Table of Contents
Table of Contents - Continued
Poetry and Prose
Daniel V. Gribbin
The Pool Man ..................................... , ..........................................2
Tom Buchanan
The River[short sto,y] ....................................... , .... , ..... , .....................3
Sharyn Chadbourne•
Death oftheJanitor(poem] ....................................................................6
Cathy East
• In Exploration: TheMeaning ofDada [essay] .......................... , .........................8
Michael Peterson
Come on Lady, Sing the Blues[poem] ...... , ............... , .. , .... , .................. , ........11
Art and Photography Daniel V. Gribbin [photograph] ........................................................................2 Nancy Pincus [photograph] ............................................................................3 Nancy Pincus [photograph] ...............................................................•............5 Steve Arthur[drawing] ................................................................................ 7 Daniel V. Gribbin[photograph] ........................................................................9 Tom Buchanan [sketch] ..............................................................................11 Nancy Pincus [photograph]
..........................................................................13
Nancy Pincus [photograph]
..........................................................................15
James Peters
Tom Buchanan[sketch] ..............................................................................16
Michael Peterson
Peggy Martin _[ watercolor] ............................................................................19 Bev Thornton [painting] .......................................................................... (top) 20
The Wind and What It Is[poem] .............. , .. , ................... , ........................12
Just the Two of Us(poem] ................................... , ................................17
William Fletcher
Your Turn to C,y[poem) ......................................................................17
Sharyn Chadbourne•
TheMeek Who Inherited the Earth [poem) ........................................ , .............18
Dawn Cockerille
It's Just a Game [short sto,y) ..................................................................23
Michael Peterson Visions [poem) ............................................................................. .25
Jeff Pugh
Letters FromA Ce//No. II[poem) ........ ,, ..... ,..............................................21 Letters FromA CellNo. III[poem) ..... , ........................................... , .......... 21
H. G. Hobbs
Rebirth [poem) ..............................................................................29
Beth Bullington
No One Hears Us[short sto,y] ................................................................30
Michael Peterson
BadNewsAin'tForMe[poem) ................ .................................................32
G. C. Muse
A Short, but Ultimately Profound Poem [poem] .................. , ............................... 34
Jeff Pugh
To My Wife[poem] ..........................................................................35
Sharyn Chadbourne*
In A Silent Room (poem) ......................................................................35
John Harris
Whatever Happened to the Kid Down the Street[short sto,y] , .................................... . 31
G. C. Morse
WithApologies to Lewis Ca"o/1[satire] ........................ , ...............................40
*Alumna ofFe"um College
David Eakins [painting] ...................................................................... (bottom) 20 Peggy Martin [watercolor] . ....................................................................... (top) 21 Hugh Stokes [photograph] .................................................................... (bottom) 21 Jane Stogner [painting] .......................................................................... (top) 22 Bev Thornton[painting] .................................................................. (bottom, left) 22 Jane Stogner [ceramics] ................................................................ (bottom, right) 22 Tom Buchanan [sketch] .............................................................................. 24 Hugh Stokes [photograph] ............................................................................ 25 Nancy Pincus [photograph]
..........................................................................26
Nancy Pincus [photograph]
..........................................................................28
Nancy Pincus [photograph]
..........................................................................29
Joe Mowery [photograph] ............................................................................. 31 Kathleen Angle [photograph]
........................................................................33
Tom Buchanan [sketch] ..............................................................................34 Hugh Stokes[photograph] ............................................................................ 36 Hugh Stokes [photograph] ............................................................................38 Dyral Humphrey [drawing]
.......................................................................... 39
Bill Bobb [sketch] ....................................................................................40
The Meek Who Inherited the Earth Were afraid of it. Panicked religion bloomed reborn [raw knees and childish litanies], waiting for Reincarnated marine sergeant Jesus Calm computer answers Because the questions blacked the sky.
The meek who were stuck with the earth had been left behind in ozone on a belching planet old and dying [the others found fresher homes in newborn galaxies, perfected genetics, sending rejects Earthward Siberia Siberia of the Universe].
Amputees and mongoloids found cowards in revolving doors being too polite. "Please go ahead. " "No, no-be my guest." "You first. " ''/ insist, after you. '' Nothing got done. See God. God giggling in his misread irony. [Blessed are the mercy-killed deserted, the meek and the retarded, the weak and the moronic] The meek who inherited the earth couldn't use it.
