Rogers Hall School - Splinters Yearbook (Lowell, MA)

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The lncorrigible David Two years ago I penned my first observations of my brother David, wherein I described him as a crafty, quick-witted, weedy sort of character: a noble youth with delusions of grandeur. Since then, despite the help of many, he has changed little. As the Black Sheep of the Hinsdale Regnerys, David quickly distinguished himself from the other boys at prep school by purchasing the students' souls, doing original Freudian impersonations, and becoming involved in several business endeavors including plans to revolutionize the army's entire grenade program and personal expeditions in search of valuable mineral-bearing rock. Unfortunately, David became better known to the school doctor than to any other faculty member, all were warned to approach with caution this seemingly professional Lucifer. Realizing that he was too young to be tied down to anything on a permanent basis, David left college hoping to Hnd a life of adventure away from the college campus. Having been rejected from the armed forces, he headed for Germany with stein held high and the fate of the Fatherland in his hands, for, in all probability, he had become the Devil's advocate. No ordinary prepster, David has, however, accomplished some outstanding feats for a mere boy of nineteen years. He has already written two books, as yet unavailable, one a daring expose of suburban Hinsdale, a veritable hometown Peyton Place. The other is a true-life adventure of a slovenly flag-maker and his feeble but brilliant attempt to incite an insurrection in an American community. He is also somewhat of a cartoonist, a self-styled critic of civilization and an excellent raconteur of tales. At last report, this veritable Da Vinci, aided by United Nation funds, has been gathering a small force in Northern Germany with hopes of conquest and dreams of immortalization. ANNE REGNERX' '64 Reality Blackness invaded the earth, Grabbing those afraid of the dark And leaving the immortal. Loursis Brrooxs '64 The Search She emerged from a fog Entered the misty haze And eventually found light. Louise Braooics '64

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Milestones I had finally realized the impossibility of a suspended sleigh flying over massive continents and bearing a bearded fat man whose image had once seemed to be as powerful as the Almightys I also discovered that giving a pathetic, dissipated old man a Father's day card would be more dangerous than anything else. This experience is not over. It's still with me. Today, however, my meditation concerning the unveiling of new knowledge takes more dehned patterns of research. Life was once so clear and simple. The new-born were angels who winged themselves into hospital windows, grown-ups' drinks were for their health, heaven was at least Hve miles up, and hell was under the streets, a labyrinth of dirty water pipes. I remember my first experience with death. It was the passing of hlrs. Underwood, a white-haired dear who reeked of the therapeutic foam rubber from which the aged seek comfort when sitting on those crusty chairs that have aged with them. Mrs. Underwood made a deep impression on me, and I still remember vividly the wise tales she told-tales that had engulfed my sisters and me. And then she was gone . . . Growing-up also involved the developing of everyday tactics for dealing with adults. How refreshing it was to conquer, Finally, the urgent request to eat my stewed tomatoes by thinking of the famished citizens of China, for up until then it seemed, to me, a seliish act to gorge down nourishing food while keeping the poor Chinese in mind. I had crossed over the nursery threshold fa room Filled with blinding fantasyD into self-discoverv, rewarding meditation, and the happiness of head in hands and the thinking of lovely thoughts . . . in cherished quiet moments. SUQANNAH OSBORN '65 November 22nd It's hard to know what to say, Facing the tragedy of today. Is this the prelude to an end, Cr just a loss which we can mend? SUSANNAH OSBORN '65 lf' f 5, f Xa I-jf ' ul ' , , I is , ,, A si. 1 Q? lv it f an 3 Q V Ifyp ,in

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King's Hill Kings Hill is an old peoples' home far up in the mountains, detached from the rest of hu- manity. The people of the island never speak of it unless to indicate some place where an old parent has Hnally been sent and from which he will never return. The name seems to connote a sort of Nirvana, but along with it an unmentionable taboo is instilled within those who dare to talk and wonder about it. Shortly before Christmas, my father, the island doctor, had to make his fortnightly visit to Kings Hill. Since l had always been in some way fascinated by the place, I asked him if l might make the trip with him. He was hesitant about allowing me to accompany him, thus my desire to was intensified. He finally consented to my rather constant pleading. The home is isolated high in the hills at the western end of the island in an area in which the vegetation is thick and jungle-like. The huge green leaves glitter as they catch tiny bits of sunlight through the slight openings to the sky. Mammoth vines hang precariously down from the snake-like branches. The home itself is elevated from this verdant area and rules alone above it on a treeless hill. The building seems to look over all below with such a knowing, and yet fateful air. There are two, rather small, broken-down white buildings in the center. Several shabby shacks encircle the more impressive white edifices. I Upon our arrival, l immediately became aware of a peculiar air which permeated the atmos- phere. l couldn't explain it then, but now as l reflect upon it, l realize that it was death that filled the air, stagnating it with its cruelty and yet bringing a blessed relief to those who had so long awaited it. These inmates were, for the most part, natives of the island. Somehow they looked angelic before their appointed time. Most of them were sitting, staring at some unknown point, perhaps thinking of the past or of their proximity to death. Some of the more energetic ones were engaged in some form of craft such as weaving doormats or grass rugsj As we approached, they stopped whatever it was that they were doing and focused all eyes upon us. Suddenly l was sorry that l had worn the bright red shift with the Christmas trees on it. l wanted to hide my big straw hat with its red flower that l had picked that morning. ln town l had been so appropriately dressed, but now in this place which was so oblivious to anything connected with the Christmas spirit, I regretted ITIY COSYLIITIC. l watched my father closely as he examined several of the people, or rather as he patted their hands and nodded his head because few of them allowed him to touch them. As he walked among them, his white suit gave him an almost Cod-like appearance, and several of the people reached up inquisitively to feel the whiteness of his suit. Unconsciously l had taken off my hat, and the flower had dropped to the ground. All eyes were fixed upon me as l bent down to retrieve it. From nowhere a grasping hand reached the flower before mine did, for an old hunchbacked man had bent down beside me. His eyes flickered from one of my eyes to the other with a neurotic swiftness. His lips were parted as if in an effort to say something. Suddenly l was aware that my hand was upon his that had squashed the flower in its dehance. His hand was warm and hard. l felt in it the labor it had done, the small children it had held, the pain it had suffered, and the love it had known. Slowly l withdrew my hand and stood, gazing down at the stooping man. He watched me with havvk-like perception as l put my hat on once more. l looked around for my father. l could see him just disappearing down a corridor with two nurses at his side and a feeble old bodv in his arms. Suddenly l was afraid, more afraid than I'd ever been. The man at my feet rose and towered over me despite his deformity. He held out his hand with the crushed flower imprinted on his palm. His eyes were still groping for something in mine. My fear was miraculously transformed into pityffor this unfortunate creature. I felt so young and strong beside him. Now at last his eyes seemed to react. They were gradually but unmistakably filled with tears as he reached out for my hand. He held it for a long time, occasionally turning it gently as if to be sure he hadn't missed any part. Then he placed the crushed red flower in my palm as it had been in his and said, l'm sorry, child, this