Newspapers / Salem College Student Newspaper / March 5, 1948, edition 1 / Page 7
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March 5, 1948 THE SALEMITE Page Seven. Intervale School by Mary Porter Evans The “Shop of Sorts” now stands ■where the one-room school used to be. The outside hasn’t changed much: there is still a row of over sized windows on the north side with cheap glass that distorts objects on either side; a rose granite block is still the step that leads to what used to be the cloak room, a small antechamber with black hooks at a convenient height. The white clap board still needs a coat of paint and the green trim on the door and win dow sills is blistering. I imagine the clock that jumped ahead every- time a ball hit the south side of the building is still inside. I imagine the woodshed, adjacent to the school room, is still full of short fat logs. I haven’t been in the Shop of Sorts. I oaly remember the building as the one-room school house I went to when the family stayed in the moun tains late to enjoy the Indian sum mer. My desk was strategically situated near the wood stove and near the doors that led to the girl’s and boy’s room. These chambers weren’t heat ed and were well ventilated. In the late fall it wasn’t uncommon to “blow smoke” without benefit of a cigarette while you waited. On particularly cold days, I found I could be far more comfortable if I urged other girls that I was in no hurry, that I could wait; and there by assure myself of a warm seat. The woodstove, a big black cylind rical-shaped monstrosity, was hourly attended by one of the overgrown fifth graders. Not much heat, but a good woody smell permeated the room. This smell was even better from ten till noon. Punctually at ten a responsible seventh grade girl would collect raw potatoes from the children who brought them to school and put them on the sooty ledge inside the wood stove where they baked in time for “dinner” at noon. Potatoes baking while you learn Was also alien to me. From time to time Mother was forced to put raw potatoes in my lunch bag. Though slightly uncooked on one side they seemed better than any potato I’d had before. An hour for “dinner” left too much time on the hands of a heter ogenous group such as were the fif teen children who lived too far away to walk home to lunch. Much of this hour was spent in bullying those who were different. Willy Bose was a frequently plagued person. He had glandular trouble of some kind I’m sure; he was fat, terribly fat. Hifl stomach would have been big en9ugh on a middle-aged man. In addition to his obesity, Willy Eose had red hair and freckles. The real bailies used Willy as an acorn tar get. Larry was another bullied boy. An anemic outcast, Larry had been pampered by women all his life and couldn’t “take it”. One day he away. was solocitiously given some choco late candy which later turned out to be a laxative. The only girl we plagued was Mary Jane. Mary Jane’s little silk dresses and patent leathers made her a misfit in Inter vale. One day she was indoctrinated into the ways of the country by be ing pushed into the mire of a pig pen. Manure and mud from her brown ringlets to her neatly shod feet, Mary Jane richly rewarded her audience by running up the hill to her near-by home screaming “Aunt ie ” all • the way. Miss Wiley, the singing teacher, had store teeth that didn’t fit very well and a trembling unsteady voice. She must have put something across to us in her weekly visit because I can remember a song about ‘ ‘ There was an awful battle in the orchard yesterday, A real one that you read about, you know . . .” which went on in an extended metaphor about North Winds and falling leaves. Singing, at least, was one activity that the entire school could share. We also shared our painful exercises in imagination. These exercises con sisted of making up a story from pictures the teacher had clipped from an old magazines. I cringe still when I think of some tale I told about deer tracks on our tennis court in which I used the expression deer’s feets marks.” We weren’t supposed to share the lessons with other classes but with one class at the board or dis cussing inventions of the Industrial Revolution it was impossible to con centrate on our own dull work. While the first grade read from an obviously-illustrated chart—one little boy once remarked that he could read the sheet with his eyes shut—, the second grade drew pictures of Something I Did This Summer.” The third grade added sums, the fourth grade read about the products of Spain, the fifth grade was respon sible for more problems in arith metic, and between Hote-passiug the sixth grade studied grammar. How the teacher started all the grades on their lessons was a process my observant eight year old mind mis sed. Except for an occasional out break she also maintained fair dis cipline. Yes, the white clap-board building is still there. The outside, still looks the same; the blistering paint, the big w'indows, the faded green trim. The building still resembles a school, though the sign now says a ‘ ‘ Shop of Sorts ’ ’. The old sign has been taken down. There’s still a fresh patch over the outside door, I where the white sign with INTER VALE SCHOOL written in green j wobbley letters used to hang. The ! pupils who shared the dying insti- I tution of a one-room school now ride ! the bus to a consolidated school in | a dingy railroad town ten miles The sketches appearing on this page are representative examples of creative writing done in cam pus