-Watercolor by Peggy Martin
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-Painting by Bev Thornton
-Watercolor by Peggy Martin
-Painting by David Eakins
-Photo by Hugh Stokes
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It's Just a Game by Dawn B. Cockerill
-Painting by Jane Stogner
-Painting by Bev Thornton
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-Ceramics by Jane Stogner
The words tumbled out of Greg·s mouth at an unbelievable speed and were barely audible. "Would you like to go to the dance, Rebecca?" Realizing his apprehension and insecurity, Rebecca purposely allowed a long tense fause before reJ?lyinf?' "What a lovely idea, Greg. I ll be ready at e ight. She gave one last smile, turned, and walked away, maintaining a slow, rhythmic swing with her hips. This was a continual game with Rebecca. She thrived on watching Greg admire her. The attention he show ed _ her obviously expressed his feeling for her. Cold chills rem down the back of her neck as she thought of this, but she quickly replaced it with the thought of the dance. Rebecca's hand moved with expert ease as she brushed her curls around her fingers. No sooner had she brushed them under, than they slowly flipped, sticking out the opposite way. ·'Damn!·· she said disgustedly. She threw her hairbrush on the dresser, causing several cologne bottles, jewelry , and make-up to clash together. She hurried into the bathroom and dampene_d the disobedient curls and attempted to put them m place once more. · 'Only fifteen minutes late, · · she thought. Rebecca looked radiant in her yellow chiffon dress. The bodice fit smoothly over every curve, tapering at the bottom, to flatter her small waist. She wore a snow-white crinoline under her full skirt that rustled as she walked. She put her lipstick on. dabbed a fresh scented cologne on both wrists, took one last look in the mirror, and walked downstairs. Greg had been prompt, arriving ten minutes ahead of time. His hair was neatly combed, and he wore dark blue pants and a light blue cotton shirt. His dark blue bow tie was perfectly even, and he smelled lightly of soap and after shave lotion. He stood as Rebecca entered the room, and as if sensing his thoughts, she paused at the doorway, allowing him time to look at her. · '/ hope I'm not too late, Greg. Somehow I always manage to get behind time. ·' It ·s all right. The dance will just be getting in full swing by the time we get there. · · . . Rebecca was already aware of this; she clutched his arm as they walked to the car. Streamers of red and pink decorated the ceiling of the dance hall. There was a long table at one end scattered with mints, pretzels. and homemade cookies and cakes. Young men, already thirsty from the first dance, st�od about the big punch bowl, retrieving cups of spark/mg red punch to cool themselves and their partners . . A quick glance told Rebecca that all the promment people were attending this social function. She saw all the farmers she passed every morning. Their wives and children were sitting against one wall clappmg to the music. They whispered to each other and nodded approvingly as Greg and Rebecca walked in. They were indeed a striking couple, and as they entered, all heads turned. Greg shouted cheery hellos
The morning silence was broken by an ear-shattering cackle. Rebecca responded with habitual disgust. · 'Damn rooster!'' She laid motionlessly in bed thinking how in considerate that rooster was to shatter her calm, peaceful dreams. ''I hate you!·· she thought to herself. The morning was already hot, and the sheet clung to Rebecca's tan legs. Her hair was hot on the back of her neck, and the plant on her bedstand looked sick and wilted. She peeled away the sheet and looked in the mirror. She stared admiringly at her big brown eyes and her model figure and smiled. She tossed her head and shook her long brown hair in the suffocating heat, and smiled again. It was a long walk to the farm every morning, but she enjoyed it. Everything was still damp with dew. Rebecca looked across the fields; it looked as if they were draped with small diamonds glistening in the sun. She waved to the farmers as she walked by, analyzing the simplicity of each in her mind. Rebe�ca hadfun playing these games. She was always searchi ng for new challenges and new rules to make her games more interesting. She would see ifshe could make them talk.first, or anticipate their greeting to her. One of her favorite games was counting the number of young men who would go out of their way to be outside when she passed. Rebecca giggled to herself thinking of how inconspicuous they thought they were. She absorbed the attention like sunshine, and it made her glow. As Rebecca neared the farm, a new game came to mind. She walked in the barn, and as she passed between two rows of cows she spotted Greg. He was tall and very good looking. He was the idol of the children in the valley because of the constant attention and patience he showed them. Greg just had that congenial personality that drew respect from adults as well as children. Rebecca watched him go about his chores, admiring his manly physique. She walked slowly over to him, and putting her hand on his arm, looked up and cooed a good morning. She stared, causing him to shift his _ weight and give a slight cough. Rebecca smi led sweetly-too sweetly. She almost laughed, thinking how silly he looked try ing to think of something to say. Rebecca took the initiative. ''I suppose you've already got plans for Saturday ... I mean with the big square dance coming up . . . and since you are the most popular guy in the valley . . '· As the flattery continued, Greg began to blush. "Well, actually I wasn't going to go. .. "Not go!" Rebecca asked, with the pretense of surprise. ''But Greg, everybody goes to that dance. It·� . the biggest social event of the whole summer. Rebecca paused, allowing Greg time to think about what she had just said. Greg's forehead was wrinkled, and Rebecca almost laughed aloud at how funny he looked with his brows knit together, contemplating and savoring every word she had spoken.
