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MERCURY GRADUATION ISSUE, 1966 ■ MERCURY Gettysburg College Graduation Issue, 1966 VVVV%*VVVVVVVVV%^rVVVVVVVVV>v<rVVVV^ THE STAFF EDITOR IN CHIEF Adele Miller ASSISTANT EDITOR Robert Solomon ART EDITOR Sandra Kohler EXCHANGE EDITOR Kaye Pyle SECRETARIAL MANAGER Catherine Crute BUSINESS MANAGER Richard McCauley LITERARY STAFF leva Jaunzemis, Len Carber, Lynne McKenna, Van Hendrickson, Susan McAdams, Judith Powers, Gerald Miller, Marilyn Stevens, Edie Fisher BUSINESS STAFF Richard Hershey (Advertising Man-ager), David Shutter ART PHOTOGRAPHER Albert Accettola FACULTY ADVISORS Mrs. Kathrine K. Taylor, Dr. Ralph D. Lindeman, Mr. Donald Marsden, Mr. Norman L. Annis, Mr. Jack Ozegovic The MERCURY is published three times a year by the students of Gettysburg College. The magazine is financed in part by the student chest fund and made possible by local advertisements. The contents and cover of this magazine are therefore the property of the college and are open, at all times, to constructive criticism by members of the faculty or student body. Printed by THE TIMES AND NEWS PUBLISHING CO., Gettysburg, Pa. PRESS 44y y yyft y yyyyyy yr t2 YYt yyy yyyy ytyyy '4 yyy 4I 4 4y 44xyyyy tyyy TABLE OF CONTENTS EDITORIALLY SPEAKING Adele Miller FICTION 6 ENCOUNTER: WITH BALLOONS ATTENDANT Sandra Kohler 11 A DARK SEPTEMBER DAY Barry Bishop 15 FAR EAST Kristin Guess 21 BEYOND THE WATERS _ Adele Miller POETRY 10 WRITTEN QUICKLY ON A RAINY SATURDAY H. H. Nelson 13 SUMMER NIGHT'S AUCTIONEER __ Sander Zulauf 20 TRIANGULAR GHOSTS Sander Zulauf 28 BEFORE THESE DAYS Sander Zulauf 28 THE HAWK SOARS Sander Zulauf 29 PORTRAIT Bobert Bohm 29 THE FARMER'S DEATH _ Bobert Bohm ART 2 LITHOGRAPH .__ Frank Cressotti 14 THE LARK—Claire Buete and Don Fairchild; Profile of Robert List .... Photographed by Charles C. Hall 19 LITHOGRAPH Frank Cressotti Cover: Kathy Trexel Graduation Issue, 1966 Frank Cressotti Mercury Editorially Speaking . There was a young boy standing in front of the library a few weeks ago, staring down at a dead robin with a rather. self-conscious sense of tragedy. When he was satisfied that the lifeless form would not fly again and that enough students had seen and sympathized with his plight, the boy shrugged his shoulders stoically and walked away. However, his sense of order had been upset, and he looked back several times to make sure the bird still lay dead before running down the street. Dis-order and early sorrow come to us before the chickenpox and cause an infection which we fight every day of our lives. However, everyone from the file clerk to the artist has his own set of private antibodies to fight the disease of chaos, the clerk through alphabetizing his world into neat cate-gories and the artist through imposing a coherent pattern upon a seemingly incoherent universe. This magazine represents different modes of order rang-ing from the lines whose careful arrangement cre-ates the scene upon the cover to the poems whose form, rhythm, and sounds give a meaningful struc-ture to the words. The photograph taken from Jean Anouilh's THE LARK represents a playwright's attempt to give meaning and design to an historical event, and from the particulars of concrete facts springs an ordered artistic interpretation. Even the composition of this issue signifies an attempt to give unity to its diverse contents. If unity has been achieved, if the structure of the poems and stories is organically coherent, if the magazine gives a meaningful pattern to its con-tents, the unifying force has been Kathrine Kress-man Taylor. During her nineteen years with Get-tysburg College writers, Mrs. Taylor has been a root metaphor, representing both the writing proc-ess of selection and creation revealed to her stu-dents, and the end product of artistic achievement evident in her own writings. She has shown us, first, how to perceive the world fully through the senses, followed by the lessons of infusing order upon our observations. From the many sessions of reviewing each other's work and evaluating our own growth and success, there has arisen within us a mysterious sense of "what is right," and we have reluctantly crossed out our cleverest passages in the long process of revision. Words are the tools by which man aligns his universe with his understanding, and the enduring pattern which they create is experienced every day, whether it is through the immediate perception of a stop sign or through the unperceivable, often for-gotten, organization insured by the words of the United States Constitution. We can neither measure the endless importance of the written word, nor can we fully appreciate the contribution of Mrs. Taylor who has taught the awesome responsibility of using those words. This magazine is dedicated to her not only as an expression of thanks, but as a promise from its contributors to continue the honest and disciplined use of the writing tools which she has helped to shape and sharpen. We wish Mrs. Taylor all the warmth, health and happiness that her retirement to Italy promises, and may the land of Augustus Caesar bring her the same order that she has given us at Gettysburg. O O » O 0 Next