Reading Memorial High School - Pioneer Yearbook (Reading, MA)

Page 22 text:

THE PIONEER illusioned man. I was suffering from a phobia. I was seasick and how terra firma did roll and buckle. Why, I could even smell the salt, and every time I thought of Italian spaghetti—oh! Of course, I was confined to bed for a complete rest, and naturally the bed was in a room, a room with taunting wallpaper. It was green; if I dare presume so, a ghastly pale green that rolled and swirled in hideous scrolls, entwining itself in other green swirls sickening to look at. They twisted too en¬ ergetically and fairly snarled; I was literally knocked to my feet even by looking at them. If I gazed long enough on this piece of creative genius, it seemed to rotate and radiate like a spinning top. By the third day, the white polka dots around the border had grown before my blood-shot eyes into a fluctuating white cap effect. After a week of swirling in that green maze the bed seemed to sprout masts and I felt like yelling out periodically, “Ship ahoy!” After I quite violently threw that plate of hash at my nurse, however, I was moved to a more soothing room. Yes, I recovered. But to get on, I remember once in ’29 after the crash I lay a palsied and moaning wreck in a room just blasted with (of all colors) red! All kinds of red! It hung in suspended animation before my eyes, forming ticker tape. Now, it wasn’t that nice bright red that blinds one. No, it had been on those morbid walls for years, and it had dimmed into a dark red, vengeful, bloody, and all too suggestive of the recent predomi¬ nant hue of ink in the ledgers and books of my firm. I got out of that place by smoking in bed. Wait a minute; don’t go away. You know, I suffer horribly from hay fever and I hate, just hate, all kinds of flowers. Can’t stand the sight of them, even a picture of ' em makes me go off in a paroxysm on the spot. Well, the year I contracted pneumonia I had a room bedecked with lovely clumps and clods of daisies and golden rods worked out in a split complimentary color scheme of pink and yellow-green. I could just see the pollen waiting. Have you ever seen pink and yellow- green together? My old seasickness would return every- time I would glance at it. Of course, my hayfever took a bow and a return engagement. Those limpid, fetid blossoms which hung helter skelter about the room—I hated them so! I attacked those lurid posies with a nail file until there wasn’t a single pink and yellow-green bloom ablooming. Again in ’35, after attempting to come home from a honey of a party at Louie’s, I had rather a bad fall on the ice. (People do say it affected me mentally.) I was confined for six months to a small cell of a room em¬ bellished with a design that its creator no doubt thought a very precocious masterpiece. Personally, I detest those inane scenic wallpapers, and that’s what this was. I might have put up with a south sea theme, or a land¬ scape, or something reminiscent of spring and fair weather, but this was a winter group, depicting winter sports. Ice was the predominating background. A skier skidded across the baseboard, skaters whirled profusely between onrushing toboggans, and leering groups of people toasted one another over roaring fires. Well sir, I amused myself by throwing homemade darts at those inert creatures. I soon became very animated in my work. One day I observed my cousin Spider’s eight guage shot gun leaning invitingly in the corner. I blew three sides of that room to confetti. Well, these little narrations are just to explain and help trace for you that burning, grinding hate I hold for wallpaper. Then came ’39 and I had recovered sufficiently from my numerous maladies to move about. But I lived to regret it about three months ago! It happened at one of those fashionable garden parties given by Mrs. Cor¬ nelius Grieg Van Smuts, to which I rated a coveted in¬ vitation. The party had been a brilliant success and the guests even more so, the gentlemen accoutered in swallow tail coats, ascots, et cetera; the ladies, in long frocks and ridiculous hats. Everywhere guests were laughing and talking in congenial huddles. The younger set were dancing, and the rocking chair brigade were smiling and drooling into their beards. As I say, all went well until it began to rain, driving the guests to shelter. I always have said that “Corny” has a beauti¬ ful home; she keeps it decorated in the very essence of ultraness. Well, anyway, I dashed in to avoid an un¬ called for bath. Before