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and paused ta talk to the ones he passed. Rebecca, shoulders back, head held high, walked down the center of the floor flashing smiles from side to side. The music started,¡ and ''square 'em up!'' echoed through the hall. The floor was now a kaleidoscope of colors and movement. Rebecca was mo�lng gracefully about with Greg, twirling her skirt and thoroughly enjoying herself. During the- first break, Rebecca walked over to the group of young men standing at one side of the room and greeted them warmly. She pretended not to notice as they looked admiringly at her. Greg was right behind her, and he greeted his friends with his usual friendly smile. "Greg, it's terribly warm in here. Would you be a dear and get me some punch?" Greg hurried to the punch bowl anxious to get back. He realized what the-inevitable reaction a prolonged absence would create. By the time he returned, Rebecca was whirling around the dance floor. He stood alone, awkwardly holding the two cups of punch. "Can I help take a load off your hands?" Greg turned, recognizing Foster Chapman. Foster was an old-timer in the valley and a good friend of Greg's family. Greg revealed an embarrassed smile and handed him one Of the cups of punch. Foster followed Greg's gaze to the dance floor, and to Rebecca. "She sure looks pretty tonight," Foster commented. He looked to Greg for a reply and saw 01J his face an expression of confusion, as if he were trying to figure something out. Greg's stare never broke, and Foster realized that Greg had never heard what he had said. Foster bid his good-bye and made his way to the other adults, who were busily talking. As the second set ended, Greg walked over to Rebecca. He s'tared intently into her eyes, not quite knowing what to say or do. She smiled at him, and after
a long pause. Greg smiled back. Rebecca sighed. feeling relieved. The music started, and Greg grabbed Rebecca's hand anxious to dance with her again. Before he could mutter an invitation, Rebecca interrupted. "My Jwir must look awful after all that dancing. Would you please excuse me, Greg, while I go freshen up?" This time his expression was one of hurt and sadness. Rebecca had rushed away too quick{v to notice, but the wives and farmers against the wall, the young men and their dates, even the young teens could see the anxiety on Greg's face. No one spoke, yet they all understood. There was a different mood as Rebecca returned. She looked around the hall and suddenlyfelt uneasy. As she walked toward Greg, she could feel all eyes on her, yet she knew they were cold stares, something she wasn't used to, something she couldn't deal with or understand. It was as though they had read her diary and disapproved. Their eyes remainedf,xed as Rebecca looked to Greg for help. She straightened her shoulders and gave Greg her best smile. Something heavy formed in her throat and she felt her face go hot when there was no response. She stood there motionlessly looking at Greg, thinking how inconsiderate he was to shatter her calm, peaceful dreams. ''I hate you.''' she thought to herself As Greg and Rebecca reached the door there was a gnawing silence. She made a desperate attempt to regain her composure, but her words came out jumpy and too high pitched. "Maybe I'll see you tomorrow, Greg." He appeared to be looking straight through her, and his eyes were full of pity and sadness. His expression remained transfo:ed and his voice was cold, yet tender at the same time. "Yeah . . . maybe. "
Visions I wish I was home living in the past tomorrow came too soon yesterday didn't last Sunbeams break the clouds but not for long time writes the rhymes memory writes the songs Mountains paint the scene majestic purple hue life's a painter's pay death's his final due Blue moon calls my name oblivions at hand the wind cries for help nature's last stand I wish I was home living in the past tomorrow came too soon yesterday didn't last