fall, the Creative Writing Class will con-tinue under the direction of Mr. John Clarke, a poet and Creative Writing teacher presently on the fac-ulty of Green Mountain College in Poultney, Vt. Mr. Clarke received his B.A. from Kenyon College and his M.A. from Stanford University where he continued his postgraduate studies on a Woodrow Wilson Fellowship. We look forward to his arrival and the continuation of the dynamic spirit that has tvpified the classes under Mrs. Taylor. ' Acting as the 1966-67 Editor in Chief of the MER-CURY will be Kaye Pyle, a junior English major from Gettysburg. Printer's ink makes up one-third of Kaye's blood system, as her mother, a reporter and feature writer for the GETTYSBURG TIMES, can testify. Since Kaye has proved her worth in both literary and artistic achievements, she pos-sesses the creativity and versatility that will help to produce a first-rate publication next year. Kaye's assistant editors, who will aid her in spending twice as much as the budget allows, will be Kristin Guess and Sander Zulauf. We are pleased to announce the winners of the short story and poetry contest announced in the fall issue of the MERCURY. Mrs. Kathrine Taylor and Dr. Ralph Lindeman, judges, have chosen Sandra Kohler as the short story award winner for her latest contribution, Encounter: With Balloons Attendant. The poetry award goes to Sander Zulauf for his series of poems which have appeared in the last two issues. Graduation Issue, 1966 I WHO AM, CRY OUT TO BE Susan Martin I, who am the eternal child who stands, bare feet planted, wiggle-toed, in the sand of a blowing beach, on a blue, high cloud afternoon in late August who am meant only to laugh delight • in a green field; long hair whipping across tanned face, I throw a ball as hard as I can and shout with child-joy at the ecstasy of the movement— a small kind of poetry, I, who love nothing so much as to run into the spring twilight, unfettered by anything (only the sky) to toss my head contemptuous, or else to trot unconscious, like the unmindful steer through lonely field in search of the uncropped grass (or is it the glinting firefly?) See. Here I stop to watch a bird rise to chase the insects in the almost-light, making his bed-time meal; or to admire the flower of a maple tree, tentacled with deep red stamens protruding from their fuzz-filled cup. I run on, just to enjoy the smooth pump-pump of my high-lifted legs; my feet crunch into the gravel and slip off the crumbly road-side, only to regain, surefooted, the pavement; and I laugh lightly into the cool air at my crazy, zig-zag, wonderful way. I, who see all this, enjoy this freedom with child candor, with jump-and-prance-because-it-cannot-be-held- in vigor, I, who can lie still, staring into the blue-black deepness of a star-speckled midnight summer sky, and feel the foreverness, and see how far away it goes: can come close to infinity (but never quite know it), feel the giddiness of such enormity, yet joy, all the while, in the simple beauty of the surface view of it-rich flat velvet, studded with larger and smaller diamonds— until the moving red and green flashes of a plane spoil the two-dimensioned surface and make it deep and air after all again. Mercury I, who can fall asleep untroubled with the comforting, blue full-moonlight and make up with my face turned to greet the clean sun, unafraid, looking forward only to the silky, long grass, the shade-and-sun patches under the trees, the growing of flowers, yellow against the green in the long, cool, bird-twittered afternoon. 1, who am this and much, much more, laughing, happy child-of-joy; I am put upon, and prodded, and kept from my green meadows; made to sit still and watch, but never to touch the splendor of the wind-swept beach, the lumpy-soft green and brown field, the gravel-shouldered country road, leading to nowhere, to who-cares-where. I am forced to look not to infinity, but no farther than right here, not to eternity, but to no more than today, tomorrow, the next day, oh, no! no farther! In cages I am kept; I am jumbled about and pointed to, laughed at. I try to watch the robin, and mime his hop-hop busy-ness, to trace the flight of the honey-bee, but I am taken for a fool. I, who am only a child. I am chained with the golden loops of responsibility; I do not care for, I did not ask for, their hard glitter— I wanted only the soft orange, then pink, then blue of the sun's parting with the day, falling on the quiet all around me. This to enjoy and the sweet smell of spring, impinging on a tired winter, and the twit-twitter of a small bird building in the ivy, and the gloriousness of myself, romping, bare-legged and brown, sun-ripened, through the world, seeing all, loving everything I see. I who am, cry out to be . . . ME. The wildness is the beauty; the freedom is the joy. Graduation Issue, 1966 ENCOUNTER: With Balloons Attendant sandra kohler ANDREW MACK rumbled wordlessly in his anticipation of lunch, of food in his mouth and stomach, of his arm dangling free at his side and of his weight off his feet. Flat feet, cop's feet, grubby, used shoes; he shifted and tapped them a bit. A girl with an archaic, ugly ponytail and a