Venango Christian High School - Saga Yearbook (Oil City, PA)

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HONEST DADDY-(Cont. from p. 8) not a white dress. It's dirty and ugly, she said. 'It's not dirty I said. I said it so loud I wondered why Granma didn't hear me. I pulled out the dress from the box and held it up to show her how white it was. 'It is too white I said, 'all white and clean and silky.' 'No she said, she was so mad and red, 'it has a hole in it I got more madder. 'If my mother were here she'd show you I said. 'You got no momma she said all ugly. 1 have so.' I said it loud, Daddy, real loud. I pointed my finger to Momma's picture. 'Well, who can see in this stupid dark room?' Mary Jane said. I pushed her hard and she hit against the bureau. 'See I said, 'look at the picture. That’s my mother and she is the most beautiful lady in the world 'She's ugly, she has funny hands Mary Jane said. 'She has not I said, 'she’s the most beau- tiful lady in the world.' ' She is not she said, 'she has buck teeth.' I don’t remember what happened then. I put the dress over my hands. I couldn’t see anything. I couldn't hear anything except buck teeth, funny hands, buck teeth, funny hands, even when no one was say- ing it. There was something else be- cause I kept hearing someone say, 'Don't let her say that.’ I couldn't hold on to the dress, Daddy, honest I couldn’t. I just put it over Mary Jane’s head and held it there. Granma took me away from there I guess. She was screaming, 'God help us, please help us.’ I don't know why. She pulled me all the way here to my room and locked me in. She won't let me out. Well I'm not scared. Who cares if she locks me in a million years? She doesn't have to even give me my supper. I'm not hungry anyway. That’s all that happened, Daddy, honest. Was I bad? By Daniel Callahan Sol gathered up his papers into his briefcase and slammed the lid shut. In his angered haste to leave the Committee meeting he collided with Ed O’Malley, his young aide. You really took one on the chin, Mr. Cohen, he remarked; You’d think those cussed southern die- hards would know when a good plan came up, but somehow they always manage to scrap every idea but their own nonsense. Sol said nothing as he walked into the gloom of a Washington winter, dirty snow and constant rain marking his mood exactly. Ed took the wheel and drove him down through town and back to the Agriculture Department office build- ing. He nodded curtly to the greet- ings of his staff as he spat to his secretary, No calls, no visitors this morning. He slammed the door behind him, and glanced at the gilt nameplate: SOL COHEN, UNDERSECRETARY OF CLERICAL AFFAIRS. A wry smirk crossed his dark face. He took a seat and had almost forgotten his annoyance when his secretary buzzed through the intercom, Mrs. Cohen on the phone, sir. Hello, Mara, he sighed wearily; No, I'm not forgetting about dinner with Senator Mansfield. I think I’ll be home about six, dear. Goodb—no, I didn't forget about my tux, Mara. Look, don’t worry about it, O.K.? Goodbye, dear. He swore silently under his breath as he tossed the phone onto the cradle. Running through his mind were the words that he was dying to say, I don’t give a damn if he is the Majority Leader of the Senate, woman. Later in the day he paused in the midst of his heap of paperwork to light a cigar, and his mind slipped back to the leaner days, to the period when he and Mara were new and green to the endless whirl of Washington events, especially the circle of proper people, places, affairs. Sol had been happy in his own mediocre way: poker with the fellows, Saturday nights at the theatre, and beer after supper. But Mara became a little more con- scious about the old ways. She chattered about keeping up appear- ances. He found himself being host to top-drawer figures in the Capital, and he did not notice until too late that the old ones, dear to him, were forsaken in the harsh light of swank parties and upper- crust associations. The shrill ring of his telephone shook him from his lethargy, and the intercom said, A Mr. Hayes, from Austin, Mr. Cohen. Shall I put him on? Sol grunted an affirma- tive and eagerly snatched up the receiver. Milt, you old millionaire, how are you? he bellowed; Have- n't heard from you since the Cit- adel days. So now you're a cotton magnate and you get written up in Time, eh? Well, what can I do for the salutatorian of the class of ’47? His face took on a serious air; he lost the smile, reminiscent of his college days, when he list- ened to the brief story of his old friend. To say the least, it calls for a little consideration, Milt. Yes, we'll make it tomorrow for lunch. I'll surely think about it. As the Undersecretary sat at din- ner with his wife and the Senator Mansfields, he mused about the 13

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This is a sophomore. He is the contradiction who is snubbed by seniors, haunted by juniors, and admired by freshmen. He is pres- sured by teachers, reserved only when under surveillance, and a mystery to adults. What will this amazing character be in the future? He may be presi- dent; he may be the greatest scien- tist that ever lived. But no matter what he is, he’ll be a sophomore that survived. He’ll be fantastic. JOSE, CAN YOU SEE? Jane Singer, Dan Goodman, J. McGinty, C. Lamberton, R. Frawley, J. Hibbard, R. Hartle, J. SchefchunasLinda Campagna, Carol Hall, Wilma Kokai, ]. L. Zacherl, J. M. Zacherl, Rose Marie Andres, Doris Buczek, Donna Koziara, Jane Krawiec, Kay Gatesman, . . . AND IN THE PEANUT GALLERY Gierlach, M. Skiba, N. Andrews, L. Karg, L. Vol- oshin, V. Loll, S. McCarthy, C. Keating, K. Set- tlemire, V. Hazclton, J. Lauer, J. Wishnok, L. Karg, S. Lukasiak, T. Schill, B. Edwards, Jm Krawiec, J. Gilliland, S. Alter, J. Zaccaria, J. Kresinske, J. Kresinski, J. Garmong. 12 SOCIAL CLIMBING SOPHS M. McGuckin, E. Zimoski, R. Mizwa, T. McGreevy, C. Clifford, J. Mott.