E. P.
-Photo by Hugh Stokes
-Sketch by Tom Buchanan
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Letters from a Cell
I
No.H My face flows warm As wet covers my eyes And a whole past, present, and future Flashes by my mind Reflections, Refractions, Retractions, Lies, lies, lies, And the noose tightens its grip On my pitifully skinny neck. You flashed by somewhere Between the good and bad Standing off in the wings Of the stage, undecided about Which role You would Play.
Jeff Pugh
No.m i know a felon who longs for picnics and warm Spring days where
GODBLESSESLITTLECHILDREN! pickled spoons and the travesty of justice abound around me in an evertightening circle (noose sounds so harsh don't you agree?)
Jeff Pugh
-Photo by Nancy Pincus
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TOknoW And yet still be willing Even though not always see11: To realize that even God's' Silehce is bUt
-Photo by Nancy Pincus
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No One Hears Us by Beth Bullington being held back by restrainers, he seems only to succeed in frustrating himself. His conversations are limited to the shaking of his head and the strange grunting noise he makes. He has a pale face and is half bald, with a little bit of very fine, grayish-white hair on the back of his round head. One of the strangest things I have noticed about him is his large, three-inch ears, which sometimes he wiggles like Dumbo the Elephant -when asked to do so. I resist my temptations when I see people laughing at Henry because of his silly actions; yet I want to react against them. Henry smiles along with them, but I can only shed tears within my soul. There are times when through our eye contact and facial expressions that I can feel for Henry and share with him. Yet I wonder if he is really aware how people see both of us, not having any kind of thinking ability. It's evening and we wait our turns to be bathed and put to bed. Willis really upsets me. He thinks, just because he is healthy, big, and in charge of us, that he can treat us like toys. I'll be damned if l'11 let anyone treat me that way. I may not be able to defend myself, but there are some things I can do. This is what I don't understand about Henry. He lets people control him as if he were some kind of modeling clay. He gives the appearance of having no identity; yet when I watch him sitting alone quietly, I can imagine him concentrating on his past, dreaming of whatever kind of family he once had. I stare into his eyes, gaining his attention, hoping to discover his world. After a moment or two in this state, a smile begins to grow on his face, and I feel his friendship becoming a part of me. I have heard that his wife died a few years back. Now the only visits he gets are those from a few elderly ladies, I presume from some church group, who bring him homemade cookies. When Mom is here she usually tries to help Henry, and the nurses check in on him from time-to-time; but there is only one person I have noticed who relates with Henry as a person. Mary comes to visit me when she is home, yet usually she sits and talks with Henry. She forgets her character and becomes like him, smiling as he does, clapping her hands on the table top along with him, winking at him to get him to wink back, sharing the laughter of his crazy wiggling ears, and most of all, each time she does visit, Henry seems to crack the sheII forming around him. His face resembles a child's on Christmas morning, when he notices her presence in the room. I believe she must relate to something from his past. If only he could tell someone his thoughts. I know the helI he must be going through, trying so hard to share with Mary, yet not knowing how, I, too, beat viciously upon this wall which blocks me from the world around me. Mary just left again for school, after her weekend visit home. We shared a lot in the past. Mary has that spark about her which helped keep the family together. She shares that now with Henry and me-moreso Henry than myself. I'm afraid I upset her being such a change from the way I once was. When she came in today, before leaving for school, she noticed Henry's withdrawing from everything and sought to cheer him. He hung his head low and did not even crack a smile for
I wonder what happened during the lost time for which I have no account. I remember nothing about those first few months; they seem to have flashed by as sudden as the winking of an eye. And here I am now, in this room with odors of ammonia and other peculiar smells. Each day I realize what everything is around me. Being in this one room for so long, I'm beginning to feel like a part of its interior. The dull walls and the few pieces of furniture about the room seem to blend together like mixing salt and pepper. I am unable to see any view from the window, yet every now and then the sun will peer into the room, and I can see that life still goes on outside these walls. If it were not for the few people who enter here occasionally, I would swear I was in prison, though at times I wonder if I'm not. I have no means for the recognition of time, except