three-year-old in tow came to buy a balloon, a dark blue-purple one, indigo, or violet or grape soda-color. Andrew would rather have saved it for Danny's sister Asia Minor, christened Alice Amanda until one fateful fifth grade geography lesson of her brother's. But the girl spied it and displayed some good taste which her ponytail dis-guised. Andrew disengaged its string. "You got good taste, missy," he said, handing the big, burgeoning balloon out of the buxom clump floating above his head. Her quarter clinked in his change-apron. "Thank you," she said, loudly, squinting at him in surprise that he should speak to her except to state a price. Andrew watched her walk away, as she con-scientiously helped the little one manage the bal-loon's strings, his pudgy fingers fumbling with the white cotton. Finally, she tied it to his wrist. An-drew Mack's eyes went up past them both to the hot, electric blue morning-sky of a weekday. The summer-thick trees of the park were lush, and above them, the steel, stone-glass city towers jag-gedly yearned upward. I'm rich, chuckled Andrew to himself, and I know about taste and five in one of them big places up there and at night I look out here and see this scary place where no one comes but cops and queers and drunks and killers and the dumb people they get, and I only sell balloons in the day 'cause I like to see the kids smile. His laugh aloud was dry and raspy. Nobody knows how rich the friendly old balloon man is and did you get your money from balloons, sir? Dry laughter. I'll never tell . . . He put his hand in his apron, amidst the solid, ringing quarters in their designated pocket. Noth-ing so nice as a quarter and each one equals a balloon, he thought, for someone. The other change was dropped helter-skelter, mixed and abandoned, into the other pocket. It was the middle of summer in the city. The people who were busy, as at any other time of the year, seemed at the same time indolent and heavy, a corruption of the sprightliness of spring. And lounging, lazy, visiting and spectating people lolled even as they walked, as though tar ooze from the streets had caught on their feet and slowed them to a gummed and almost firm halt. Selling balloons every day of the summer but a few, standing in the shade beside stone steps to the zoo, crunching on pigeons' crackerjacks strewn across the sidewalk's inlaid hexagons, Andrew Mack lived in the summer city. The people swirled past and around him like eddies in a pan of warm taffy, golden in the sunlight, slow in the heat and varied, all of them, with their multiplicity of purpose. But from out of all their paths, some of them always stepped aside for a balloon, usually in pairs or groups but even occasionally alone. Andrew thought that among the most memorable were the ones who bought jewel-colored orbs while walking alone and who mused off into the distance until all you could see was the hobbling balloon following a crowd down the street or around a corner. The children and guardians, the touring Indiana fam-ilies began to merge after a while. But Andrew could still remember the Army brass, covered with scrambled eggs, starched and creased, all spit-and-polish, who bought a yellow balloon one muggy, awful day and strode off with it obediently at-tending. And the girl, like lots of city girls, tan, in jeans and sandals, long hair and a sleeveless, scoopnecked, striped sweater; she had swaggered up to him and stood with one hip shot out, rum- Mercury maging in her beaten shoulder-bag for a quarter. It finally came out of her hip pocket. She had to hitch up her sweater to get it and burrow and squirm deep into the pocket of the tight pants and he saw her tanned stomach, dark as her arms, just for a second. I'll bet she's got a bikini bathing suit, thought Andrew. But he didn't ask her. "I'll take a green one—that one," she said. Her voice was dark and low, almost hoarse. When she left with the balloon, it swaggered too, swaying away downtown. The balloon-buying lovers melded together, too, for Andrew. They were the Young Sophisticates and he knew much about them, for weren't there hundreds of them, perhaps millions, in his building above the park? (Well, if you're rich, sir, where do your balloons come from everyday so secretly? Andrew laughed, I'll never tell. . . .) The Young Sophisticates swarmed about the city, striking poses, swinging their arms and their hair and each other's clasped hands, with many straps on their shoes and bright colors and good-looking, clean-cut faces enjoying life. "Oh, such fun, David—a bal-loon," squealed the girls, slackening the string so the balloon lunged, laughing, at the sky until the line paid out and it was rudely lurched into stopping. Andrew didn't care what they did with the balloons. He always had more the next day, but if they did something he wouldn't do with a balloon while they still stood near him, he couldn't help wishing they'd either give it back or take it and go. He thought of them capering off to bed, conscious ever of the dictations of trend, lying together in sweet splendor all night, with the mute balloon knotted to the bedpost, innocent in wide-eyed vigilance. And once, even a