Newspapers / Chowan University Student Newspaper / March 1, 1965, edition 1 / Page 12
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JlvtenaA4f> QUodjuanian j ^ Mad Money The most priceless gift that I ever knew Is the gift of Friends—the tried and true. I liken each one to a precious gem, A sparkling jewel in a diadem. Or I think of my friends as an endless chain; The longer it grows, as more friends I gain. Each friend is a link, each link a part Of a golden chain that entwines my heart. My every prayer begins and ends, “I thank Thee, God, for the gift of Friends.” —Edna Thornburg. The Happy Season (continued! soul seemed to long for. But she submerged her own wish in her grater longing to please Jim. That night, she recalled, Jim had come home lugging an air conditioner. He had installed it himself. "Anniversary gift to us all,” he had explained, mopping his forehead. “This year we’ll play it cool. Ty can sleep, and I can sleep. I'll feel so good and work so hard and make so much money. I’ll take you out for cavi ar and pink champagne and buy your heart’s desire for our next anniversary.” Margt had prepared a good dinner. She remembered they ate by candlelight, and for hit part of the celebration Tyco't tooth had come through that day. After dinner, they had worked on their budget again. ■'Somewhere, somehow, we’ve got to juggle a new suit for you,” Marge had advised. "Those old tweeds will never go through another winter.” "And juggle help with the heavy work for you twice a week.” countered Jim. In the end he had insisted that she have five dollars a week for herself. "Money to throw away on pure frivolity,” he had said. "Not to get your hair fixed or pay for help a few hours or buy concert tickets. That’s in the budget. This five dollars is for you to spend like mad—on fool ishness—mad money.” “What aboui you, ' Marge had wanted to know, "what about your mad money?” “Oh, I have ways of juggling.” Jim had said, jingling a few loose coins in his pocket. “Why, I’m getting six and a quarter a week for lunches and coffee. I don’t need all that. I’ll juggle some mad money out of it.” That day had been the turning point. Marge realized as she drained her coffee cup. Tyco had never had as much trouble cutting his other teeth. Jim had not been kept awake, but had slept in comfort. She had juggled the budget and her mad money —miracle money, really, she had often called it—and here it was another anniversary. The new golf clubs would be deliver ed at nine, and Jim would have the whole beautiful golden day on the course, if he chose, f 0 r their membership had already been in effect a week. When Mr. Barker delivered the clubs at nine sharp, the three Babbs had breakfasted and dressed and were r’aring to go. Jim’s mother had called and insisting that Ty spend the morn ing with her so Marge and Jim could have the morning to them selves. Jim was so elated over the clubs he was practically speechless. “What money tree you been shaking. Marge?” he wanted to know. "You say they’re paid for.” "They’re paid for,” Marge said. "But how—?” "Mad money. Juggling. Me and my Einstein brain, you know.” “Seriously, how did you do it?” Jim wanted to know. "Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.” Marge teased. "You haven’t mortgaged our old beat-up bus, I hope. As if you could!” "I’ll tell you before the day is over,” Marge promised. She wanted to inveigle him out to the Rolling Hills Club and sur prise him with the membership before revealing her stratagem. Tyco ran and climbed into the car. Jim patted his new treas ures lovingly and winked at Marge as he carefully loaded them in the boot and dumped in her old clubs. They were going to knock a few balls a- round somewhere, he asserted, if it was on a tennis court. Marge smiled happily to herself, knowing where the balls were goin“ to be knocked. They were nearly at Mother Babb's before she thought of herself. “Hey,” she said, “this is my anniversary, too. What about that?” "Ask me no questions. I'll tell you no lies/' Jim chanted. "That's our secret, eh, Tyco? Us men have to stick togather don't we, Ty?" Tyco grinned happily and clapped his hands. "Stic- rruther,” he echoed. Leaving Tyco at his grand mother’s, they rode around look ing for a place to build their own house whenever they could get enough down payment to start one. "Well, since were dreaming big, let's look over the hilltop lot in Lake Forest we used to drool over. No harm in riding by to see if it has been sold,” she said. Jim agreed readily. "To get there we have to pass Rolling Hills Club,” she added quickly. “Just for fun let’s see if they'll let you pay a greens fee just long enough to try out your new clubs. Want to?” “Sure,” he nodded, speeding up. They rolled grandly through the ornate gateway and up the winding driveway to the club house. "1 feel right biggity,” Jim declared. "Almost as if I be longed. We will, too, one of these days, Marge.” Marge smiled and said noth ing. Jim went in to se« about the greens fee. He soon came striding back, looking sober and suprised. “Marge, honey, 1 don't under stand. You know how thrilled I am atwut all this, but how on earth did you manage it? The golf clubs and now this member ship. Please explain how—” "That mad money started it, Jim. It gave me such a feeling of confidence and challenge that I managed to save it all. Why. I felt downright rich. I saved on our household budget, too. I’ve done my own hair for a whole year and kept our apart ment without any outside help. I budgeted my time so I could get the cleaning and washing done without getting too tired. I’ve shopped carefully, figured out economy dishes. And, I might as well admit, I got a part-time job.” "Job,” Jim demanded amazed "what was it?” "I didn't take in washing,” Marge said