by the aid of the routine schedules the employees keep around here. Breakfast is brought in by a large black lady who shows her hatred of her job through her deceptively cheerful smile. She has worn it as long as my mind has allowed me to remember. So often I become very angry with those feeding me, as they repeatedly ask me how my meal is. I wish I could tell them what I would really like them to do with it. Days are all pretty much the same, quite tedious and tiring. Sometimes one of the tenants of the ward will cause a lot of chaos, drawing the attention of everyone around. The red light begins flashing in the hall and people run to aid this victim, like chickens with their heads cut off. (That's a phrase my step-father always used to use about all us kids. I do remember some things from my past.) Mom's loyal visits and love help keep me in touch with my past. There are those who show they really care about my future; they will be my friends, regardless of where I stand at this time. With the exceptions of them, Mom is the only one I can really understand now. She comes daily, telling me all the news at home and about my friends. Though I am very happy she shares this with me, I am not able to show any kind of feelings towards her. I am weak and my legs are light. Slowly I regain strength which I have lost during my blackout of time. I concentrate hard on everyone I see, hoping I might tie some loose strings together to connect my thoughts and confusion. I notice things about people that most others would never perceive, such as the black lady's deceiving smile. I wonder what her life consists of outside her job. There are so many different characteristics within each personality confronting me. I am especially interested in the old man sharing this room with me. We share together the same twenty-four hours of each boring day, with the exception of the time we must perform out daily duties. I feel I know him as more than an old paltry thing, which seems to be the way most people see him. He wears his suit of white, black-laced shoes which are rarely tied, and short white cotton socks hanging below his ankles. Sitting upon his chair on wheels, he tries so hard to move around our limited space, but
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her. He must really be feeling bad. His sadness slung on to Mary instantly, affecting her cheerfulness. Weeks have passed. Henry's down and depressing moods have come and gone unexpectantly since Mary's last visit. He has not looked well at all, and has become even more withdrawn than I have ever seen him. I no longer feel the line of communication I once felt with him. I worry for him, yet also for myself, wondering if I will end up acting in this manner. His appetite has shrunk rapidly, and the nurses are always getting after him to eat his meals. I knew for sure it was bad news when Mary came to visit again
and Henry took her hand once, they turned away. She left crying, not even saying good-by to me. It's springtime. I can see the leaves budding on the maple tree outside our window. I woke this morning alone. Henry's bed is empty. I know he can't be in physical therapy this long, especially without having eaten any breakfast. I want to cry so bad. I tried for so long to talk with the only person I could relate to, and now he's gone. He never had a chance to tell anyone about his family or his dreams. He just left. I feel these walls closing in closer towards me, and I shout for freedom-only to hear my echo respond.
-Photo by Joe Mowery
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Bad News Ain't for Me I was doing the natural thing watching my t. v. listening to Walter Cronkite tell me I wasn't free I got up and turned the channel bad news ain't for me but violence and talk shows is all there seem to be I turned it off and took a walk down along my street as empty cans and litter cluttered at my feet I came upon a schoolhouse the children came up to me gave me my rights and said they'd shoot if I didn't come peacefully About this time my nerves were shot so I hurried up my step only to be fined for j-walking to support the union rep. I finally came to my favorite place in which to be alone only to find a billboard advertising ice cre;am cone
Michael E. Peterson
-Photo by Kathleen Angle
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To My Wife Old man that I am With mentally aged lines Upon the inner Recesses of my soul. Eyes that have Seen a thousand sorrows And tears, oh God the tears . . . Hands that have Held the dead and dying Lives I have lived; Some good, some bad, One which was right. I shall never pass this Way again for God's ship is bringing me to New Lands and life. Yet age was only an illusion In the flesh, As mirrors reflect an unlined face. Behind the image However lies experience Both true and false With no in¡between; Old man that I am You lie like the Spring dew In the palms of my wrinkled hands.
A SHORT BUT ULTIMATELY PROFOUND POEM . . .
I AM BUT ANOTHER SHEET TORN FROM THE ETERNAL TOILET ROLL. GOOD FOR ONE USE ONLY, THEN FLUSHED INTO UNKNOWN OBLNION.
g. c.