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urgent message from his old friend from Austin. He recalled the friv- olous days at the Citadel, their alma mater, and a smile crossed his dark face briefly as he remem- bered their scores of good times. Milton had inhered his father’s small ranch and had scrapped the pittance of a cattle herd in favor of cotton production. His good bus- iness sense and political pull had increased his income until he was a state baron in almost all fields. Milt’s message was vague, his voice was strained practically to the point of being frantic. In all his forty-five years, Sol had never known him to sound so anxious. He told him he was in the middle of ffa squeeze too damn big for me, Sol.” His mind asked him why Mr. Big himself would consider coming to a figurehead like himself, a taken-for-granted nobody. Sol twitched uncomfortably in his plush chair and barely heard his wife tittering gaily in the back- ground. He sat deeply immersed in his own shortcomings, balefully brought to light that morning in the Committee room, and the insistent voice of one of his own, his friend, saying, I need help, Sol; God knows I need your help.” After bidding goodnight to their guests, they began the drive home through the darkness of southern January. He loosened his tie and opened his dinner jacket and was about to turn on the radio for a soothing interlude when she said, You certainly were the model of interest and cordiality this evening, Mister Secretary.” He thought, this perpetual game of chase-the-VIP must stop; if it goes much further, I’ll lose my mind. It’s always smile for this nice Demo- cratic Senator, Sol, or sit up and beg for this rich, powerful cabinet member, Sol, or kneel down and— Shut up, Mara,” he thundered. She sat, stunned, and watched through misty eyes her husband’s hands shake on the wheel. The following morning he finished the few routine papers delegated to him, and prepared to go to meet Milton Hayes for lunch. He walked the brisk few blocks to a comfort- able downtown restaurant and seated himself at his favorite table, waiting tensely for his friend to arrive. He was not long in coming, and they exchanged vigorous cordiali- ties before ordering. Hayes was pale, wan, tired, bag under each eye, a far cry from the bombastic, red-faced tycoon he was reputed to be. Let me tell you the whole mess, Sol, and then tell me what you can do.” His story unfolded, like a great circus tent thought Sol, which is the picture of splendor from a distance, but which shows many signs of wear when inspected closely. He talked as a man talks to his last hope; dejected, weary, soaked in a humble quality of plead- ing. Before he was finished, the Undersecretary knew what the man had done, how he had erred. This type of case was familiar to the national agricultural expert. But he could not have forseen the web of implications that would mark his part in the sin of Milton Hayes. His old friend from the home state was a marked man, marked by the machinations of Sol’s own department. He was one of a half- dozen men the government was rounding up for fraud in their report- ing of nonused cotton acreage. All of them had received price supports for cotton never grown, never sold. Milt brokenly told Sol he was in- volved to the amount of $450,000. He was hopelessly entangled, and an educated guess told Sol that the man would suffer the liquidation of practically all his assets in fines once the truth were known. Within a few days, the Senate Committee would subpoena the records from Sol's own office that would convict Hayes of a great swindle. The hag- gard, heavy face and deep southern accent pleaded, Can’t you do something; tell me something I can do to get out,” but the look in his eyes told Sol what he really wanted was the kind of under-the-table help that he had bought all his life. His shifting, bleary eyes asked the question his spirit could not: Will you see that no one sees those records? Will you help a friend, and will you make yourself happy at the same time?” Let’s skip the small talk, Milt,” he said; What you really want is those records destroyed, right?” Sol was surprised to hear Hayes’ voice shoot out a sharp retort, Can’t you see it’s the only way for me? What are you made of? Don’t you have any feelings at all?” He checked his tone, and went on slowly to describe the social free- dom that he could enjoy, the se- curity that he could expect. He makes it sound so easy, thought Sol, just as if government graft and crookeu politics were as typically American as motherhood and base- ball. Flashing to the front of his thoughts was the liberty from his wife’s insistent nagging, his kiss- ing every pair of imperial feet in the District. You're asking a hell of a lot, Milt. I can’t come to any decision today; it’s not just a slip- shod deal I can wink off in a min- ute.” Sol stood to leave and mum- bled over his shoulder, I’ll let you know tomorrow.” The next morning, Wednesday, January 19, Sol Cohen walked through the door bestowed on him by trusting American people, took the damning evidence of corruption from his personal file, closed his office door, and reduced the papers marked COTTON ACREAGE-NORTH TEXAS to ashes. When the Senate Committee sub- poenaed the records from the Cler- ical Affairs office, they were sur- prised that they were not to be had. Although they had no use for Sol Cohen’s ideas, they respected him for his faultless organization and impeccable custody of his job. Sol delivered an appropriate lecture to his staff on the importance of proper filing methods, and about two weeks later he began to receive unmarked envelopes postmarked Austin, Tex- as. At the same time, he found that innumerable doors in Washington society began to open for the first time to him. He noticed that even those places that had shunned him because of his religion before were now happy to boast of the patronage of our honorable Undersecretary, Mr. Cohen.” On a mild summer day some six months later, Sol was sitting in his office when his secretary ushered in a casual friend from the Justice Department. They sat and talked about petty things until the fellow mentioned that his pending mission was in Texas to gather conclusive evidence on that damn Hayes, you remember, the one we almost pinned on fraud charges last winter. Well, we’ve got him nearly wrapped up now. Just the formality of getting' a few extra witnesses.” 14