the land . . . Suddenly makes it all worthwhile. Only in the future Will it be known E.A. Nicholls-- That the waves seen today Form 8 Have made a difference In my place . Rachel Seguin Form 3 THE MAKING OF A SEAMAN The shipping agent drove me to the Montreal waterfront. We pulled up beside a twenty-thousand-ton freighter. Well, what do you think of her? he enquired. I narrowed my eyes as I examined the grey hull and the white superstructure, attempting to give the impression thatl was appraising the ship with the benefit of years of experience. Not bad, I said. Well, that's your ship. A Norwegian freighter plying the Great Lakes and the Mediterranean. Good luck! I'll need it, I replied. Swinging my kitbag on my back I swaggered up the gangway as I imagined an experienced seaman would swagger. Leaping to the deck, I strode heartily to the nearest sailor. Hi, I am the new man. Where do I go? He didn't smile. Follow me, I'll show you. As I followed him to my quarters I was quaking in my boots, and justifiably too! I had talked my way into and signed up-for a job that demanded skill in tying knots, proficiency in steering and a general knowledge of seamanship. Wretched and lowly landlubber, the only thing I could do proficiently was get seasick when the water got choppy. I threw my kitbag on my bunk, It should prove an interesting trip. I mused. My unsmiling guide decided to be friendly. I'm Iohannsen. he said. I'm Bob Evans, I replied. I am glad to know you. He took me to the mess hall and introduced me to the crew. This is a crazy ship, he confided. There are Swedes, Finns, Norwegians, Germans, Italians and Spaniards on this tub. And now we have a Canadian! Are you Canadian? asked Colombia, who was from Colombia. Yeah, that's right. we'11 call you Canada. HO. K. iv My new name was a signal of good fortune, The weather was beautiful and the lakes were glass-smooth. I never once felt seasick. Every spare moment I referred to my trusty 'Manual of Seamanship' and practised knot-tying. At first I avoided situations that demanded the use of knots and busied myself chipping rust, washing the deck, coiling rope or working in the holds. But I couldn't avoid them all. My hours of clandestine practice paid dividends as I tied a bowline with speedy but studied nonchalance. I dreaded my first turn at the wheel. It was fearful to know that inevitably I would be responsible for the direction of twenty- thousand tons of ship, slipping at ten knots through the water. I studied desperately and discovered that 'port' meant 'left' and 'starboard' meant 'right' in nautical language. One morning while washing the bridge floor, I overheard and committed to memory the mate's commands and observed the helmsman's actions. It didn't look too difficult. 105