In a Silent Room In a silent room a struck match smacks into flame as loudly as a sweat-wet palm slaps against the white tile. There are round ashes on the floor in piles. I heard them pouf as they landed like weightless flakes of dead skin. There is energy in a cigarette. more activity than in me-it moves more air. Smoke no longer curling so prettily spread to all comers to grey and roughen the air, a ba"en hanging gauze. I suck cough drops that clac_k against my teeth like fingernails on hollow bone, and I dare not chew the glassiness of a half-dissolved lozenge and hear the grinding like rude machinery in my skull. There would be too much silence after swallowing, like the quiet anti-climax after a sudden blurted word.
Jeff Pugh
-Sketch by Tom Buchanan
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Whatever Happened to the Kid Down the Street? by John Harris
-Photo by Hugh Stokes
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"Boy, did you see what happened?" I asked. "Uh�huh," she said, but she sounded like she really didn't. "Chris will really be sad," I said. "His bike is really smashed up." Mom gave me a funny look, like I had said a bad word or something. "Yeah," she said slowly, "I guess Chris won't be able to come over." "Yep," I said, but I knew that was wrong because he only lived at the corner. I guess that sometimes moms don't listen to kids very well when they're doing stuff like cleaning or cooking. I guess it would be kind of hard being a mom because they are always doing stuff, except when the maid comes. I went to my room and pulled out my games, but I really didn't feel like playing with them. As I thought back over what had happened, I wondered what I would have done if my bike had gotten hit. J guess I would cry, and dad would probably spank me for wasting money. But then he would probably buy me a new one and say it was the last one I would ever get, and you can bet I would be careful on it. But Chris has four sisters and one of them is in high school, so I knew it would be a long time before he got a new one. Maybe the man who hit it would buy him a new one, cause men usually feel sorry for kids when they wreck their bikes. I gue/3S his mom would be pretty mad at first, but after a while she would be nicer. I didn't know what his dad would say. Jt's funny because I had been over to his house so many times and had never seen his dad. Sometimes I would sCe a red truck but I never saw who drove it. I guess it's kind of bad to lose something you like a whole lot. I remember when I lost the dollar my granny gave me for sweeping. That was the most money I ever had, and I sure wanted to buy that monster model. J guess from now on I'll keep my money in my pocket. I lost dad's new hammer one time, and he sure didn't like that very much. I guess I sorta knew the way Chris felt. I heard a door slam and I figured dad was home, so I ran into the living room. "Did you see what happened?" I asked excitedly. He started to say something, but J was too fast for him. "Chris got his bike all smashed up. A car ran right into it.'' "Gee, that's too bad," he said, and walked into the kitchen. I could hear him talking to mom about something, but when I walked in the talk ended real fast. "How come we gotta have meat loaf?" I said, and turned up my nose. At least mom had made some brownies or else I wouldn't have anything to eat at all. Dinner seemed to go by quickly. Listening to mom and dad talk about going to the beach sounded like a good idea to me. I really didn't hear all of what they said because I was busy thinking about Chris. Suddenly I had a funny idea. What would it feel like to get hit by a car? I wasn't sure because I had never been hit by one,
As I cut through Mrs. Adams' yard so I wouldn't have to go through the yard with the dog in it, I noticed the crowd standing at the corner. At first I didn't even know what was going on because I couldn't think of anytJ:iing special that had happened in our neighborw hood recently. There were about six or seven ladies standing around in a little group and they seemed excited about something. Although I didn't quite know all of their names, I did recognize them, mostly because they all lived on our street and had yelled at me before. A few of my friends were sitting on the curb along with some boys from the next block that I didn't know. In the middle of this mess was a car that looked like the kind that bank robbers drove. It looked like one of the ladies had just parked it there and got out to talk to her friends. I had thought that maybe somebody had done something, so maybe J had better go back home. But being naturally curious, J decided to see what was going on. As J walked closer J could tell something was funny, because my friends didn't look very happy and the girl down the street, who sucked her thumb, was crying a little. lt was then that J noticed the bicycle on the curb. Jt was a familiar bike and J had ridden it many times before. I would ride it down the street to see how fast I could go or skid in the rocks like a race car. One time I rode it down to the store, but I wouldn't do it again because J got in trouble. J had to get a new tire one time because J rode it over some glass. Yet the bike didn't look like the same one I was used to riding. The seat was all turned around and sticking up in the air, as if Superman had pulled it. The front wheel was bent almost in half and wouldn't even turn around. The blue metal part that held everything together was bent, and in one place it had broke right in two. Even the pedals and the handlebars were bent up; I knew that I would never be able to ride this bike again. I didn't say anything to anybody because I really didn't know what to say. Boy, Chris would sure be made because now he would have to get a new bike, and he sure loved his old one. It might be a long time until he got another one, maybe even Christmas. He could ride one of his sister's, but he wouldn't like that because it would be a girl's bike. I guess I could ride him on my handlebars and maybe let him have it sometimes. I just hoped that nobody would ever come along and wreck my bike like they did to his. I turned quickly and ran home. I didn't want to see Chris cry, and I knew he would when he saw the wreck. The only time J ever saw him cry was when his mom hit him for throwing mud on his sister when she had her Sunday school dress on. I think she forgot to tell my mom, so J try to be real nice to her so she won't remember. As soon as I got in the house J went to get some Coke, but I ended up drinking milk as usual. I sat down at the table and mom was making meat loaf, which sure didn't make me feel any better.