shrivelly, typical, tottery old woman bought a pink balloon. Andrew had wanted to give it to her because he was certain it made him happier that she wanted it than it did her for getting it. But he did know how to explain to her and feared to insult. It's tough, he often thought, to see these balloons doin' different things t' people an' never knowin' how to say to somebody what you see the balloon do for 'em. Except sometimes ya say it anyway. . . . This upper part of the city, littered and layered around the park, was Andrew Mack's favorite part of it all. He knew the other parts from spending long times all over. The bizarre upper downtown where the strange, free-living people had ignored him in his time there and never seen his comings and goings or seen him seeing them from out of his undistinguished gray and slouchy trousers and dull shirt; the far downtown where nothing lived but only participated in laboring and fled as the darkness crept in; the financiers' stronghold which pumped out money-blood for the city and took it back in to replenish it with life; and the six-floor shimmy hovels and the ghettos and the theaters and the glittering stores and the alabaster palaces whence came the god-like, bejewelled rich people, and the museums and the pawn shops and parking lots and taxi cabs. How old are you, bal-loon man? how old you know all these things? Pretty old, he mused, calmly. The parts of the city meshed at the park in a common need for some-thing it offered, and it meshed too with Andrew's balloons and the summer. As the city and the park fitted together and the city and the balloons, so the park and the balloons had become one and Andrew found it his favorite place. He didn't acknowledge the winter. "Hey, mister." A fearsome and tough little devil peered up at him, with dark eyes and hair, blue jeans and sneakers and polo shirt. "Hey, how much for a balloon?" "A quarter, sonny, any color." "Hell, you kiddin' me? a quarter? See this bean shooter? I could screw all your balloons in two minutes." "Yeah, an' I could give ya a good kick in the pants." Andrew was stern but twinkling, and the devil snapped his fingers. It was Danny, from out of the dark streets away west, across-park, come to harass his friend and talk of consequential events and observations. "Once, I'd-a done that, ya know, ya lousy kid." "I almost shot your balloons that one time." They were secure in their mutual truce. "How is life, Daniel, my friend? I haven't seen you since you killed your gran'mother last." "My gran'mother died for real, ya know. My old man was so glad—god! And old Asia Minor got mad at him, 'cause she always liked old Granny. She really got mad and hollered at him. The old man just told her to shut up 'count of he had a headache. But she was so mad she got to cryin' and hollerin' and he belted her an she wouldn't shut up for nothin'. Just yellin' an' screamin' an' belly-achin' her head off." Self-sufficiency poured from the boy; he didn't need the grandmother or 8 Graduation Issue, 1966 the father, and just barely did he need his spunky sister. "You sold pretty many balloons today al-ready, huh, Andrew?" "Oh, yeah." Andrew looked up at his opulent, beautiful balloons. "There was one, Daniel, that I'd-a saved ya. Dark, kind of blue-purple but some girl spotted it right outa the bunch. What can you do? Ya wanna red one?" "Sure." He took it and looked at it against the sky. "Listen—ya know, I'm looking' out the window this morning? An' all of a sudden I thought, God! someday I gotta get old Andrew to let all his bal-loons go, just right up into the goddamn sky. Ya know?" he said, nonchalantly releasing the red bal-loon. The devil watched the balloon man breathe deeply. "Hey! Whaddya? Think I'm made-a money, kid?" But Danny was raptly gazing now at the lofting balloon. "Can't ya see 'em all goin' off just like that? Beautiful!" "Hey, kid, ya think I'm made-a money? Ya think I sell balloons for my health?" How he laughed way away inside himself; oh, my secret, my riches, he laughed. "How'm I s'posed t' eat if I throw my balloons away?" The boy had to persuade him of the superlative glory of the scheme, the enduring value of the sight to transcend the mortal pangs of hunger. "But, man, think of all those balloons just flyin' away. You don't ever gotta gimme another balloon as long as I live, Andrew." "But, man, I won't ever have no more balloons to give." Danny couldn't see. "God, Andrew, why not? Where do they come from anyway? Huh?" "I'll never tell," laughed Andrew Mack. But the boy was crestfallen. "Hey, boy," Danny looked away from the man up the street at the people and the cars and buses all clamoring and cluttering. "Here. Daniel." He didn't look concerned; he shrugged. "Daniel, listen—I get a quarter a balloon. I gotta buy food. And more balloons and gas for 'em." The boy was not fazed. "And strings." This was too much. Danny's contempt was withering. "Yeah, Andrew, I bet ya really gotta buy strings for your damn balloons. God, I bet ya got eighty million strings somewhere. And besides ya can find string places. Tees!" Andrew considered. "I won't say I never thought of it, understand. All those balloons, just loose, goin' up