Siskiyou Union High School - White and Gold Yearbook (Weed, CA)

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MEMORIES jBesT essayj As I siT Trying To compose an essay, my mind is a compIeTe blank. IT seems impossible even To Try To wriTe someThing, buT suddenly in my memory I see moThers sTanding in Iine, holding The hands oT Their prides and joys. Childish Taces are scrubbed To a rosy- apple red, yeT why do They linger and hide behind Their moThers' skirTs? Soon we hear a Name please? and The usual quesTions are asked. This is The TirsT day oT school. Our moThers will be going home soon and will leave us To This sTranger. YeT as The days Turn To rnonThs she is no Ionger a sTranger, buT someone who is dear To our hearTs. Nine monThs IaTer we rush home wiTh The good news. I've passed! I've passed! Second graders. Oh, don'T we Think we're smarT! IT seems school is beTTer This year. Our Teacher pa+ien+Iy hears us read, and Teaches us To wriTe our names and our num- bers. As I sTiII remember, she was a sweeT Teacher. In The cold weaTher she would Iine every one up and puT on rubber shoes, zip up snow suiTs, and hug and kiss each one of us goodby. STiII Today I remember The lingering smell oT her perfume, which remained wiTh us unTiI we were home. As Third graders, in my memory remains The Indian play we gave beTore The P.-T.A. The Indians, oT course, needed braids so my DuTch bob was braided. No, my braids were noT Iong, buT The Thrill oT having pigTaiIs! I sTiII remember The Times I hid my papers under rocks because They weren'T good enough To Take home. The TourTh grade was The Turning poinT in our lives, so we seemed To Think. IT I remember correcTIy, ThaT was The grade in which I sTayed aTTer school every niqhT To learn my Time Tables. ThaT is also The grade in which The boy behind me puT my braids in The ink well. jWho said ThaT was only done in The days oT Iong ago?j I'm sure The TiTTh graders all remember aT leasT The Teacher. We sTiII swear she wore a wig, buT who can ever Tell? Every oTher week she would send To The oTFice Tor a new yardsTick. Oh, she used Them. buT noT To measure. Music appreciaTion heads The lisT oT my memories in The sixTh grade. We didn'T appreciaTe iT very much, buT everyone had To have iT. Our sevenTh grade Teacher was a moTher To all oT us. In The eighTh grade I worked as a Iibrarian and saw To iT ThaT my job occupied all oT my Tree Time. IT seems everyone awaiTs graduaTion a monTh or Two beTore Time, and iT is Truly a heavenly day when graduaTion comes! YeT in The corner oT my mind, now Tuzzy wiTh cobwebs, a new IighT shines. I see TrighTened Ii++Ie Treshmen walking inTo The building and inTo The TirsT year oT high school. IT seems as if They are holding Their breaTh, aTraid To breaThe less some mighTy senior will say BuTTon, Treshman. The sophomore year is The Time we welcomed The liTTIe Treshmen. Then comes The junior year, wiTh The ordering oT class rings and The mosT imporT- anT parT oT all-The Junior Prom. Seniors-mighTy, sTrong, and supjerior in everyThing, awaiTing The Time when They can graduaTe. High school IiTe is sTiII Tull oT sTrange new experiences, and I am sure everyone would like To go back and relive some incidenTsin high school days. Some will go To college, oThers will marry, and sTiII oThers will go To work earning Iivings. As my eyes grow heavy I can Think no more oT my school days, buT in my memory They shall remain Torever-my Triends and my Teachers, my hardships and my Trials. my pleasures and my joys. INEZ MATTIAZZI '50, Weed High School.

