West Hill High School - Annual Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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LITERI-IR SNOWDON JUNCTION Saturday nights, when Monk and I were doing nothing, we got into the habit of dropping in on our good friends, Charlie and Kid. Charlie would roll the old blue Merc out of the drive, and we would all pile in and take off. The Kid would sit behind Charlie, that was his established place. He always sat the same way, hunched forward, his eyes intent on the streets ahead, while the passing lights played shadows on his sharp features. He would beat out an incessant rythm on the seat with his fingers, while he drawled a perpetual flow of of useless advice to Charlie, like Campanella trying to coax his pit- cher down the groove. The first light we hit was always Snowdon Junction. It became almost a portent with us that we always hit the red light there, and it go so that Charlie would time himself to arrive there just at the moment the light flickered red. It was like having a familiar have to start the evening on, a lull before the night began. We would sit there, silent in the early even- ing. The Kid would be hammering out his swing tattoo, now and again hitting the metal sides of the car for emphasis, his talk stopped for a mo- ment while his quiet piercing eyes roamed over the intersection. The motor turned over with a low vibrating thunder, pervading the car with its gentle throb. Hang loose there, Father Charlie, you got all night. .. I have seen that street in all weathers and in all seasons. I have seen it in the burning afterglow of the late spring twilight, when all earth, and brick and sky are washed clear and glowing by the clean spring rain. At this hour, the voices of the people, Jew and Gentile, old men and crazy laughing kids streaming through the crowded junction, are raised in a waving sea of sound. Bathed in the waning amber light, the voices seem to recede, and take on the aspect of a vast far-away chant, as if all the voices of humanity were merged in one huge, timeless cry. Take the lead out, Charlie, drop that clutch... I have seen it shining in the pounding rains of summer. Here the pavements glisten blackly, except where the neon lights glare red and green from the wet asphalt. The rain falls driving down in long white drops through the headlight beams, and the lights are gleaming blobs on the rain- spattered windshield, rather than distinct patches of colour. Peel that rubber, Charlie, make this old can roll... Charlie always took it easy in shippery weather, much to the Kid's contempt. If the red glow on the Kid's face had shifted to green for more than a split-second before Charlie eased into first, the Kid would drawl, slowly with his insolent Whimsy, Drive much, Charlie? Char- lie, who could spin that Merc through a four- wheel drift in high and come out in reverse, would only grin and say, Teach your grand- mother to suck eggs, Kid. I have seen that junction stark in the late November weather, when everything is a dying gray-brown dullness, and the one concern of the people is to scurry somewhere warm, out of the unfamiliar bitterness of wind. The incredible smoky redness of the sun, reflected in a thousand windows down Decarie, is the only flare of colour in this cold grey air. I am seen it in all lights, and in many varied moods. They are all welded into one moment in the memory of time. Always there is the Kid's rapt burning expression, the perpetual intensity of youth, and his fingers rocking out that rest- less swing tattoo. Always the is the low roll of the motor, and the shouts of countless people mingled in the air. The moment lingers in my mind as one of absolute perfection. What more can this world offer than to be young and going somewhere, anywhere, steeped in the company of such giants as Monk, the Kid, and Charlie, pitying no one, envying no one, only watching the play of lights on the cars and people around the streets of Snowdon Junction, waiting for the light to turn, to know the score in a general way, but to be still somewhat in wonder of the world, not know- ing what strange walls would volley the echo of our laugher, this night, or wat strange roads the imprint of our thires. Being young, and resilient, and easy to get along with, we weren't specially worried about it, for at that bright hour in the night of time, all roads led to the morning.. R. Morrison Grade XII LAUGHTER Laughter is an outburst of emotion caused by keen wit or gentle humour. It bubbles and gurgles like a tinkling stream. Its sources are many, springing forth at the slightest encourage- ment. Laughter can be seen as well as heard. Its vibrating rays diffuse into nearby listeners, mi- raculously creating smiles upon their lips. This flash of a smile and sparkling twinkle of narrow- ed eyes display the inner, kindling mirth. In one respect, laughter resembles the- measles - it is contagious and spotty. In the unscored symphony of laughter there are many moods and levels, a major and minor key, even some discords. The giggle, titter, chuckles, or boisterous, unruly laugh are only the shifting notes of a restless harmony.