English classes. “The Old Man” and “Joe and Sarah” were written by Miss Byrd’s En glish 2, “Intervale School” for Advanced Composition class. ‘ ‘My First Kiss” and “The Question” (printed elsewhere in the paper) are from the freshman classes of Mrs. Berglnnd and Miss Sham- burger. Trilling Found Good Tome By Faculty Reviewer Gray (Continued From Page Two) improving American social condi tions. In the final summary a majority of the delegates agreed that the United States had only one choice— adopt the Plan. In other words, money is of little moment with our way of life at stake. Delay on the part of Congress might prove fatal. Society /Tnntinued From Pa^^e Fivei Convention at Raleigh. She is lec turing to state highway officials on My Accident and How It Could Have Been Prevented”, using illu strated slides. Educational Trips Mr. Homer Sutton will journey to Johns Hopkins Hospital this week end to observe an operation on a two- headed grass-hopper. The operation will be performed by the eminent English surgeon, Dr. U. Jump Up. Miss Jess Byrd will fly to N. Y. to audit an intensive course on “Mod ern Trends In American Mouse Traps. ’ ’ She is expected back early Monday morning. Miss Essie will visit Hot Springs, Arkansas, to get further tips on “The Caring and Cleaning of Bath Mats”. Miss Hedgecock will make a trip to Chapel Hill Friday to take her oral exam on her extensive the sis, ‘ ‘ Mispelling In Old Southern Cookbooks. ’ ’ Boney Crenshaw Reviews Classic; Fihds Universal Interest / by Booty Crenshaw The critics consider Dostoevski’s Crime and Punishment one of the greatest novels of the 19th Century. Typically Russian, the novel is wide in scope. The author depicts every aspect of 19th Century Russian so ciety, drawing from the heterogen eous inhabitants of St. Petersburg. The most potent problems of that era are discussed—socialism, nihi lism, heredity and environment. But the all-enveloping question is that of crime and the punishment of crime. Dostoevski shows us St Peters burg through the eyes of Raskolni- | kov, a poor but aspiring student. | We have a sense of participation | as Raskolnikov paces the city streets ; 3.nd meditates on the social prob,- lems of his day. With the hope of aiding society, he devises a plan for the murder of a pawn-broker, whom fiaskolnikov regards as a social par asite. The crime is intellectually Conceived and carried out. But it '■esults in the mental break-down the murderer. Dostoevski gives a close analysis of a sick mind, ’s'hich leads to the murderer’s con cession. Raskolnikov does not con- (Continued from page five.) V-neck and three-quarter length puffed sleeves. The skirt flares j gently from a black cummerbund I effect at the waist. Beth Kitterell’s spring coat of all spring coats—a fitted affair of salt and pepper material. A smart note is seen in the huge pockets which have rows of tiny buttons down the j side. She also has YELLOW calf j shoes to wear with her coat and gold silk dress. G«rry AUegood’s smooth little white lastex bathing suit. Wolf mat erial, but def! Susan Jonson’s strictly tailored navy gabardine suit and Bunny Pierce’s demure blue crepe dress which features a pearl trim in the belt. Davis’s had some darling little orduroy pedal pushers in grey, honey I tan and aqua. We say “had” be cause Jeanne Dungan, Nancy Wray, j Candy Untiedt and Sara Clkrk all j dashed out to buy a pair. Planning a beach trip, girls? I Have you been approached by the j “earbob Salesman”? Ub Smoke, a I former Salemite, is making the clev erest ear clips from tiny shells, all colors and' unlimited designs. See Miriam Bailey—since they ’re only one dollar you can buy several pairs, 'yes? by Helen Sanford The Middle of the Journey, a first novel by Lionel Trilling, possesses maturity and lack of sensationalism, two advantages all too often missing from modern novels. Trilling will perhaps be remem bered by Salem College seniors from his visit to North Carolina in the spring of 1946, when he was leader for the discussion on writing at the Arts Forum in Greensboro. He should also be remembered for his sliort sjtories, which are very original, extremely well-written, and, inciden tally, interesting. One in particular. Of This Time, Of That Place, comes to mind with the reading of TheMid- dle of the Journey. Both show the same sensitivity in dealing with words and with characters. The story of the novel concerns a young man, John Laskell, who is trying to understand his relation to the' modern world. It is also the story of Arthur and Nancy Croom, whose superficial lives reveal to Las kell his own inadequacies. And, more important, it is the story of Gifford Maxim, the ex-communist. The action is not too important. Laskell has been ill, very ill. His friends, the Crooms, ask him to spend the summer recuperating at their place in Connecticut. He goes ex pecting them to be the same com fortable friends they have always been, talking the same liberal ideas a young modern couple who are concerned about the world’s prob lems and have advanced notions as to the cures. The important thing he discovers is that they are the same; it is he who has changed. He now sees them as they are—two people who never think deeply and who live narrow, self-satisfied lives. Also into the picture comes Maxim, their mutual friend, a strange radi cal who has been intensely devoted to his work in the Communist Party. The book deals in large patt with the re^tion of three people to Max im, who has thrown over communism to embrace religion. All three