the deluge I had been amusing a few onlookers by cutting, out of a folded newspaper, geegaws which they all called “clevah”. I was still armed with a formidable foot or so of shears. As l remember it, Lucille Batiste de Jaux was on my right and Baron Felix Armand Slush on my left as we turned the corner of the foyer hall. The lovely gilded doors of the drawing room stood open revealing the assembled guests. And then I saw it! I let out a bellow that shook the mirrors. That wallpaper! It was striped in orchid and pale fudge. It was too much for a man who had suffered as I had to bear. I know I didn’t stop scream¬ ing and yelling until I had cut off the tails on every dress coat in that room with those hungry scissors. Bar¬ on Slush’s longies became shorts in double quick time. Yes, I just love it here. It’s so quiet. I am ill, you know! But the walls are such a restful white. Those men in white are annoying at times, and those bars do get on my nerves, but there just isn’t a single solitary inch of wallpaper—that I know. Yeowee! Tom Connelly SAGA OF A CHRISTMAS PRESENT “Only two more weeks till Christmas!” The short printed line in the newspaper struck Lura in the face like a well aimed slap. Why hadn’t she remembered? And this Christmas she had planned to make with her own little lily-white hands a gift for Stanley. Only two weeks left. Whatever could she do; what could she make? 0, why hadn’t she remembered? A big tear rolled down Lura’s pretty, irresponsible cheek and fell into her lap. Stanley and Lura had been happily married for just three months; their quarrels were still silly things Sixteen

Page 21 text:

CHRISTMAS 19 3 9 it before I smack you with this?” Brandishing a sharp rock, Henderson walked toward the boy. “It should be here,” replied Red. “I can’t under¬ stand it. Honest, Jim. We’ll just have to keep on walk¬ ing until we strike it.” Weighing the rock in his hand, the thug hesitated a moment and then, heaving it away, he set out again without a word, only stopping to drink deeply from the canteen. On and on they marched, the two robbers sweating profusely and slowly exhausting their meager supply of water. Still Red marched forward, not seem¬ ing to mind the extreme heat and the fact that he had had no water from the canteen. Suddenly, to the left, a group of stunted green trees appeared. Racing into the green shrubs, Red soon reappeared and called to the murderers, “Plenty of water here. Hurry up!” Eagerly the others rushed toward the oasis and Red was about to go back to wait for them when he was stopped by Shaw’s harsh cry. “Come here, kid! You ain’t playing no tricks on us. You just stay where we can see ya hereafter.” Weasel staggered forward to the clear pool of refresh¬ ing water. He had just lowered his head to drink when a small sign nearby caught his eye. “Poison! Beware! the piece of cardboard read. Slowly Weasel got up and reeled over to Red. “Thought you’d lead us to a poisoned spring, did ya? Didn’t quite have time to steal the sign, you little rat. Take that!” Red reeled and fell from the heavy blow. “I didn’t know. I must have the wrong path. We can get through this way, though, if you can last out, Red muttered while he wiped his face on his blue denim shirt. “We’ll last out all right,” sneered Henderson; if a little guy like you can stand it, I guess we can. Now get up, and no more tricks or you 11 never get up again. The three men staggered on through the intense heat which was now at its midday peak. Gazing around. Red thought, “If I can only keep them going a few hours, I may yet revenge my pard’s death. Gee, I wish 1 had some water. But no more could he see. Hours and hours they marched. The two bandits were just barely able to walk—their lips swelled from dust and lack of water, their supply of which had long since been exhausted. Then again Red summoned them to an oasis, hut again the fatal sign “Poison! Beware!’ mocked them. The two men were silent now and doggedly plodded on, staggering with weak steps. Red, however, seemed to grow fresher than when he had started out. He walk¬ ed on steadily now, not seeming to mind the heat arid lack of water. “Come on, you tough guys. 1 thought you could take it. It’s only a couple of hours. What s the matter? 