Southwest High School - Roundup Yearbook (St Louis, MO)

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ON ESSAYS I Prize Winning Essay Q By GLORIA SIMON Essays! to me they are nightmares. I hate them. I have dreamed about them and waked thinking about them. What is my trouble? I can- not think of a suitable subject. Do not misunderstand me. I have many ideas but cannot develop them to my satisfaction. I spend many study periods gazing into space trying to get a good start. I have reread some of the essays in our book, Old and New Essays, by Chamberlain, and have pored over the chapter entitled Organizing Experience in Essay Form in Developing Language Power. In my desperation I 'have asked my mother, father, brother, and even schoolmates for suggestions, but their ideas make me more confused. First I thought about the baseball game I had witnessed Saturday. An idea came to me that I could write on the disadvantages of the bleachers. I thought all my worries were over, I made an outline and began to write. I told about the fans of all ages Waiting in line for many hours to sit in the bleachers to see the ball game, their long wait, the discomfort of the hard seats, and the hot sun. Then through some trick of my mind these discomforts disappeared and in their place I could see only what a Wonder- ful opportunity it was to be able to see a World Series game from any seat at all. In disgust I put the Bleacher essay aside. I had lost my point of view. By this time I was tired, and my thoughts wandered to sleep. Then it occurred to me that I might write about dreams. I really thought I had something. I started to Write another outline. Dreams are the guardians of sleep, I began and then stopped. An essay should have a snappy begin- ning, I have learned. This beginning clearly was not snappy, but never- theless I went on with my train of thought, writing, All dreams have origins. There are dreams that occur from the day's happenings, from one's desires, and from outside interferences. No matter how fantastic or amusing they may be, they perform a useful service, they are the most fascinating experiences of our lives. They have nothing to do with the future, but are products of the past and present. Sleep, I continued, is as necessary to the health of the human body as food and drink. While one sleeps, the body cells work at storing up energy to take one through another day. This process of storing up energy would be impossible were not one's conscious mind, while asleep, full of hopes and worries. But consciousness is only part of the human mind. The rest is the unconscious mind. This is the storing of forgotten expe- riences and hidden memories. These hidden memories stimulate reactions to the unconscious mind. If they were allowed free access to the mind, one would Waken frequently. So nature provides a safeguard, a dream mechan- ism that makes the dream contents as undisturbing as possible. As this was much too deep for me, I was forced to give this idea up, so I laid the essay aside and went to bed. What did I dream about that night? You guessed it-essays. The next day I was in a daze, the time was growing short. I just had to think of something to write about. At everything my eyes gazed upon I stopped and wondered if I could write an essay about it. Again I mulled over the chapter on writing essays. An essay, I read again and again, is one's own point of View expressed in one's own words. One difference between an essay and a story is that an essay is more like one's everyday thoughts. The chief value of writing an essay lies in its stimulation to clear thinking. One's experience is good material. Then, like a stroke of lightning, came an inspiration. These efforts at essay writing were my only experience during the past weeks. I decided to weave them together as my essay. Essays to me are still nightmares! Twenty-seven

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C Accepted for SPRING f Prize Winning Poem Q By JOSEPH BANTE When spring treads softly across the wakening earth, We trace her steps in uioletfs gentle birth, In winds that carry the lilac's sweet perfume And urge the hyacinth to an early bloom. And in our hearts the same tremendous urge Of wakening hopes-arises, and seems to purge Our souls of all uncleanliness and greed, And fills a universal need Shared alike by commoner and king, The renaissance of faith that comes with spring. publication and given HONORABLE MENTION by the National High School Poetry ' Association.J fRead at the College Club Evening of Poetry., PICTURE OF PRIZE WINNERS From left: Pa in the 194 t Walker, whose short story, entitled Goober Jim, won her first place 5 Roundup contest, Joe Bante, Whose poem, Spring, won in the poetry division, and Gloria Simon, who came in first with her essay, entitled On Essays Twenty-six

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oooBER JIM C Prize Winning Short Story Q By PATSY WALKER Some people thought-well, you know how people are-that Goober Jim had had his head hurt in the war. They didn't know him as I did. They didn't know how he could keep us kids spellbound with his war stories and tales about Catnip, his old horse. They coulnd't guess how close he brought the Indians. Once he had some warriors right at the front door, only they weren't warriors when we opened the door--just some people. The only thing I could find wrong with Goober Jim was that he was living in the world of pioneers, covered wagons, Indians, and Gener'l Grant. He wouldn't even ride in our new uhorseless carriage when we first got it. He said he'd rather ride ole Catnip, and everybody knew that ole Catnip was as old and broken-down as Goober himself. Goober's house used to be the rendezvous of all the neighborhood kids on a rainy Saturday afternoon. It was a swell little cabin on the inside, even if it didn't look so good on the outside. The walls were hung with strings of dried corn, red and green peppers, parsley, and other vegetables. There was a big fireplace, where we popped corn, roasted apples, and listened to Goober Jim tell stories. I used to come home all wide-eyed and dreamy after one of these sessions, and my mother always said to Dad, Tom, We're going to have to keep that boy away from Goober Jim's. Why, he'll be joining the army, the next thing we know, and going West to fight the Indians. Dad always agreed with her, although secretly I believe he liked to listen to Goober Jim as well as I did. Then I used to cry and beg till he said that I could go the next rainy Saturday. All week long I prayed for rain. And then, if it did rain, I trotted down the well-worn path, walked the log across the swollen branch, picked my way through the wet corn, and there I was-at Goober Jim's. One day we were sitting before the fire, and I, as usual, asked Goober for a story. Goober smoothed his grizzly white beard, cocked his head, and began to count on his fingers. You see, he wasn't so well educated as you or I. I've tole you 'bout the Injun fight at Apple Ridge, 'n' 'bout the big panther I killed with my bare hands, 'n' 'bout the time I got lost for a week in the cave, 'n'-well, I've jest 'bout tole you all I know. I was perplexed. Goober without a story was like a well without water. Goober, I began, and that was enough. I said the name over softly several times to myself. He looked at me kinda funny. Then I asked him, Goober, what's Goober mean? It's not a name, is it? Goober kinda laughed and shook his head. Naw, Sonny, he said, a goober is a peanutf' I laughed, for I'd never heard them called that before, but I knew I'd hit on something because Goober was taking out his Uwhittlin' stick - that's what we called the piece of Wood he whittled on while he told us a story. Why do they call you that? I quizzed, anxious to have him begin the tale. ' Well, it wuz a long time ago, Sonny, 'way 'fore you wuz born. I wuz 'bout seventeen, 'n' thought I knew 'bout everythin' there wuz to know. I had a fine pappy like you've got, 'n' 'most everythin' a boy could want, but I Weren't satisfied. One day my pappy sent me to hoe the corn. I never did like to hoe corn, 'n' 'specially I didn't want to that day 'cause there wuz a picnic, 'n' all the fellows 'round were goin'. I really wanted to go, but Pappy said to hoe the corn first, 'n' then I could go. I started out, 'n' bilin' mad, too. I hoed all mornin', 'n' when time for dinner come 'round, I wuz so mad I went in 'n' told my pappy 'bout it. He tried to Twenty-eight