forever, except I expect they'd bust some-where. But, I won't say I can't see it." The boy saw an opening. "So, man—isn't is worth it to you? Nobody's gonna say a thing to ya and tomorrow, ya cut your strings in half. Or ya don't eat dinner tonight. Our next week or some-thin'. Huh, man?" A soldier stepped over and bought a baby blue ballooon for a beautiful blonde girl. He paid with a dollar, and Andrew had to give him three silver quarters back. "You're serious, aren't ya? I thought you was just sayin' it." Andrew Mack pursed his lips and scratched his neck. Then he put his hand in amongst the lovely quarters. There were many of them but were there enough? If he simply nullified, oh—he looked up—twenty balloons, what would be the results? He though about the Young Sophis-ticates and how he always had more balloons the next day. But they had paid. On the other hand, they hadn't ever understood. He thought about Danny and Asia Minor; had they had twenty bal-loons between them? However many they had had, he knew those balloons had been enjoyed. And, anyway, in the end, all balloons shrivelled and whimpered and sagged into lifeless, unappeal-ing lumps, and shining quarters clanged in some-one else's cash register. What of the distant towers, and taste? Would he or could he still be rich? Could he or would he ever be rich? For want of twenty quarters, a few rubber bags of lighter-than-airness, what could be lost? He though about the onrush of lunchtime. "Ya gonna die for a few balloons, Andrew?" The boy recognized weakness in the balloon-seller's pensive attitude. Or pliability. "God, can't you pre-tend it's an accident? Didn't no balloon guy ever have an accident?" Insistently, then, "Huh?" "Well, I don't always sell every balloon." Could he pretend that? "Yeah, but Daniel, I could sell on another day the balloons I don't sell today." A little boy, hauling his mother and besieging her frantically, came to rest immobile before the clutch of sun-touched balloons. The woman bought one, mumbling reluctances, a yellow-green one, and they went away, the child reverent with the tug of the line on his own hand, the balloon leading. Like a mischievous, conscience-imp, like a bad devil, the boy Danny said with digust, "Hold out, man. There ain't gonna be no goddamn balloons in about ten minutes; then ya can go home an' feed your face an' relax. Just forget it, Andrew; chuck it out the damn window." And he defiantly pegged Mercury a pebble at the wheels of the unheeding traffic. His hair fell damply in his eye. He looked su-premely bored, the noble savage in dulling sur-roundings and, to boot, deprived of sacrifice. But he held his ground to see if there was one glimmer of hope. "You're a fresh brat, Daniel. You are a fresh son-of- a-bitch t' ask a guy to forget about eatin' and his livelihood an all." "D'you think I'd ask ya to do a thing like that if I didn't care about ya?" The fiery master hunter, the wielder of keen-edge words and dark-eyed soulful looks had hit home. He had only to stare woundedly off into the distance, leaning on the park wall. "Well . . ." Andrew was gruff. "Well, I don't say I wouldn't like to see 'em goin'. I've even thought of it before on my own. An' they'd do things to more people at once who seen 'em all sailin' around up there." He looked up at the pull-ing balloons. The sun was high and he had to squint. In the brightness, the towers of the very rich were less clearly seen. "But where would we do it?" The boy seemed not to hear. "Hey, Daniel. Where, huh?" The boy turned to Andrew Mack then and said, in a flat tone, "Oh. Well, see, we go over across to the Heights. Ya know, where it's open? An' we let 'em just go, all over the place, see? Sure would be—" and he paused in breathless awe, "great." He then resumed his resigned slouch against the wall. Andrew was in a flurry. The balloons seemed to tug as his whole arm and he was warm—with sum-mer, with noon, with what? "Daniel?" The boy flicked a pebble away. "Yeah?" "C'mon, we'll let 'em go." No response at first. The boy looked at him, his eyes widened. "You ain't kiddin'? God, ya really gonna?" He saw his victory then. "Man, I knew ya wanted to see 'em." Standing away from the wall, he swiped a hand across his mouth. "Dammit! Hey, man! C'mon! Tees!" They walked off then, as easily as though it were their routine, and into the park. The open, grassy Heights spread, with people dotted about, sitting, tossing balls, walking; a couple of them had a buzzing model airplane. Danny frothed and ranged around, dancing with impatience. "Man," he panted, "dammit!" This is great! Great!" He tossed his head up, in the lead. The highest part was just a little rise, just a slope up, and some one was just walking off it, leaving it empty to them. "God, Andrew—I'll count down, huh?" "Hey, yeah, you count and I'll let 'em go flyin' away." Hesitations were past and the moment im-pending. Andrew didn't know and Danny didn't care if it was the fulfillment of anyone's dream or a sudden, devilish whim; it was now just an action consuming the present with necessity. The boy began counting. Andrew unsnarled the ends of the strings. "Five-four-three—" nothing left to be