Trafalgar Castle School - Yearbook (Whitby, Ontario Canada)

Page 18 text:

Shopping Days It is a bargain day in the shopping centre. It is a murderous day for the husband, who fidgets in the car, and the tiny children who ore dragged, trampled and squashed by inconsiderate grown-ups. It is a day of rush, con- fusion, screaming, pulling and scrambling. In the midst of this I stand, one among millions, a fool among fools; a bargain-hunter. Yet I am different from most bargain-hunters. I know what I want: a simple flashUght, of any type, but very cheap. I approach a counter which does not seem too crowded and start the pro- cess of reaching a clerk. Pushing forward, the nucleus of an organism of faces, I am jolted by a scream. I look around only to find two women tugging at the same haggard piece of stretched curtain. I realise that I shall not find flashlights here, and once more I fight for air. Emerging from the crowd, I am confronted by an elevator and thinking this a long-needed relief, I rush towards it. Once in the sweltering trap, I know that death on terra firma is better than death in the elevator. My morale is low, but I hold my chin up, and also my feet, and shove towards the operator. When I feel that I am within shouting distance, I ask her where the flashlights ' are sold. On the basement floor, a harassed voice replies before hurrying on to shout: Anyone off at the ninth floor? I groan and become resigned to waiting. At last, five floors late, I emerge, a little bruised but happy, and crawl to the stairs. I cannot stand another moment in the elevator and heroically I descend on foot. Much later, I see myself haggling with a clerk concerning some flashlights which he declares are his cheapest. A very tired girl finally hands over the outrageous price of five dollars and ninety-eight cents and rushes for the ' bus. Back at the College, we see her tuck the hard-earned flashlight under her pillow and hear her murmur drowsily: Now, think of all the letters I can write after lights-out. ... I overheard someone on the telephone the other day; Hello, Grace? Is that a fact? I never thought. What? Crazy! I ' ll get Dad ' s car. What is that? Jim has — is that a fact? Crazy. You have to go and do what ... is that a fact? You ' re kidding. No? Crazy. Then see you later . . . Anne Leavens, Grade XI. Nikki Patterson, Grade XIII. Page 16

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The year began, according to tradition, With registration, and in addition A get-acquainted night for all To make us smile at one another m the hall. Classmates and the Friday Osborne Show (Revealing this year ' s Editor nine years ago) Contributed, with hot-dog picnic, Which by the lake we spent, To make us with Week One content. Next week the Old Girls ' Stunt was most successful, Sue and the Dr. danced — ' twas most unusual! New girls we allowed no words to say Just how much they enjoyed Initiation Day. Soon, around came Hallowe ' en When ghosts and witches were surely seen. We looked forward to the visit of the famous Irish poet But it really was quite different from the way We all know it! Betty White, Grade XI. Page 15

Page 19 text:

Routine Would it not be wonderful to get up in the morning just when I felt like it? I would not stay in bed long enough to moke my head ache. I would slip out just when I came to the point of realisation that I felt almost serene after my second stretch! However, would I have time for breakfast in order to be on time for work? I suppose my boss would never be lenient about that eight- thirty buzzer. His argument would be that there would be no sense in paying for work I had not had time to do. Maybe he would let me make up the time after four-thirty ... oh well, knowing my boss, that would be unlikely too. Now consider my day at the office. I arrive there every morning between eight-twenty and eight-thirty, according to the streetcars. The streetcars — they do not seem to have any real routine! I suppose they are ready to start out on time, but at least they stop and start at some different streets once in awhile. And they never seem to arrive anywhere at exactly the same time each day. There is a little variation even if they do travel the same streets and come within ten minutes of being exactly on time. Oh yes, and about my day at the office. Every morning when I go in the door, I see the same bleached-blonde in the same swivel-chair in front of the same straight rows of black telephones on her desk. You know, it really would not be quite so bad if perhaps she could have a diferent coloured cushion every other day. Then perhaps she could paint the end of those awful buttons any other colour but black and install one white telephone. Perhaps she could keep buttons to match her cushions. That would surely be an improvement and maybe even interesting to look for on entering. I go to my desk on the second floor in the south-east corner of the room and pass the same faces, places and typewriters. If one could come to work when one wanted to . . . there might be a few empty desks once in a while ... oh well, I have been through that before. At four-thirty, life begins to look good to me. The buzzer goes and in as few minutes as possible I am in the street below. I see new faces, different cars and shop windows. I can hurry home to dress for a date or I can linger over new displays. How grand! I can go home and cook my dinner or eat it in some pleasant restaurant I encounter en route. Afterwards I can go to a movie, stroll again, or return to my apartment and the novel I am reading. After work is certainly the time I like best. Unfortunately, in this leisure time I find my feet suffer. If only all my shoes were not so completely uncomfortable by three o ' clock! Then too, my stomach often tells me that it is not being properly cared for. It seems that unless I have my dinner between six and seven and do not eat two servings of chocolate ice-cream for dessert, I must suffer. Of course, there is my ironing that piles up, and the way my kitchen needs cleaning, the milk that goes sour, and the friends I have neglected to entertain. Oh, honestly, I must reform and learn to appreciate my alarm clock and my conscience! Georgina White, Grade XII. Page 17