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nobody would be out in the yard, and I didn't even see any toys out there. This was the longest time I had not seen him, and I figured he must reaIIy be in trouble. It wasn't much fun watching T.V. and playing trucks by myself. I was still afraid to go over to his house, and I didn't know what to do. Mom kept telling me to go play with somebody else. Finally I got tired of waiting around so I decided to go over to his house. "Mom, I'm gonna go over to see Chris," 1 said. She came running down in the garage after me, telling me to wait just a minute. "You better not go over there," she said. "Chris has gone away and won't ever be coming back." For a moment I didn't say anything because I thought she might be tricking me, but she didn't smile, so I asked, "Where did he go?" "God wanted him to come and live in Heaven," she said. ''Oh,'' I said, but I really wasn't too sure of what she meant. Why would God want him to come up in Heaven? I sure didn't know why he would want Chris to comC up there. Only people that die get to go to Heaven, and Chris would never die because he was my best friend. I remember the time he fell out of a tree and didnt even get hurt. The only people who die are old people and bad guys on T.V. Chris would never die because then he wouldn't be able to come over anymore. And I wouldn't want to have to watch T.V. by myself. Besides, Chris wasn't really a bad boy. He had a neat fishing rod that worked and a box to put fishing junk in. Sometimes mom would take us to the lake and we would catch lots of fish, but we could never keep them. Sometimes we would go to the store and walk in the big freezer. One day I got locked in and we had to wait until the man ,came and got us out. We tried to build a treehouse but we ran out of wood. He had a real neat fish tank with lots of fish in it and I liked to watch them swim arpund the plants and Under the house and stuff. Whenever I hit the glass they would all jump like I scared them or something. But now mom said he wood never come over again. This was hard to believe since he only lived at the corner. How could he go so fast? I never even told him goodbye. There sure were a lot of things that I didn't know about, and it would take some time to think about what had happened. That night as I lay in bed, I asked God to tell Chris that I wished he was still here and that I hoped he liked it in Heaven. The I thought about what I would do over at Chip's house tomorrow.
