Saint Laurent High School - Milestone Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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Exciting things are happening at Canadair Flying boats that can carry hundreds of gallons of water, drop it on a forest fire, then scoop up more water as they skim across a lake. Airplanes that take off straight upwards, then tilt their wings and fly away at 350 miles an hour, or hover to rescue a man from land or water. Reconnaissance drones that take aerial photo- graphs of what ' s happen- ing 25 miles away and then bring the pictures safely back home. Personnel carriers that swim, crawl through CANADAIR LIMITED MONTREAL 26 jungle, or race across snow and ice. And that ' s just the be- ginning of the list. Canadair is where Cana- dian designers and en- gineers prove themselves the equal of anyone. Where ideas find the courage and the capital needed to de- velop them. Where we turn out products for a world wide market. You ' d enjoy working at Canadair— where the ex- citement is.

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SENIOR ESSAY FIRST PRIZE GLITTER Bright, sunny day. Perfect for a walk. Too bright. I better don my rose-colored glasses. They ' re wild. When I gaze around me they change everything. Even dull things take on a glitter. Like pink diamonds. I walk on. (Really I ' m floating, because everything looks so good around me. You know, it glitters). Buildings, really huge. A marvel. When the sun bounces off the windows. Glittering. Yes, my world is pink. A glittering pink. Everything Is so nice. 1 walk and see couples holding hands, watches on their wrists glittering. Couples in love, the genius of man, the beauty of nature. But then my parents speak of school. I must go, they say. I ' m a big boy, six years old. But Mom, their world isn ' t my world. I ' ll have to study and learn and read and write. She speaks of the good of education and how I must grow up. Through my glasses I look and even school looks okay. Then elementary school is finished. And to high school next. And my marks are just like everybody else ' s. And my mind works like everybody else ' s. But some of my ideas are just a little different. (Which Miss Dubrofsky, my teacher, said was wrong.) I still had my rose-colored glasses and the world was still gittering. I was still young. Then with high school came even more respon- sibilities. Mama began to wonder about me. Said I wasn ' t serious enough. It was true, I guess. Must be my love. She was soft. Warm. Sometimes I ' d take her into my world and explain how pretty everything was. And her eyes would glitter as I showed her my world. Through rose-colored glasses. Then my love moved away. My world was empty without her. And I sought refuge in the great books. Books of love. Books of wisdom. Read through rose- colored glasses. Nature, genius of man, schools, books, love. A good life. Then my rose-colored glasses began to lose just a pinch of glitter. At first I was quite worried. I asked my mother. She said not to worry, it was just the coming of my maturity. With this maturity came a new experience. I would sometimes take off my glasses and look at the world around me. I would think deeply. I began to see evil in the world. There were visions of men killing their fellow men. Shouts for help from persecuted people. Greed. Hatred. Selfishness. Egomaniacs. Perverts. Killers. The inhabitants of the human race. My world? Quickly I saarch for my rose-colored glasses. The world is black! Sombre, no glitter. Where is the glitter? Beads of perspiration cover my face. Then I see an old man and a bird. Where are my glasses? The cruel de- crepit man throws a huge stone at the bird. The stone hits the bird. It kills him. The stone keeps going. Where are my glasses! Then I see them before me on the window ledge. As I reach for them the stone shatters them. And my world is shattered. I am a man. There is no glitter. Michael Weiss SENIOR ESSAY SECOND PRIZE STAIRWAY TO TOMORROW We cannot forget that we are the heirs of that great revolution. Let the word go forth to friend and foe alike, that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans — born in this century, tempered by war, disciplined by a hard and bitter peace, proud of our ancient heritage — and unwilling to witness . . . ' ' Those were the words spoken by an American who had just reached the top of the Stairway to Tomorrow . He stood there now after many years of hardship and labour which he endured to reach it. The criticisms of age, the bigotry and prejudices against his religion and his beliefs were all behind him. He stood there with a glittering torch In his hand; willing to show not only his country, but the whole world, the way to the future. He held it high and proudly for it represented his good nature, his boundless energy, his Intelligence, his ability to lead, his ability to reason. All this and much more he had to offer, and all we had to do was take it and benefit from it. Yet, in a sort of vengeance and jealousy and ignorance we rejected It; instead we pushed him off the ' Stairway ' . This man who did so much for us and could have accomplished so much more, could not help us now. His life was snuffed out before those who had hated him had a chance to tell him how much they had come to love him. It was, on that November day in 1963, as if a light on the earth had been extinguished. We could do nothing now but preach of his virtues and mourn his loss, while we searched for another like him. I feel, that it is with great forgiveness, that it is with great faith, that we were given the chance to have another leader just like him; indeed his own brother. When before in history had we seen such great talent emerge from a family in the form of one person, let alone in two. Here again was a leader of men but again we struck him down too, and with him went the hopes of an entire generation of young people. Why did we do 28