1 thought you were tough, you pair of tin¬ horn crooks! “You’ll find out who’s a tin-horned crook, you little rat! If you’re fooling us, you will never fool any- one again. Staggering up with his pistol, easel menaced the boy and then, almost falling, he lurched forward and waved him on. Red laughed bitterly to himself. If all went well, he could soon recover his gold and punish these mur¬ derers. He laughed when he saw the two men weaving their way behind him. They had been used to soft living and luxuries and were not accustomed to the extreme heat of the desert to which Red was inured by his years spent on the hot sands. The time was almost ripe for the culmination of his carefully conceived plan for out¬ witting them. Still another oasis loomed far ahead, just barely visible from where they were standing. “This is a good oasis ahead here,’ said Red. “We can get a rest and finish our trip tomorrow.” Without uttering a word, the two crooks started toward the green oasis at a lurching run. They ran only a few paces, however, and then settled back to their former slow gait. Slowly they strode on, covering step by step the distance separating them from water and cool shade. At last they reached the cool trees and shrubs. A spring bubbled noisily into a limpid pool, making the most welcome sight they had even seen. Throwing down their heavy bags, the murderers knelt and drank deeply in unison from the cool water. For a minute they knelt suspended over the pool, and then they both slumped forward into il with faces horribly distorted by the deadly alkaline poisons of the water. Slowly Red stood up and, reaching inside his shirt, drew out the sign which he had taken from this very pool that same morning. He fixed it again at the water ' s edge. It’s message “Poison! Beware!” had served him well. He smiled feebly and then walked to the little clump of trees. He must bury his partner decently now. Robert Sullivan ON WALLPAPER FOR CONVALESCENTS Have you ever been sick, really sick? Sick as a dog, in plain words? You have? Well, you know what it’s like then to lie abed week upon end and twist and heave like some old ship on her last journey. But at that. I bet you fared better than I ever did. Undoubtedly you had a lovely nurse, a sunny room, candy, atten¬ tion—well, you’re just a piker! The trouble with me G that I’m a bachelor, and whenever 1 get ill I’m stuck up in some hack room out of the way to get well or to die. So far I’ve always managed to get well. Now, since I am an experienced sick man and keep to the bed a hundred days out of every three hundred, I feel I am a fully competent expert at anything or any¬ one pertaining to illness and convalescents. In th vears I ' ve been at it I have been in a great number of rooms, and my pet peeves are those which boast wall¬ paper! I don ' t mind huge cracks that make one reel dizzily to trace them, sway ing chandeliers, squeaky beds, or rattling windows—they are inevitable and must be borne cheerfully by us sufferers. But wallpaper just slays me! I ' ll tell you why. Back in 25 after the long sea journey that I took to Capri, I returned home a wreck, a broken and dis-

Page 23 text:

CHRISTMAS 19 3 9 easily forgotten. Just last night Stanley had told his young wife, “Darling, I feel as if we were still on our honeymoon. She had said blissfully, “We’ll always be on a honeymoon, always, always.” Then he had kissed her, a sure sign that they were still a little giddy from the great blow that had come when they had both first felt that queer sick feeling that is known as love. Now the dust lay an inch thick behind the furniture in the little white house with scarlet blinds, and the toast was always the color of Socrates, the undernourished black cat, but Stanley and Lura wore rose-colored glass¬ es and were surrounded by a rosy haze so that to them the house was spotless and the toast tasted like the most delicious food ever cooked. They also supposed that Socrates was as happy as they were, but Socrates, not being in love and lacking the philosophizing and un¬ derstanding temperament of his great namesake, often stormed around the house sharpening his claws on the upholstery and doing other ill bred things, anything but happy. Another big tear followed the first down into Lura’s dainty handkerchief. Miserably she picked up the magazine that lay beside her and flipped over a few pages. The stories of young love and moonlight seemed uninteresting to her; the latest Paris fashion notes and the gay new patterns were dull and colorless. She turned a page and saw this: “A CHRISTMAS Gif 1 FOR JOHN? MAKE IT YOURSELF!” The young wife could hardly believe her eyes; she brightened noticeably and looked at the article again. It said, “Achieve that individual, smart, hand made