Rogers Hall School - Splinters Yearbook (Lowell, MA)

Page 17 text:

MAN Let Z be man. Let X be organic. Let Y be inorganic. X4-YIZ Let not soul be considered. Let not God be considered. For: lOl QXJ -+- QOH QYJ : Z Z:O Yet the clergy preaches. DIANE THE STRANGER IN TOWN A cry comes at dawn in the city, Sharp in the crisp, faint light. In this dank, dirty place E. DUBRL'LE, ,6O It is the purest sound to he heard. Probably no one else listened, But to me forgotten dreams appeared: The waves of sea-bitten grass on a hill And the roll of the tide on the shore. I waited in vain, the city was quiet. The gull flew home. THEODORA FISHER, '60 IVF lff' 'rr lrr fr lfr . I lib VV, Iso rf IIC IIT Ill ll' Ilrr lla gl' . lu Ill Ill Ill .fy rrr Q9

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THE CONICAL HAT The scene? The First Annual Boston Jazz Festival, 1959. Awaiting the next performance is the most enthusiastic crowd in the festival's short history-l know, for I attended the two nights before this. Quiet! You pop- corn-eaters can't possibly hear the announcer. There. And now the cool jazz of Mister Thelonious Monk-Thelonious . . . He's just as you might picture him. Dark complexion, conical yellow hat Qappears to be bambooj, short tan, smock, and tight trousers of the same hue, accent the musician some men have called ugly. He's sitting at the piano, the lights dim to an icy blue, and the Monk's long and ungainly shadow is cast on the white backdrop. His goatee seems enormous now. With the baggy sleeves of his smock pushed high, Thelonious' trained fingers glide swiftly over the keyboard, and the sad melodious notes of Saint James' Infirmary Bluesi' flow forth somewhat like the patter of spring rain on winter's snow. He's nodding-nodding to some of the great- est accompanists in the world. Cool notes issue from the sax, a muted blare lingers in the trombone, and now the regular thumping of the base emerges from the background along with the snaring of drums. The music is not Dixieland, nor is it Chicago or West Coast Jazz, The- lonious employs his own style apart from that of any other group of mu- sicians. He embodies the sadness of the moderns, the spirit of old New Orleans' artists, and the perfection of the Boston Symphony Orchestra in every selection. Tonight if you could have heard and seen it, you would understand. DIANE E. DUBRULE, '60 LA REPONSE VVhy is there Blue sky, Green grass, Black earth. Man, , Woman, Child, Tall mountain, Flat plain, Deep river. Life - Death Love - Hate, Beauty - Ugliness. Good - Bad 2' God. CAROLYN ROCKWELL, '61

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THE LURE OF THE UNKNOWN Have you ever felt like experiencing something new? If you have, you can understand the feeling of my family and me when we first caught sight of an eating establishment of one of our better-known macaroni com- panies, located just over the big bridge in Vulcher's Cove on Cape Trout. Actually the desire to languish in this small fortress proclaimed by a sign reminiscent of a tilted water tower was stimulated even more by the subtle groans arising from the direction of the abdomen, subtle groans literally screeching, 6'Food, Food. Ah,', we are told, the pleasures of dining out are immeasurable. Just imagine the atmosphere - a delightfully clean, glassed in, screened in porch papered with an attractive mural of what seemed to remind people of the Bay of Naples. Of course you've visited the Bay - hasnit everyone? The soft lilting music of the gondoliers carries you back to old Venice. Soon the sweet sounds are accompanied from another quarter. The shimmering dulcet tones of whining children, tones like those of squealing pigs at mash time. Your tables, around which you all sit, are about three by three, feet that is, and all have a rather quaint little rock to them. The matching chairs are most comfortable with soft yellow seats, but unfortunately they are ornamented with some perfectly lovely wrought-iron clusters of grapes which fit snugly into the small of your back, producing the effect of being slowly and tortuously knifed. Is your father an avid coffee drinker? If he is, you can easily under- stand how our poor breadwinner felt after not having had a cup of coffee from seven o'clock in the morning until eight o'clock at night. His joy at finally reaching the stimulant that would carry him through the long trip home was indescribable. However, after having gallantly given up the first cup of coffee to Mother and then finding out that these people had dared to run out of coffee, his expression at that moment was even more indescrib- able. One look at his face, which could be read like a thermometer, and showed an obviously rising blood pressure, was all that was necessary to convince Mother to give up her own cup of coffee grounds. Shortly after this harrowing experience, our hot, steaming spaghetti with clam sauce arrived. It is easy to realize that in this world of high prices, economy is the watchword. Therefore I fully agree with the use of paper plates. However, when it comes to using three and one half inch forks to eat twelve inch spaghetti, I put my foot down. I could see the headlines of the morning paper screaming, FAMILY FOUND FACE DOXVN IN GUTTER, DEAD OF STARVATIONY' YVhy'? Perhaps you can twirl twelve inch spaghetti on a 3V2 inch fork, I canit. Twirl, twirl, and it twirls right off the fork, fhypo- thetical term, you knowj. T wist,.twirl, and it very sneakily climbs up the