Seven Hills High School - Yearbook (Cincinnati, OH)

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Milestone Jenny put the roses in a vase and felt her heart jump with excitement ahead of her. She felt as if she had known Johnny for a long time and yet she had no idea of what he would look like, how he would act, She put on a pale blue dress to match her eyes, and the mirror reflected a beautiful girl, a happy girl: but for a moment she wondered why it couldn't have been Jenny going to meet Andy instead of Sylvia to meet Johnny. For Sylvia, sight unseen, from Johnny, sight unseen. Meet me at the letter desk at the U.S.O. at nine. As Jenny walked down the hall at the U.S.O., she tried to picture Johnny, wondered what he would say, what she would say. She was about to see for the first time the man who had been so dominant in her thoughts for the past two years, along with the unforgettable memory of one dead. As she approached, she saw the figure of a tall soldier standing alone at the letter desk with his back to her. She quietly walked up behind him, her heart pounding wildly, and said as calmly as she could, Hello, l'm Sylvia. He turned quickly, and taking both her hands in his, answered, And I'm Joh ------ He didn't finish. They stood hand in hand staring at each other, unknowing, On her face was a jumbled look of fear, surprise, and disbelief: on his was plainly written a deeply confused expression of a man who, once dead, suddenly Hnds himself living again. Tears were in the eyes of both. He took her in his arms. Andy, My Jenny! LONSDALE GREEN, '46 TY-fa Q! E , , y , W F5 i , f , X ' reid. CHQICE Oh, you may pray to heaven To make your dream be real, To make it really tangible, A thing that you can feel, But I will pray as earnestly To make mine stay the same, A dream, when real, is shattered, And dream is not its name, BETTY CHAPMAN, '48 page 93

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Milestone FOR SYLVIA FROM JOHNNY Jenny buried her pretty face in the big box of bright red roses. They were beautiful, Jenny was beautiful. In the bottom was a card written in that familiar hand, Por Sylvia, sight unseen, from Johnny, sight unseen, Meet me at the letter desk at the U.S,O. at nine. That was all. He had given no warning that he was coming home from over- seas. That was just what Andy would have done. But this was Johnny. Jenny's hands trembled slightly with wonder and excitement, What would he be like? She sat down tiredly, and a few unwanted tears settled like dew on the cool, fresh roses. Why couldn't these flowers have been accompanied by a note saying, i'Por my Jenny. I love you. Andy. ? She had loved and lived for Andy. He was everything in the world to her, but then time seemed to stop and she had nothing, nothing to live for. The telegram, A'lVlissing in action, had come only three weeks after the day they had parted. Jenny so clearly remembered that day: a day full of laughing with the always fun-loving Andy: a day full of happiness from their promise to be married when he got back: a day full of tears when he had taken her in his arms for the last time and whispered, Good-bye. my Jenny. I love you. Ever since that day and the day the telegram came two years ago, some of the pep, beauty and love of life that had always been so characteristic of her, faded, but she retained to the fullest extent her sweetness and charm. She had the sense that it takes to realize that the lives of two must not be wasted because of the loss of one. And so she carried on with a brave and endless spirit, trying to forget the way Andy would wink and smile whenever she had on a new dress: the way he would pinch her chin whenever she amused him: the way he looked, so tall and handsome, when she would open her door to him. She tried to forget. On joining the U.S,O., Jenny was given the name of a soldier in a hospital over-seas with whom she was to begin a correspondence. That was one of her jobs at the U.S.O. She was given an impersonal history of Jones, J., too, He had been sent from the front lines to the hospital to rest, suffering from amnesia. And now for almost two years Jenny had written every week to Johnny Jones, and he WrOte nearly every day to her, She signed her letters Sylvia because she felt that letters signed Jenny would have gone only to Andy. To Johnny, these letters signed 'lSylvia meant everything. He could remember no part of his life except the days since he had been in this hospital, and Sylvia was the only person he knew of from home, And from her letters he grew to know her, and he saw that Sylvia was an ideal person. To Jenny, at first, the correspondence meant her job and A'Jones, J. and nothing more. His letters revealed little of his character. It was hard because he was new even to himself. There was nothing behind him. But as the months passed by, Jenny began to perceive his personality as one she would like to know better, and she realized that the Sylvia who wrote him every Monday meant a great deal to him, though he never mentioned love. And now the unseen Johnny was here. For Sylvia. from Johnny. page 92

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Milestone gn 1? CDLF HANDS The human hand is a remarkable thing, for it has done practically everything to make the world what it is today. For instance, think what the author's hand has done. Books, newspapers, magazines, stories, and poems have all come from the author's hand. All the plays we read and see and hear on the radio were once laboriously written out by the hand of some talented person. And oh, what a dull world this would be without the artist's hand, which has created for us the beautiful paintings with which we decorate our homes and books and magazines. For some of us, the only time we ever see glistening snow or burning sand dunes, rolling plains or jagged mountains, western prairies or southern cotton Helds is through the medium of pictures. Music, too, has been created for us by an altruistic hand, the hand of the composer who has written songs, operas, symphonies, oratorios, chorales, and a million other types of music of varied temperament and construction. And the hand of the musician, perhaps pianist or violinist, has delivered all of these from their virtually useless and imprisoned state on paper to the freedom of the air and to our ears. But the hands of the author, artist, musician, and composer, while adding to our culture and enjoyment of life, hardly may be termed as 'lnecessary to life. Consider the doctor's hand-the hand which has had many, many years of training, the hand which during an opera- tion can save or throw away the insecure life of the patient. These lingers have done more for humanity and happiness and life than perhaps any others in the world. The hearts and hopes of many a suffering man, woman, and child have been spiritually lifted by the knowledge that the calm hand of a trained surgeon is ready to cure them. Yet, busy as hands are today, they were even busier yesterday, when practically all industries were carried on by hand. There were few machines and factories. Think of the rough, tough hands of the cobbler which not only had laboriously to sew up and nail together the shoes and boots but also had to cut out the heavy leather to begin with. Think of the quick lingers of all the women who spun their own yarn as well as page 94