done, "two-one- go!" The last word burst and the day's re-maining balloons lifted gently, in a body but sepa-rating almost at once. They climbed faster with height and moved in the direction of uptown, out over the park. "Jees," breathed the boy. The people dappled over the Heights had be-come aware of the two figures, and stopped to watch the clot of colored globes rise. There were shouts, unintelligible, and some people pointed at the freed and winging balloons. A man in white shorts and a raffish blue sweater came and said to Andrew, in an English accent, "I say, is this a scheduled event?" Andrew Mack was puzzled and distracted with his escaped covey of balloons. "I mean, there was no announcement. Do you reg-ularly . . ." But the man was cut off as one balloon ex-ploded and Andrew, shocked, turned and saw a small, dark devil and his bean shooter. Andrew saw him break another before he moved to cover the end of the plastic tube with his hand and grab the back of Danny's neck with the other. "Don't," he choked. "Damn you, Daniel." Pulling the shooter out of the boy's mouth and flinging him down to sputter and swear, Andrew advanced, weaving, and stood over Danny. The boy scrambled and would have run, if Andrew hadn't caught him. Thickly, darkly, his mouth working, he hit the boy in the face; all his effect went into the blow, but Andrew's age spared Danny. Only his nose gushed red blood. The natty Englishman seized the shoulder of the shivering and exhausted balloon man who turned and watched the diminishing colored balloons wafting gaily in their freedom, into the distance. The Englishman pursued. He looked at the crumpled Danny, then at Andrew; he dropped his hand. Glancing at the boy again, he said, "Are 10 these balloons let off regularly?" Andrew was absent. "Huh-uh bing his neck. he said, rub- Graduation Issue, 1966 He watched them until they were gone some-where in the thin and upper reaches. They were visible for a long way. Written Quickly on a Rainy Saturday Fabulous rain Obliterate stain Lubricate pain Make me sane Everything's gain Fantastic rain Feel much better When things are wetter Nothing can fetter A glad debtor I'd write this letter- But here comes the rotten sunshine. H. H. Nelson Mercury 11 A Dark September Day Barry Bishop JOHN winced as his suitcase hit the side of the too-narrow doorway, but he walked on across a badly lit lobby to the desk behind which an old man sat hunched over his newspaper. The old grey head bobbed slightly above the lines of print, paying no attention to anything else, and John de-cided the clerk must be deaf. A mantel clock was ticking louder and louder, dust was settling in yellow lamp light, and John had visions of stand-ing in the dark room forever listening to ticking and watching dust settle. Then a voice from the old head cut through the quiet. "Bettah take ut easi on the dohr an' ut may last a few mohr days," the old man said still looking down. A wrinkled, stubby-fingered hand pushed wire rimmed glasses higher on a hooked nose, and eyes almost shrouded with grey brows rose to look at John. "Maya help ya?" "I'd like a single room. I'll be here one night." "Sahn the registah please." The old clerk slapped down a key, which made a plastic-metal clack on the scratched desk top. "John Wiley—from Boston eh? What brings ya way up heah?" "I'm with a fishing boat company." "A salesman?" the old man asked quickly. "No, not exactly. I'm just here to . . . see one fisherman. Now please, how do I find the room?" "Upstez left. Numbah is on the—" John already had his bag and was walking toward the stairs. The room was small with a threadbare rug and bedspread, crumbling plaster on the walls, and a bare bulb hanging from the center of the cracked ceiling. The town was small, John thought, and everything in it seemed to have to be small, too. He was tired of small towns, but he knew he was tired of traveling and being alone, also. He started washing his hands in a stained sink. He hated be-ing out of the city with its noise, lights, and hurry-ing people, the people who were always around whether they knew you or not, the people who kept the city moving constantly. A city could be lonely, of course, but that did not matter when a cab was honking and Mrs. Stein was yelling, "Joey, come in da house right now!" John dried his hands and walked to the window to stare at the overcast sky. Dark clouds rolled in from the ocean and wavered as they passed bad places in the window glass. He focused his eyes on the uneven glass for a second, and then looked back at the clouds and the quiet town. A walk down there might do him good before dinner. Turning around, he threw his tie on the bed, slipped a light jacket on over his shirt, and dropped the room key into his pocket. Loose panes rattled as John pushed the door closed on the dark lobby. He stepped out into the street and stopped to glance back at the squat hotel, two floors of granite burned brown with years of exposure to salt air. All the other build-ings in the town looked the same. The wooden houses and sheds were so faded that he could not tell what color paint some of them had once had, but everything was neat under the salt crust. He started