lightly. “Just a little juggling here and there—nurse ry work, baking orders, knitting.” “I won’t have you working!” Jim cried. “An accomplished fact,” Marge said. “And so is the culb mem bership.” “I can’t take it in. Here you were earning money behind my back—!” "The mad money started it. And you started the mad money,” she reminded him. "Why didn’t you buy yourself a piano— or make a down pay ment on one with your mad money or your earnings?” "Why 1 never thought of that." Surprise was stamped on her face. She had forgotten how much she wanted a piano. "Want to take this stuff back and get one?” Jim teased. "You know I don’t. Mad money is to be spent on what ever its owner chooses. I chosc this, for you.” When they drove by Lake For est on their way back, he stopped before the hilltop lot. "We're not pretending to hunt for a place to build our house. Marge,” Jim told her. "We’re really going to buy this place. And I'm going to start design ing our own home immediately for that hilltop lot.” “How?” she cried out, incre dulous over the announcement. Then he explained that he had got the contract to design all the buildings for the Durham Acad emy. It started as a million dol lar project, with expansion and development over the next ten years included in his contract. “Let's explore our estate to gather." Late that afternoon they went home, tired but very happy. Jim unlocked the door and ush ered Marge in. There in all its resplendent newness stood the most beauti ful piano Marge had ever seen. "How—?” she gasped, star ing at the shining keyboard. "Mad money,” he said. “And a little juggling.” By JOHN H. STANLEY In order to perpetuate certain ideas and events, various times of the year have been designated as specific seasons such as Thanksgiving season, Christmas season and debutante season. I should like to propose that for all college seniors the portion of the year comprising March, April, May and June be labeled the Happy Season. It shouldn’t be ne cessary to call this to their atten tion, but by habit most of them are so inextricably caught up in the web of campus routine that they fail to recognize and appre ciate this potentially very happy season. These months should be made happy by simply meditat ing on graduation and its conse quences. This will not apply to the faint-hearted who have thrived on regimentation and supervision. To them graduation will appear as down the dark corridor of time. But to the stouthearted, who yearn to accept responsibility so they might taste the sweet re wards of its being adequately ex ercised, graduation will appear as a beautinful reverie. To them it is the Holy Grail towards which they have launched perennial cru sades lo these many years and now it is in sight. The first tho ughts of the goals having been at tained are entertained. A mix ture of joy and pride produces beneath the breast a not unpleas ant palpitation which is but the first tangible sign that the happy season is at hand. The cadence of graduation's approach is of course a calendared tempo meter ed in days rather than fractions of seconds, so its march is relent less and unaffected by human frailty or desires. March, April and May glide by as smoothly as three sleek schooners sailing serially into view, across the scene and into the past. The panorama of Spring is seen with all its quite magic of dormancy, faint stirring, ac celeration and finial surge over the threshold of new-life. Spring’s piquancy is not reserved (or trees and plants however; so each of us feels its insistant urge to wake up and live—no coincidence here that graduation should come in the sprinbg. Then June rolls lazily in and offers a welcomed respite be tween spring's vivacousness and summer's stolidness. But June brings examination! So what? Most seniors have been examined and found sufficient so repeatedly that they approach these last tests with confidence. So on with the happy season. Finally graduation day comes. As caps and gowns are donned a little fear is aroused by the realization that the umbilical cord from Mother school to embroy student is about to be severed. The first chords of the graduation march are heard, and it is second only to the National Anthem in its ability to arouse strong feel ings of determination and confi dence, so this fear is soon dis pelled. The diploma once in hand becomes symWic of a maestro's baton as each new graduate re alizes that with this diploma he can compose and direct his sym phony of life. THAT'S WHAT I CALL A FRIEND One whose grip is a little tighter. One whose smile is a little brighter, One whose deeds are a little whiter. That’s what I call a friend. One who'll lend as quick as he’ll borrow. One who's the same today as tomorrow. One who will share your joy—and your sorrow. That's what I call a friend. One who is always willing to aid you. One whose advice has always paid you, One who's defended when others flayed you. That's what I call a friend. One who's been fine when life seemed rotten. One whose ideals you have not forgotten. One who has given you more than he’s gotten. That’s what I call a friend. —/ohrt BurrougHi. Granddaughter By VIRGINIA H. HARDING With starry eyes so big and blue, With a smile so coy, with rosy cheek, Brown curls that cling so tightly to Our fingers as they gently seek To touch the dimpled sweetness there, To which none other can compare. Only four months, so short a time To capture hearts of all who see The mystery that God designed And sent to reign so happily. Granddaughter, it’s you of whom I speak. It’s you, my love, with the rosy cheek. .. I,. , -ft; PAGE TWELVE THE CHOWANIAN
Chowan University Student Newspaper
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March 1, 1965, edition 1
12
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