but I figured it would hurt. You might even have to go to the hospital. I would hate to have a broken arm or something because then I wouldn't be able to play baseball or nothing. It would be neat having people write stuff all over your arm or buying you stuff because you got hurt, but I still wouldn't want it to hurt very much. ''Brownies.'' "Huh," I said, somewhat surprised. "Oh yeah." grabbed the biggest one and began to chew. "Mom," I said, "would it hurt much to get hit by a car?'' The looks I got told me that wasn't a very good question. "Well," she said slowly, but then she changed her voice. "Of course it would," and I knew I shouldn't have said anything. Then dad said, "Go stand in front of a car and tell us what you think,'' and I •would never ask that question again. Nine o'clock is bedtime, and after a while you get used to going to bed early. I didn't even get to watch T. V. because of the dumb show about the president, but it had been a tough day. As I lay in bed, I just couldn't help thinking about Chris. I wonder what would have happened if he had been riding his bike when the car hit it. The bike was really smashed up, and it was made of metal. I guess Chris would have been really got hurt, maybe even killed. That would really be bad. I had never known anyone that had gotten killed before. I guess it would depend on how you got killed. Some people get shot and stuff, but others die because they are old; then God takes them to Heaven. I guess it would be pretty neat in Heaven. You could be happy and fly around and never get hurt or nothing. There really is a lot to think about God and Heaven, but I didn't get to finish because I fell asleep. The next clay I woke up early and watched Captain Kangaroo. It wasn't as good as usual because Chris didn't come over and watch it with me. I wanted to go over to his house, but I didn't know whether I should or not because he might not be able to come over. I waited around the yard all day and even walked down to the corner a few times. I knew something was wrong because Chris never did come out. His mom probably made him stay in his room or something. I guess I should just wait for him to come out, because if I went over there his mom might yell at me. I would just have to play with Chip and Dale for a while. I liked them O.K., but all they ever wanted to do was play tag, and that was no fun because Dale could never catch us and would cry and tell his mom. Chris didn't show up for two whole days, not even Saturday. Every time I walked down to the corner,
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-Drawing by Dyral Humphrey
-Photo by Hugh Stokes
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With Apologies to Lewis Carroll by G. C. Morse "Oh, you 're sure to do that,"said the Dean, "if you only attend long enough.·' I felt that this could not be denied, so I tried another question: "What sort of people live about here?" ''In that direction,·' the Dean said, waving his right hand around, ''live the faculty. And in that direction,·· waving the other hand, "live the administration. Visit either you like; they 're both mad. " ''But I don't want to go among mad people,· · I remarked. "Oh, you can't help that,·· said the Dean, "we're all mad here. Fm mad. You're mad.·· · 'How do you know I'm mad?'' I said. "You must be," said the Dean, "or you wouldn't have come here.'' The conversation went on in this fashion for a while longer. Finally, I felt that perhaps it would be best to go elsewhere. However, as I got up to depart, the most curious thing of all occurred. "Well, we are certainly glad to have you here with us,· · said the Dean, ''and I hope that we will always communicate this well."But as I reached to shake his hand, he began to vanish quite slowly, beginning with his feet and ending with his grin, which remained some time after the rest of him had gone.
I am beginning this with some misgivings. But the truth of the matter is that as we go through life, there are certain occurences that leave us more perplexed and disturbed than others; and perhaps by relating this to you I will help my own bewilderment. I will not attempt to explain or interpret this event in my life, but rather will relate the conversation as I recall it. The setting is the office of a Dean of the college. The time is early in the first semester. I had hoped to benefit from some of the much-heralded guidance that springs from innumerable wells herabouts. The Dean only grinned when he saw me. "He looks good-natured,'' I thought; still, he was surrounded by titles that hung from the wall, so I felt he ought to be treated with respect. ''Dean,·' I began rather timidly, as !did not know if it were correct to call him so. However he only grinned a little wider. ''Well, he is pleased so far,·' I thought, and I went on: "Would you tell me, please, which way I should guide myself in my academic career?" ''That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,· · said the Dean. · 'I don't much care where,'' I said . . . ''Then it doesn't matter which way you go,· · said the Dean. · '. . . so long as I get somewhere,· · I added as an explanation.
Chrysalis Staff Editor • • • • • • ..... • ..................................................................Melisa Casacuberta Managing Editor ..........................................................................Greg Gallion
Photography Editor ........................................................................ Nancy Pincus
Editorial Board • • • • • • • • ....................................................Carson Jones, Martha Malbon,
Dawn Cockerille, G. C. Morse, Judy Singleton
Artists····••••••••••••••••••••.••••• ........................................Steve Arthur, Tom Buchanan f Staf · · · · · · • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • . • ......................................Mike Peterson, John Harris, Bob Pqwell
Faculty Advisor • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • .... , .......................................Dr.Daniel Gribbin
Special thanks are extended to Mr. Jim Flanagan at Copenhaver Publishers, Mr. Ron Singleton, Dr. Daniel Gribbin, and Dr. Peter Crow-whose assistance was requisite in the evolvement of this magazine. We also wish to extend our appreciation to all contributors, in hopes that this publication will be but one stage in the development of their artistic achievements.
-Sketch by Bill Bobb
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