walking down the street paved with eroded brick, which was humped or sunken and cracked with many passing winters. His feet picked out raised bricks slowly, clicking hollowly against the cramped walls of the street. The town seemed almost deserted, but then he caught a glimpse of a family behind white curtains, seated to eat Sun-day dinner. The windows in following houses re-peated the scene, each one winking its warm lights into the dark grey day as he passed, until he had almost reached the small wharf at the end of the street. The only place open was The King's Cafe on the last and only corner. Two heavily jowled old men dressed in baggy pants, denim jackets, and seamen's caps sat on the sagging cafe steps, laughing hoarsely at some joke that John could not hear. They did not notice him as he walked past them, and he thought of how little place there was for a stranger in the life of any of these tiny towns. He turned the collar up on his jacket as a damp wind hit him over the tops of rickety storage sheds on the wharf. He kept walking until he was at the edge of a short pier standing next to weather-polished piles which were crusted with salt and bird droppings, 12 Graduation Issue, 1966 and he stared at the in-coming grey swell which passed the piles to lap quietly against the slimy stones. He squinted into the wind, and he could only see the dark water in front of him rolling and dipping inward. The boards under him could be a small boat drifting, gliding lower into a sluggish trough, and then being lifted, at first slowly, pick-ing up speed to the top of a crest. Waves slapped underneath, and sudsy water sloshed the sides of his boat, which became more and more real as he let his imagination become detached from the town behind him. He was all alone, drifting and lost. The vast grey Atlantic pushed his boat back and forth, down from a crest and then up again, play-ing a slow, repeating game. A pinkish jelly-fish in the water below suddenly caught his attention, bringing him back to the pier. A school of minnows flitted through the muddy water, and one of them strayed too near the pink mass. The fish suddenly jerked and wobbled in circles for a few seconds, and as suddenly it ceased to move. John stared at the limp body for a mo-ment, and then turned away and walked back toward the land. At the other end of the pier he stopped, hands in his pockets, feeling the wind ruffle his hair. He was watching a tattered banner flap and jump from a frayed cord against the steel-colored sky, when voices near-by startled him. A boy and girl stepped hand-in-hand from behind a shed, and John won-dered if they had noticed him jump. But they walked from him toward the town, and he turned and started out across the coarse sand of the beach in the other direction. Heavy sheets of cloud lay overhead, building up, turning darker all the time. Out on the horizon, grey sky merged with grey sea, and the low, oily swell rolled in from far out to slither and pull at the beach with fingers of foam. Clouds, mist, sea, and sand formed a vast hall, seemingly closed in but also endless, and the smoky sand pulled at John's shoes to keep him from intruding farther. He began to wonder if there was another color left in the world, or anything alive to see it. Behind him, the town was a ghost of haze now, as were the hills running along back from the shore. Ahead, the only break in the scene of sea, sand, and sky was a jetty of tarnished rocks bristling with bar-nacles. Then, suddenly, there was a spot of color around a boulder. As he stepped closer, John saw a red sweater—a woman crouched over the water which swished in and out of the rocks. She held her head in her hands, long black hair flowing around her neck and over her arms hiding her face. She looked young, though, because the skin on her arms and one visible hand was smooth and pretty. She was dressed well, a navy blue pleated skirt with a knit sweater, but the clothes were mussed, and a white blouse hung out loose at her back. Shoes that had been white, now dirty and scuffed, lay beside her on the rock. As he stared at her, seeing her hair tangled as it cascaded over her shoulders, he found that he could hear her sobbing softly near him in the silence. He stood there for a long time waiting for something to happen. Her quiet, uneven breath and the water sighing in and out of the rocks filled his ears, and his eyes glazed in thought under the end-less grey clouds. He would have come to that boulder if she had not been there—it was a natural place to go when one was alone on an empty beach in this dreary weather. Maybe he could talk to her, louder than the water; she could look at him instead of the foam or the grey horizon. The two of them could be together, even if it were for only a short while. Then a drop of rain hit his cheek bringing him sharply back to himself where he was still standing a few yards away from the boulder. He looked up, and another drop hit him, and another again until it had started to rain hard. Drops drove down, slanting into his eyes, and he looked down again at the woman. She had not moved at all, but the sound of her sobbing was now drowned by rain hissing