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Awards . . Fronfispiece . Theme . . . Lilrerary Secfion. . . Fghwghgs Hagh Schoel . Happy camp High School Mgclghg High School. . fV1OLll'1'f'SI'l5S+6 High School Tulelake High School . weed Hfghsghggl. . Yhghg High School . . BuH'e vgugy High School . Adver+isemen+s. . . Page 9 IO I I 2I 3I 45 55 89 I2I I59 l95 249 275

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AN ESSAY lSecond place essayl While day-dreaming in English class I was awakened by The sound oT chalk scrafching againsT The blackboard. There, Tor everyone To read, was The noTice, An essay will be expecTed once a week Trom each sTudenT. I was greaTIy depressed by This ThoughT-whaT could I wriTe abouT? In The TirsT place, whaT is an essay? Having been dreaming aT The Time The assignmenT was made, I missed The expIanaTion given in class. Upon reTerring To The dicTionary, I 'Found ThaT an essay may be a IiTerary composiTion, buT iT also may mean an aTTempT. JusT as I decided ThaT The IeasT I could do was To comply wiTh Mr. WebsTer's idea oT The word and make an aTTempT, I Tell asleep. Having been conTronTed wiTh This irksome Task Tor a 'Few days, I began To grow irriT- able and nervous, and The ThoughTs oT The assignmenT haunTed me, even in my sleep. In a dream, The nighT before my composiTion was due, I viewed a IiTerary parade, headed b color bearers: each one bore a suggesTed Topic Tor my essay. One Trilly Tlag suggesTedl MoonIiT Gardenug on anoTher Tlag, borne by a sTaunch knighT, The Days oT Chivalry was prinTed. Then a roboT squeaked along wiTh a banner over his shoulder, The ATomic Age. Following, came a band oT words which would add drama, spice, and Tlavor To my composiTion. WiTh each noTe in iTs place, The melody which The band played had greaT harmony: iusT as an essay could have rhyThm if each and every word were used To iTs besT advanTage. Leading The band were commas and semicolons Twirling baTons. Marching in The parade was an army oT ThoughTs joined TogeTher To make a compIeTe. well-balanced composiTion-correcT in every deTaiI. BuT dodging in and ouT among The ThoughTs and words, Two clowns were Throwing TragmenTs oT senTences and misspelled words around, Trying To desTroy The harmony oT This greaT pageanT. BUT iT was noT long unTiI The mischief-makers were banished by ProTessors CorrecTness and Precision, who were wearing neaT, Trim, morTarboards and black, Tlowing gowns. Then The shrill sound of TrumpeTs blaring in my head awoke me. The whole parade disappeared, and The beauTiTuI Theme vanished. Now I am in The same siTuaTion I was in beTore my mind was invaded by This exciTing parade oT ThoughTs. NAOMI MANLEY '50, McCloud High school. OLD SCARFACE lBesT SToryl They called him Scarfaced Joe, The old prospecTor who lived in The cabin above The Town where we lived. His cabin was siTuaTed abouT Two miles Trom where we lived and iT lay Towards The head oT The sTream which ran down The can on and ouT pasT The Town. The old man came inTo Town abouT Twice a monTh Tor supplies, and To bring his meager supply of gold To The assayer's oTTice. His Tace was hideously covered wiTh scars and pockmarks. IT was rumored ThaT he had killed eighT men. He. never seemed To boTher anybody, buT s+iII he had a very gruTT manner which alone was enough To make an one aTraid oT him. SomeTimes when he came inTo Town, The kids would hide behind Tiences and Throw pebbles aT him. He would slowly Turn around and pull a wicked-looking knife ouT oT iTs sheaTh and sTare aT Them wiTh Those horrible blood-shoT eyes. The kids would Then Turn and run Tor Their lives. ThaT, you see, is The kind oT repuTaTion Old ScarTace had. One sunny aTTernoon in OcTober. I had decided To go Tishing along The sTream above Old Joe's cabin. AbouT Tour olclock in The aTTernoon I sTarTed To amble on back To Town. ThaT Time of The year, The sun wenT down around six o'cIock, so I knew I would have pIenTy OT Time To geT back To Town before supper. My parenTs never worried, Though, if I was IaTe because someTimes I would sTop and spend The early parT of The evening wiTh one oT my Triends. Along The mounTainside which ran above The edge oT The creek, There was a large paTch oT shalerock. AT The Top oT The rock There appeared To be The mouTh oT a cave. I had always wanTed To explore The cave. and I ThoughT ThaT now was as good a Time