feel an intense dislike for Maxim—the Crooms because he upsets their stabi lity of thinking, Laskell because he is pursued by Mavim’s ideas and almost overcome by them. Of the . four principal charac ters, Maxim is the most powerful. You have the feeling that all the world must pay attention to the ■words that come from Maxim’s tor tured and distorted mind, and this in spite of the fact that the author’s dislike of him is so evident. For Maxim is a man who feels the guilt of the whole world on his hands and in the personal terror of that knowledge he tries to persuade Las kell to share the guilt with him. Maxim is over-dramatic, he is ugly in his abruptness, and he commands our attention. He is Laskell's in quisitor and we are forced to put ourselves in Laskell’s place. The novel as a whole is finely written. Many scenes stand out for their own particular beauty or ef fectiveness. The chief regret is that the developement is Hot completed. Perhaps Laskell is only “in the mid dle of the journey” toward finding himself, but the end of the novel leaves you wondering just what he accomplished other than ridding himself of his previous complacent ideas about life. He lacks the mag nitude of a hero and consequently the novel never reaches the heroic proportions it might have. Joe and Sarah own, and contribute an element of pathos. A poverty-stricken family figures in the story. And in spite of Raskolnikov’s aid, it becomes in creasingly miserable. Dostoevski shows us a result of bad living con ditions. Sonia, a daughter of the family, ig influential in Raskolni kov’s confession. Sonia’s innate goodness, despite the ignominy in iliiyi ■ which she lives, helps him to realize j the gravity of his crime. The sug- fesB because of any sense of humi- j gestion of their marriage at the end lity, but because he feels that he has violated something fundamental. Crime and Punishment has a plot of many threads. • Raskolnikov’s mother, sister and close friend be come involved in a situation of their of Raskolnikov’s exile furnishes the optimistic note on which the novel ends. Crime and Punishment is a sprawl ing but not unweildy novel. ^ A story fashioned from universal problems, it n.aintains a universal interest. by Avalee Mitchell Harry, a short, dark, heavy-set man, had always loved a drink. For tunately he was brought up in a de cent home, or he would surely have grown up a drunkard. I do not gua rantee that it was only his upbring ing that saved him from a drunk ard’s fate. It is possible that in spite of that he might have been able to outdrink twenty sailors, if only he, had had the means. But his wife Sarah managed all his finan ces and did not let him ha^e a penny to spend on his own. The work it self, the labor that earned their bread, was done by Harry, who re paired shoes. When the work was finishfed, it was Sarah who delivered it and cdllected the money. Naturally Harry was not pleased with this state of affairs. “Whatcha think I am? A thief or what? That is what Harry often said to Sarah, and he always received a clear, unequivocal answer on the spot from his tall, ugly wife. “Heaven forbid! Who said you was a thief? All you are is a soak. Don’tcha dare tell me you ain’t.” To deny it outright was not easy. Yet to go ahead and let his silence confess that he loved to take a little drop was not so agreeable either. He took refuge in a pun, as he frequent ly did, for Harry was a true son of Israel. He piously attended the dim synagogue every Sabbath with his little black scull cap atop his gleaming bald head. “Listen to the woman 1 All she can say is soak. Soak! If I have a bottle in my hand, do I ever soak anybody with it? All I do is drink it.” Scratching his beard, he looked up at the ceiling and said; “Oh, go to the devil!” his ■wife sputtered. “Together with you, beloved, I’d go through the firei of hell,” he answered dramatically, as he flung his arms out to Sarah. His gray beard trembled, and for a moment his redrimmed eyes twinkled like a schoolboy’s when he pulls a little girl’s pigtails. What did he do when Sarah came home with some money, and handed him a few pennies to buy, bread, shoe polish, and a new brush? He became as soft as butter and as sweet as honey. His respect for wo men in general and Sarah in parti cular rose immediately. He stroked his high, white forehead and mused thoughtfully, philosophically. “I can’t understand what a wise man like King Solomon had against you women. Do ya know what King Solomon said About women? or don’tcha?” “Who cares what King Solomon said? You go to the store for that thread and shoe polish and brush, and see thatcha don’t lose your way to Joe’s.” “Next you’ll be telling me to wear mittens in July. Which way is Joe’s and which way is the dime store? And besides, who would think, in the middle of the week, on a working day, of going off for a drink?” At this far-fetched idea, Harry burst out in crackling laughter. But even while he was talking he was counting the money Sarah had given him by transferring it, greasy nickle by grimy dime, from one gnar led hand to the other, and looking spiritually up at the ceiling -with one eye closed. He was figuring out exactly how much he would need for thread, how much for shoe polish, and how much for a brush. With a deep, deep sigh he quietly went out of the house, and straight to Joe’s Beer Garden.
Salem College Student Newspaper
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March 5, 1948, edition 1
7
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