St Marys Academy - Chimes Yearbook (Philadelphia, PA)

Page 70 text:

just like all the rest-'Poor Bill, he's blind.' Get outl' As if in response, my foot accidentally kicked the rejected violin and I timidly pressed my fingers over the smooth case. With it once more so close, I felt the old urge to play. For a long while I merely rippled the bow across the taut strings and then a clear picture of my favorite piece came to my mind and I started to play it softly. I was amazed as my listening ears keenly caught the beautiful drifting strains, sounding sweeter than ever before. A soft foot upon the carpet and I quickly laid my treasure aside and sat listlessly waiting. 'Bill,' said Mother gently, 'I was calling you to dinner but I guess you didn't hear me because of your radio.' Radiol What radio?' I asked. 'Why Bill, yoursl' But I didn't have the radio on.' 'Well that's funny, I distinctly heard a violin somewhere' Then Mother spied the fiddle and cried out happily, 'Bill, you were playing, weren't you? Why it was wonderful! It sounded-why-heavenly, Billl' I could distinctly detect the tears in Mother's voice. Yes, I was. But it couldn't have been that good after all these weeks of not having had any prac- 'tice. Oh, I understand. You're trying to make me feel I was great. Well, I won't have any of your flattery.' 'No Bill, honestly it was, it-well anyway, come on down to dinnerl' I don't want any.' 'All right-I'm sorry.' She went downstairs, I knew, deeply hurt. Why did I have to be so resentful to everyone's praise? Why couldn't I just be my old self? Everybody's changed. I fingered my fiddleg the warm strings calmed me. I began to play another song I knew and somehow it did sound more beautiful than ever before. Of course, it was my imagination, but yet- After a while the boys discontinued their morale-building visits. They were always inviting me here and there but I repeated time and time again that I was too busy. They merely asked me because they felt sorry for me and I would most likely become a nuisance. During this time I learned Braille and other means of seeing, and threw myself into my music without anyone's knowledge. I would sit for hours picking out the notes and, finally after many months of perseverance and toil, I accomplished melody after melody. Then it dawned on me to write my own com- positions. The beginning was most unsuccessful and I was tempted to surrender, but after thinking the plan over, I came to the conclusion it was worth while since I had nothing else to do. Every emotion I possessed created my first work and when I played it, thoughts of joy and peace came to my heart. I never thought of Mother's hovering eyes over one she loves and, without my knowledge during these constant sessions, a worried ear would be listening close-by to the pieces. One night a strange man came to the house for dinner, He was Mr. Morgan, a business associ- ate of Dad's. I shly answered his few questions and as was a custom, found the way to my sanctuary and settled down to my little concert. I commenced the latest piece which told the story of all my dreams and hopes of a happy future and my arm swung back and forth as if telling the violin everything for which my heart yearned. When it ended I jumped up startled, as the door burst open and I recognized the excited voice of Mr. Morgan. 'My boy, let me shake your hand. Why you're a genius! Now as soon as I can arrange it, you'll be on my talent show.' I stood there, dazed and unbelieving. Everyday I practiced and practiced. The night finally arrived. Everyone had a word of encouragement to offer and I took it gladly. Mother straightened my tieg Sis shyly kissed me on the cheek and Dad gave me a man to man pat on the back. The show began. I waited for my turn back- stage and listened to the nervous mumblings of the other contestants as they hastened off the stage. Then it struck. That terrible bitterness and fear. I ran to the talent scout. I can't go on, sir. I can't play in front of those people. They'Il pity me because I'm blind. Please sir, give me my violin. I'm going home. 'My boy, you can't walk out now. Have cour- age. They won't pity you. Why they'll wish they could play half as well.' No, give me my violin! 'We can't find it, Bill. It must have been mis- placed. Everyone's looking for it!' You've got to find it. I need it. It's my best friend. Oh, if only I could see.' 'Here it is. But, Bill, please let me say one thing before you run away. You were begging us

Page 69 text:

