Page Two
THE SALEMITE
October 19
1951
^fui4tce>. . .
Editor’s Note: This letter was received
from Catherine Birckel, a foreign student last
year.
It is so very strange.
I have been back in my country for three
weeks almost How. When people talk to me,
I still answer in English first—and they look
at me puzzled!
It is very late in the night, and I think of
Salem. I can almost hear the stifled laughter
in the rooms of Clewell, the races down the
halls abruptly interrupted by the vigilant
proctors. It’s the hour when I used to get
my call downs. It will soon be the time when
we used to whisper the last words in the
dark after lights were out. The campus is
getting still, and in my imagination, Mr. Gor-
such is making his rounds—though they tell
me he is not night watchman anymore.
It is about the time when we used to go
down in the basement for a last cigarette.
Sometimes it was a moody night nnd Mac and
I would go sit down at the end of the bench
in a remote, deserted corner to meditate—
sometimes we were gay, and Ruthie would
stretch her long legs, wrapped in her pale
blue pajamas, and tell us all about her last
loves—sometimes it was then that we would
go into our deep philosophical discussions
with Peggy and Sammie ...
But no—all is very dark and quiet around
me—I am in the mountains in the East of
France—thousands and thousands of miles
from Salem. I have to think hard to realize
that.
Of course the traveling was wonderful, like
all trips on those huge steamships. Then we
got to Cherbourg, and I was standing in front
of the customs office. I turned to the French
officer—back where I had started last year—
but not the same myself.
Nothing has changed here, but they think
I have changed a little. If I am blue, it’s
because I miss you all very much. I miss my
life among you. I have been trying to tell
them here about everything, about this whole
last year—you think you can explain and you
find you can’t. They haven’t seen the big
weeping willow; they haven’t been to the
drug store iii the morning. They haven’t
known Mae, Ruthie, Alice, Lee, Sybil, Jane,
Lola and all the others. They don’t know
about Old Chapel and the graveyard. They
don’t know anything about all that has been
so real to me during this last year.
Then I try to re-create the moods. I go
around yelling such songs as “T’was A Dark
Stormy Night”. I keep chewing my last pieces
of gum and smoking my last Camels under
Mother’s disapproving eye. I walk around in
blue jeans and the peasants look at me puz
zled. But it’s very hard to re-create a mood
all by yourself. I used to think that only
this life here could be home, but now I know
that it is ridiculous. I feel that I don’t have
any home, unless it is the whole world and
my friends. I was glad to be home, yes, in a
W'ay, but sad, very sad also because of all
those I had had to leave.
I got to Paris in the afternoon. It was a
bright sunny afternoon and Paris appeared
to me more beautiful than it ever had. It was
so strange to feel that I knew everything
around me. I hardly had to look around—I
knew where everything was; it was almost
part of me. So strange, after this year when
everything had always been new!
Now I am in the mountains, in a small house
that we have up there, on top of the moun
tain, where all the winds meet or play hide
and seek through our windows.
There are tiny, dirty, pretty farms that
almost look like human beings with so much
life, so much personality expressed by their
walls, roofs and windows. They are scattered
all over the hills, colorful spots among the
fields and meadows, with their little gardens
and their flowers, with their yards crowded
with poultry, pigs and barking dogs, with
their fountains always running. The peasants,
men and women, are working in the fields
all around, and calling to one another from
one field to the other.
Sometimes the whole place is still. You can
only hear the buzzing of the insects in the
sun, the sound of old branches cracking in
the woods behind our house, and the regular
stroke of the peasants’ hoes biting the ground.
Our house is an old farm that we have
fixed very nicely for ourselves. We cook on
an old big wood stove; we have a low ceiling,
(Continued On Page Four)
Lovelorn Ladies
By Betsy Lil^s
Whew! Six more steps and I’ve
reached third floor. I race along
the hall in pure bliss clutching my
hometown paper tightly. For to
curl up in Clewell in my Hollywood
bed with the Thursday edition with
the backpage love-lorn and worry
columns is dearer to me than even
a letter from The One.
Many a tear has . slipped down
■my cheek for a poor mother whose
five children were unruly, whose
husband “worked late at the office”
and whose mother-in-law was a
black witch with bifocals and a
sweet smile.
Of all back page characters,
there is, of course, the poor girl
who is desperately in love with
two boyfriends. Her counselor’s
advice: “Fhom your letter I can
tell that you have led a terribly
abnormal childhood. Your mother
probably locked you in a closet
while she tripped out to play
bridge. You must brush away these
abnormalities, plant a cherry smile
upon your countenance, and start
anew.”