look to your gifts, and listen to the compliments. It’s easy. Make them yourself this year. Send 25c to Marjorie Allen, c o this magazine, and you will receive instruc¬ tions about how to make each of the articles pictured on this page. Hurry, so that you will get yours in plenty of time for Christmas. Around the edges of the page were bright illustrations depicting such things as em¬ broidered bedroom slippers, patchwork quilts, hand- painted desk calendars, hand-knitted neckties, pounded copper ash trays, and numerous similar attractive ktiick- nacks. Lura gazed ecstatically at the unexpected de¬ lights. Stanley would love any one of them, and es¬ pecially the slippers done in red w ith purple wild gees: flying drowsily across a luscious golden yellow moon. Or the shellacked green hook jacket with a border o blase hounds alternating with surprised looking rabbit of a peculiar bronze shade. Or the carved wooden wal rus bookends. 0, what luck to find this, she exulted She dashed off in search of pen, envelope, and a twenty - five cent piece. Socrates lashed his tail angrily and laid back hi ears as Lura swept him into her arms. O. Socrates- honey, Christmas is coming in only two more week . Won’t Stanlev he surprised! Socrates pulled away ii ritably as she laid her cheek happily against his smootl black head. He thought that it would he a much better idea if, instead of wasting time on foolish things like hand-knitted neckties, Lura spent a little more on the planning of his, Socrates’, meals. Indeed, he wouldn ' t mind if she didn’t plan them, if only she would remem¬ ber that the dearest pleasure in a cat’s life is eating and give him anything besides oatmeal in the morning and vegetables (!) at night, things that any self-respecting cat would disdain. Lura put him down on the sofa while she ran out to mail the letter to Marjorie Allen. Socrates clawed the blue upholstery savagely. Every day for the next week Lura watched for the postman; on the seventh day her eagerness was re¬ warded, because he brought the letter from Marjorie Allen. She tore it open and looked upon the promised instructions, but never were more complicated instruc¬ tions seen. For a moment Lura was taken aback, but not for long. Nothing was capable of daunting her when her mind was made up and her Stanley’s happiness was concerned. So at the first opportunity which pre¬ sented itself she procured the materials necessary for the making of the slippers. She also bought a book and a pipe; the slippers were not to be Stanley’s only present from his wife. Triumphant, Lura bore her pur¬ chases home, and dropped them on the table. “First,” instructed Marjorie Allen, “spread your materials before you. Be sure you have everything you need so that you can work without being interrupted. Now, using the pattern pieces labeled A. B. As Lura worked happily on for several days, the slippers steadily, if awkwardly, took form so that eventually they could be recognized at least as some kind of footwear. They were of a beautiful scarlet color, heavenly in the eyes of their maker. Gradually, round, mellow, golden moons appeared on the toes, much superior to the pale, small, cold one that appeared outside her window at night, Lura thought. At last the day before the long awaited holiday arrived, and the purple geese were coming along health¬ ily, Lura worked all afternoon on the birds, but they were stubborn. For some reason or other, they looked like crows. Three times she ripped out her work and three times she re-embroidered the lazily flapping purple wings. She was careful to take time out for supper although her work was far from completion, because if Stanley should return to a supperless home, he would be apt to suspect something. She secreted the wonder¬ ful slippers behind the antique red cherry desk in the hall. That evening while Stanley was waiting for supper, he saw one of Lura ' s magazines lying on the floor. Idly he picked it up and just for the sake of satisfying his curiosity turned a few pages. A bright-colored article lay before him. It was headed: A CHRISTMAS GIF I FOR JOHN ? MAKE IT YOl RSELF! His eye roamed down the page. What ludicrous stuff! Look at those slippers, for instance! What man in his right mind could watch purple geese flying over his toes without a qualm? And red slippers at that! Stanley snorted indignantly at the thought, then dropped the magazine guiltily as he heard Lura say that supper was ready. At twel e o’clock the next morning Lura had just Seventeen