Lead Thou, Kindly Light THE STREET on which the Sommers family lives is a typical American block set off by a staunch column of trees along the margin of the road. They were planted, of course, by the bud- ding city of Roseland. The typical husbands of this town are much too' busy with office business, the wives, with other people's business, and the children, with monkey business to fiddle around with sowing seeds. Speaking about fiddles, we find the young hero of our story swaying in time to the terrible tune of his violin. A mass of unruly blonde hair covers his forehead as he bends to catch the misplaced notes and to watch the long, slim fingers run the bow over each string lovingly. All of a sudden the hair jolts back in place and a pair of startled deep blue eyes glance toward the vociferous voice coming from the other side of the porch. Honestly, Bill, if you don't stop screeching on that violin, I'm going to commit suicide. Oh, Peg, don't be such a grouch. How do you think I like it when those silly friends of yours start yodeling all over the place? That's different, sniffs Peg. You're telling me it's different! laughs Bill, his blue eyes dancing merrily. You make me sick, Bill Sommers, and I'm going to tell Mother right this minute. A flash of red pigtails, a temper to match them and a slam of the door mark Peg's departure. Well, what was that little gust of wind ? asks Jack as he mounts the steps by two's and plops into the already dislocated lounging chair. Oh, that bratty sister of mine is always complain- ing about something. This time it's my violin practicing. ' Oh, you know how kids are! states the six- teen-year-old jack. Hey, talking about practice, let's go down to the baseball field. The two boys shuffle lazily toward the play- ground, crowded with the spring-sport-minded teenagers. They mingle among the boys, exchange hearty greetings and accept an invitation to join the game. Shouts of Wow, what a catch! , Boy, is this ball hard! and We certainly need more practice, are heard besides the usual jabber and PATRICIA HARTSOUGH, '51 juvenile jubilation. Bill pivots to answer a far- flung question and fails to hear the excited cries of his teammates until he turns around and meets the ball head on. He sprawls inert upon the moist ground attempting to push away the deep fog clouding his head. His brain seems to whirl and whirl. An outcry that the doctor is on his way eases the pain somewhat. Slowly he revives as he breathes in the sharp aroma of smelling salts and feels the deft fingers probing his head. Dully he opens his eyes. Everything seems just blank. His hands go swiftly to his eyes pulling and pushing the lids apart. He tries to think. I must be dreaming, but no, I can hear the whispered remarks of the people standing about. I can distinguish the doctor's deep voice mumbling to a few close bystanders, 'He seems to be all right. No skull fracturel' Bill's wild hysterical sobbing brings the crowd closer to him. I'm blind, can't you see, I'm blind! The audience, tearfully, steals off. Bill has his first ride in an ambulance. After a brief stay in the hospital he returns home. Somehow it is different as everything is now- but here, we will let Bill tell his own story: I attended the Blind Institute. I wasn't like everyone else and worst of all, people pitied me- even my own family pitied me. I becamc bitter and morbid and moped about my room not wanting to see anyone. My buddy, Jack, continued to visit me the first few weeks and tried to relate the latest happenings at school and the newest football plays for this season's games, but I took it as mere sym- pathy and felt he would finally grow tired of me. For what could I do that he did? I couldn't play football. One day, my sister Peg, who had been all sugar and spice these days, brought my violin upstairs. 'Play something Bill. You haven't been prac- ticing for ages.' Spiteful1y I threw the violin to the floor. You stupid fool,' I shouted, 'how can I ever play? I can't see the notes. Get out of here! You're

Page 71 text:

for your violin, your music. You said you needed it. It was your best friend. What about all those people? Suppose they never have any music. Most of them can't even read notes but they find com- fort in knowing that they can turn on their radio at any time and have some lilting melody to brighten their day. They realize too, Bill, that they may come to a show such as this and see youths like yourself filling the places of those who are growing old. Bill, let them be content in knowing there will always be someone who can give them the happiness that music brings. They need you. They depend upon you. Will you help them? I took up my cherished violin and allowed them to guide me onto the stage. Silence seemed to Hll every Corner of the room and, pretending I was again in the solitude of my room, I lifted the bow and let my soul fill its every motion. I was Wherever you are, I will always be . . . so completely lost in my own dreams that as I finished I was amazingly awakened by the pro- found sound of thunderous applause. Mr. Morgan announced that the applause meter registered No. 15 as the winner. Why, that was my num- ber! He also declared that contestant No. 15 was a blind boy named Bill Sommers. Blind? Blind? I heard from the audience. They didn't pity me. I had won by myself! They needed me! Tears of triumph and peace surged down my face and I whispered a prayer of thanks to God who had replaced my eyes with the glorious gift of music. I could hear Mom and Dad proudly cheering me from their front-row seats and yes, there adding hers was Peg and even those silly girl friends. 'God bless them a1l,' I breathed as the curtain rang down. AT YDUR SIDE I AM THE GUARDIAN ANGEL of Saint Mary's Academy. I see and do many things. I'm always around, but you seldom think of me. I am the one who calls a Sister to the telephone when you are going to have a test and need a few precious minutes to study. Sometimes I even man- age to persuade a Sister to postpone a test. Remem- ber the last English Literature check-up when you were racking your grey matter but couldn't possibly recall who was the greatest poet of the sixteenth century? Well, I was the lifesaver who pestered the Holy Ghost to inspire you. And it worked too, didn't it? You can be sure that this type of work is rather nerve shattering, but the next time honor cards are awarded, listen carefully, because I applaud the loudest and longest for all of you. Of course, I have a great many other duties. I am kept very busy at basketball games by those annoying shots that teeter on the rim and I simply must fly like lightning from the bench and give them just the tiniest tap in for two points. During the hockey season I am always sore and bruised. I get so, as you would say, beat up trying to help you drive that evasive ball into the cage for a goal. Every year I look forward to Christmas time. It is so much fun then at the grammar school Christ- mas play when all the young ones look so unnatu- rally innocent, and the carols frequently make me cry. How I love prom night when the marble hall is magically transformed into a huge pink cloud with your sparkling eyes providing the starlike light. I was very happy to receive a new charge this year. I mean the new building, or course. Many a day, I was seriously contemplating requesting God to spare me an assistant, particularly when those workmen kept running up and down the shaking roof beams with nothing to hold on to but my poor wings. However, thank God, the men, my wings, and I are still intact. Yet all the trouble was surely worth it. just look at the new building and you will see what I mean! A really critical period is play time. I have to be in so many places at once. Someone on the stage will completely forget her lines, and I have to whisper them in her ear. Then a stagehand will, at the same time, involuntarily turn into a juggler with a tray full of glasses and I'll have to steady her lest your emoting be suddenly inter- rupted by a loud crash. The month of May is also a happy time around St. Mary's. It is inspiring to perch in the highest tree on the front campus and watch the lovely you form to honor the patron of our school, Mary. I am always proud when I show this to jesus for He is very pleased with the homage paid to His Blessed Mother and He blesses each and