I have become a devoted slave
to these columns. After carefully
reading the writer’s problem, I
contemplate and meditate and then
form my solution to his or her
problem.
I’m usually wrong. If I think it
is an “unfortunate childhood” case,
it’s always a “mother’s apron
string” case.
How would you have solved this
one ?
Dear Columnist,
I have a drastic problem. Even
though nature has lavishly equip
ped me with fascinating features.
mother steals all my boyfriends
from me. Tell me what I should
do before I end it all.
Pantingly awaiting your answer.
Desperate One
To me, Desperate One overates
nature’s lavishness; she should
have her face lifted, a Dickie Hud-
nut put in and then plant a cheery
smile upon her countenance and
start life anew.
However, this is the columnist’s
answer:
Dear Desperate One,
Your problem is indeed des
perate. Send 10 cents for my
bulletin “Ten Ways to Make
Money”, digest its contents care-
j fully, plant a cheery smile upon
'• your countenance and start life
anew.
Helpfully,
Your counselor
And then there was the letter
from the Army Brat which read:
Dear Revealing Counselor,
I am fifteen years old. I have
blue eyes and am completely
charming, but I still have a pro
blem.
My father is a General in the
Army. Therefore I have a burn
ing desire to be patriotic. When
ever I see the colors red, white
and blue, something within me
makes me sing the “Star Spangled
Banner”. My dates who have blue
eyes and wear a red tie and white
shirt move me to sing to them all
night. At times this proves em
barrassing. Please help me.
Patriotically yours,
Blue E3'CS
The answer was:
Dear Blue Eyes,
You do have a problem. I sug-
and men think me charming, myjgest that you influence your father
i (Continued On Pasre Five)
Dear Papa
Truman gave a
newspapers and
“It was embar-
By Anne Lowe | Last week Mr.
Dear Papa, [little attack on
We sure did have a big honor ^ slick magazines,
given us Monday. Citizen Truman rassing”, said TIME, “but not for
came to spade some dirt so that the newspapers and slick maga-
Wake Forest College could start zines or Harry Truman, who is
being built. Some of my friends .often blissfully unaware of whether
who saw him close said he sure ^ his foot is in his shoe or his
did have a big grin. |mouth. The victims were Tru-
Old England takes a long time man’s staff, whose- unenviable lot
to get good and mad, and those , it is to stand holding their breaths
Egyptians are really putting them | in dread of what the 32nd Presi-
to a test. Ole John Bull doesn t | dent of the U. S. may say next.”
I guess those fellows do have a
like this Suez Canal business at
all. Egypt has declared that the
British must get out, and the Brit
ish say they won’t. What’s going
to happen next?
I heard that by 1953 or 1954 our
troops in Europe might come home
if those folks over there keep on
building defenses like they’ve been
doing. I think that’s a fine idea,
don’t you Papa ? I don’t like hav
ing our army spread all over Korea
and Western Europe too.
TIME magazine gets pretty mean
w i t h our President sometimes.
pretty hard life.
Papa, I got a letter from my
'Uncle Dan in Doolie and he said,
“There was a little item in, the
papers last week that caught ray
eye. It said that the Tonga Is
lands with a population of 40,000
had no public debt, no crime, no
drunkenness. I think steps should
be taken at once to bring civiliza
tion to them poor Islands. It’s
plain that they ain’t got none.”
Your ever lov’en daughter,
Anne
Hines Captivates
Editor-in-Chlef Jane Watson
Associate Editor Jean Patton
Managing Editor Eleanor MacGregor , . „
Headline Editor Marion Watson dering .
By Peggy Chears
“My first encore will be “Old
Man River”, Jerome Hines jokingly
began his concert—the first of the
regular Civic Music series at Rey
nolds Auditorium.
The tall brunette basso of the
Metropolitan Opera Company won
the approval of his audience with
his friendly manner and stage pre
sence immediately after his en
trance. He seemed to enjoy the
whole show himself and acted as
if he thought it a pleasure to sing
for his many Winston-Salem
listeners.
To give a more personal and
less formal touch, Hines introduced
and explained each selection. He
even dedicated one song, “The
Green Eyed Dragon,” to the front
row.
Following the opening Negro
folk song, Hines sang an aria,
“Mentre ti lascio,,” by Mozart and
a varied group. The artist said,
“Just in case you don’t recognize
it, the second group is in English.”
In the third part of his program
the 30 year old basso sang “The
Lord’s Prayer”, a traditional Jew
ish hymn and two French ones. As
an encore he sang another Negro
spiritual, “Thundering and Won-
The highlight of the concert was
the artist’s interpretation of Mep-
histopheles from the opera by
Anigo Boito. Effectively using his
hands, facial expression and an ear
deafening whistle, the basso suc
cessfully portrayed the devil. Hines
was compelled to give another en
core translated to mean “Do Not
Forget Me —“during intermission”,
he quickly and tactfully added.
