Wells River High School - Chatterbox Yearbook (Wells River, VT)

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his bench. Then he sat down and stuffed some tobacco into his old corn-cob with his thumb. He scratched a match on the seat of his pants and puffed away in silent contentment. Soon he was aroused by a voice call- ing from above, Grampa Jack, you down there?” Yes, Mary.” Time for you to get to bed if you’re goin’ trappin’ tomorrow.” I’ll be up soon.” You come up now. It’s nine o’clock.” - The old man knocked his pipe on his shoe, put it in his pocket and shuffled upstairs to bed mumbling about daughters who wouldn’t ever treat their fathers like grown up men. The next morning the alarm clock went off at 3:30. Grampa Jack slowly got up, turned off the alarm, and sank back on the bed, meaning to get up and dress in a moment. When his daughter, Mary, got up at 6:00 she went into his room and found him sound asleep. It was too late now for him to go. Too bad he had missed an- other year, for his trapping days were about over. —Virginia Hamel ’44 SCATTERBRAIN ESSAY Yesterday, my English teacher, Mrs. Rowe, told me to write an essay. Today I sit here and think, and think, but it is no good—I can’t think of a thing to write. My mind keeps wandering to different things, for example, How am I going to get a haircut on school time?” I am thinking of many ways, when suddenly the vis- ion changes to Mrs. Rowe’s office. I can even hear her telling me—well you know what she would be saying. I decide that asking permission for a school-time haircut is out of the question and I start talking with the fellow next to me. Immediately I hear my name sung out by Mrs. Gibson. Nothing to do, Dargie?” I look around the room to find inspiration for that blasted essay, but there is 13

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the one over’t the right by the oil can, that’s it.” He took the rag, shook it once and then started polish- ing the trap as well as his knobby, shriveled hands would let him. You done a lot of trappin, ain’tcha, Grampa Jack?” Yuh! . . . Lot of it . . . Yuh!” A pause while he ran his tongue over his lips. Been trappin’ nigh onto sixty year now. Ever since I were ten. Never forgot the first time I ever went. Went with my Dad. Things was different then though. Traps wan’t so good. Wan’t made of steel. More muskrats, too.” He stopped, wiped his hands on his dirty pants, took out his handkerchief from his hip pocket, blew and wiped his nose fiercely, put his handkerchief back, and continued. I ’member my Dad had took me to the river and showed me how to bait my trap with an apple, set it, and cover it. Well, the next day we went back and there were a muskrat in it. It wan’t a big one—just a little one. Well, he looked so little and harmless it just made me sick to think of him bein’ killed. Well—when my Dad took out his knife I---” Little Jack,” a voice called from somewhere upstairs. That’s yer ma callin.” Aw!” Little Jack,” the voice called again. Better go on up and see what she wants.” Aw, she wants me to go to bed. Go on an tell me what you did when your Dad took out his knife.” Never you mind. You go on up. Mind yer ma. If you don’t you won’t never be president.” You weren’t never president, Grampa Jack. Didn’t you mind your mother?” Well .... once I didn’t.” What’cha do?” Never you mind young man. You just get yourself upstairs.” Little Jack grudgingly stomped upstairs and through the door. The old man finished his traps and cleaned up 12

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nothing that suits me. The period is passing by and I haven’t a word written. Now the problem is how am I going to tell Mrs. Rowe, because sometimes it is kind of ticklish trying to explain to her things like unprepared lessons! Now, that’s no excuse, Everett, I will see you tonight after school, and we’ll discuss this more fully.” Now I see any haircut flying away on wings; I see myself staying that awfully long forty minutes after school. The period is all gone by—there goes the bell— no essay—no haircut. Oh, heck! —Everett Dargie ’45 AH! TO BE A POET Writing a poem is a terrible task, Teachers who demand it don’t know what they ask. Some folk’s thoughts just naturally rhyme, But people like me have a terrible time. I sit and think and think and think, To find some word to rhyme with pink. I’ll write one line then write another, Then I’ll get stuck and call for mother. Mother says, Write about birds and bees, Flowers and rivers and meadows and trees.” Father says, Write about battles in mud, Dogfights and hurricanes, buckets of blood.” But of all these I know nothing at all, My mind still remains a$ blank as a wall. I’d rather go swimming or lie in the sun, Than to start a poem that never gets done. After getting no where, I give up in despair. Anyone who can rhyme, Is a better man than I’m. —Virginia Hamel ’44