Although the regular accompanist
was not present. Freeman Sher
man capably substituted. After
intermission, Sherman played two
preludes by Gershwin, “The Ritual
Fire Dance” and “Clair de Lune,”
as his solo numbers.
Hines returned to the stage to
sing a group of French songs with
two more encores, the most out
standing one being “Danse Mac
abre”.
The audience applauded after the
last selection until they were re
warded with three more encores
The Flea , “Some Enchanted
Evening and a final number dedi
cated to his listeners, “My Friend”.
After an entertaining program
with eight encores by Hines and
two by his accompanist Sherman
the audience reluctantly filed out
of the auditorium feeling that they
had made a new friend, Jerome
Hines,
0
By Jean Calhoun
Katy Kombs was pooped. Katy Kombs had
had enough. Katy Kombs made a new October
resolution—she was going to live a quiet life
Every week, nine months of every year, she
rushed, cussed and fussed only to find her
self being laughed at or pitied by Salem
girls every Friday afternoon. “Of all things”
she muttered to herself, “Of all people, it has
to be me—or I—each week.”
She sat down and began to recall all of her
previous experiences that had been made
public in The Salemite. Suddenly there rushed
to her memory the misery she had experieueed
when the story came out about her first big
date. She had just received from her aunt a
bottle of Lip-Stay, a colorless liquid that
keeps one’s lipstick from smearing on objects.
While riding with this new, special, first big
date toward a new special parking place, the
conversation sagged and she broke—actually
dynamited—the ice by telling of the wonders
of this new miracle juice that would not rub
off at all, under any circumstances. Big date
had taken the news, uttered ever so innocently
as any normal big date would, and the re
sults were remarkable. Katy blushed lilac
champagne as she thought.
When she first came to Salem, when she
was working so hard for that first good last
ing impression, she had “faux-pased.” Others
had miscued, others had made mistakes, but
others were not Katy Kombs—others did not
have a publicity agent. Others did not have
their actions so publically so religiously
enumerated. Her roommate. Ever Vessent,
was a very active girl, full of wit, packed
with fun and stacked with it too. She re
membered one afternoon when it was about
an hour before supper — quitting time for
studying, commencing time for playing. Her
roommate had begun the rough-housing, Katy
remembered, by pouring water on her while
she was taking her late-in-the-afternoon-tub.
As soon as Katy had recovered sufficiently,
she had slopped back to her room and sput
tered wet threats of murder, roommateieide,
and/or to burn Clewell to get rid of her pest
of a roommate. She had gathered Ever’s new
black suede shoes, a glass of hot water and
raised the window. By turning the glass up
side down she found that the water ran out
and wet Ever’s shoes to a desirable point of
saturability. By turning the glass upside
down she was surprised to find that the water
hot only rolled gracefully from Ever’s shoes,
but also roiled even more gracefully upon the
person of her Home Ee. teacher. It could
have been a hush-hush matter; things could
have worked out so that Katy could have re
mained a Home Ec. major rather than chang
ing to the Greek department—-but, came Fri
day. Also came The Salemite!
She remembered what Mrs. Moran had said
after reading in the paper that Katy had
never played any position in hockey but
goalie, and about all the parallel reading she
had done while the other hockey players were
knocking their brains out at the other end
of the field. Katy blamed The Salemite for
that fact that the first time Mrs. Moran took
her from the gilded cage and put her in the
game, she ran the length of the field and
made a goal—for the other team. “Of all
things,” Mrs. Moran had said, and Salem Col-
lege girls echoed as they read of Katy’s
perienee. She thought of the time she had
left the faucet of her lavoratory on with the
stopper in while she had dashed out to church
for a few minutes. She thought about ho"'
'high the wmter mark was on her dresser, about
the vivid description of her “high tide” rooffl
that had appeared in the paper. She cringed
as she remembered the “Pull Out ’The Stopper
And Save A Life” campaign.
No more of this,” she said aloud—jh®
meant it. She decided to isolate herself-
Salemite can darn well do without an artick)^^
she thought. “I refuse to be another column-
After this, she spoke not a word, but w®''
straight to her work, ,
Locked the door and transom and turn®
with a jerk.
Turned on the radio ever so low.
Lay on her bed and, do you know-—
It exploded. And from all o’er the do''®
Gals came to see if Katy had done an)
harm.
Prom inside the room they heard whkf^®*
and rings
And Katy screaming, “Well, of
things!”