into the dark water. John stood there a long time, motionless, trying to make himself move, but then not wanting to. Grey curtains of rain wavered between him and the woman, and he could feel the cold water beginning to run over his skin, even under his clothes. He shivered then, and turned to walk back toward the town. The heavy rain beat his footprints out of the grey sand quickly after he had passed. Mercury 13 bummer night's auctioneer on ol' man Tate's pond Roll yer grunts across the marsh beyond the sunken log Shatter cricket choruses sell yer emerald soul Fish-pond bullfrog, make the night mist roll! crouch and gurgle, strain and ring while fireflies wink and skeeters sting croak honk swell-shrink! boll yer maleness 'round the drink! chug-a-lunk man yer drunk yer full world swings in grass and logs in fish and wogs in wide moon, moths, and female frogs! trout kerlunges august dusk fishpond ripples reach through rust grass-tall wetness beads above fat-boy bullfrog belches love Sander Zulauf 14 Graduation Issue, 1966 V ^1 The Lark Charles C. Hall Mercury 15 fflft OH I GUESS it's this way with any city. You've got to look at it all to understand. From Mt. Wash-ington, Pittsburgh is a golden city shining in the rain, or a wedge of yellow lights and flashing fluorescent night signs. You can't see "Brass Rail" in a blinking color from far off unless you know. Night fire from the mills sets three rivers in flame. Even from the Fort Pitt Bridge, in the afternoon, the reflection of sun off the rivers and the city's glint of gold are blinding and beautiful. The fog is not a dull smog, but a clean mist that floats across the bridges and around the buildings in the early morning. When I look out my window at the dirt, the battered cars against the curb, and the shacks near the river, I think how it isn't ugly, even the North Side, from up on Mt. Washington. How shabby the houses up there look close up, but from the North Side, they are scattered lights above the river and that's the way I think of them. My name is Tonie. Unless you notice things I could be a boy, but its got "ie" and I'm a girl. My parents aren't poor or anything like that, but we live in the city. It's not bad, really. But on Satur-day nights, if you haven't got enough for the movies, there's not much you can do except sit on the steps and watch the kids play some crazy game in the lot, or walk downtown. So my brother, Julian, and I go downtown on Saturday nights, just for something to do. We were on Oliver, a couple of blocks up from Liberty Avenue one night after school was out in June. A colored man with a little pointed beard was standing in the doorway of a shop that had been empty all Spring and the place was all lit up. The man had his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows and his tie was loosened at his throat. The tie wasn't gaudy. It was dark green, thin, with tiny blue and green elephants I think woven into it. Maybe I'd never seen a colored man smoking a pipe before, or it was the white shirt that made me stare at him. It was his face. I was sure he hadn't much white in him because his skin was very dark, with a slight cinnamon cast. He was a Negro but his lips were thin. His eyes weren't Negro eyes, but they said something like colored people's eyes do. Ae we came toward him he met our stare with a strange smile and stepped out of the dark doorway. His figure silhouetted against the light of the shop behind him jerked our thoughts from curiosity to fear. We started to cross the street but he was up to us before we got a chance. "Do you kids want to earn a little money tonight?" he asked us. That was good. Julian was about to run. I could tell by the way he grabbed my hand tight then. But the colored man backed off, so we waited. "Look, I've seen you two down here before. You're not doing anything in partic-ular, are you? We want to open tomorrow but we haven't got enough people working to be set up by then. Do you want to work?" Julian asked the man what he paid. "Minimum wage, $1.25." We decided to have a look. The place was like most of the shops on Oliver. Big enough, but it looked small because it was so narrow. I think I remember it being a dress shop once, but maybe it wasn't. We followed the colored man through to the back of the shop, where an Italian girl who I knew was coming down from upstairs. Hey, Tonie! You working tonight, too?" "Yeah, guess maybe so." "Just go upstairs, grab something and bring it down." We nearly brought down a load of straw baskets and Mexican hats that was moving or rather, swaying, down the narrow stairway as we went up. There were twelve or fifteen others, some of them we knew, and all about the same age as my brother and me. We felt better about the place. It looked okay and it could have been something bad. They were all pulling madly at crates and boxes or piling up crazy loads of glass and Chinaware. We caught on to what we were supposed to be doing easily enough. It was simple. Everything upstairs goes downstairs. Julian handed me boxes until I couldn't see over them, took the last one off, and headed me toward the stairs. He 16 Graduation Issue, 1966 followed unsteadily with about twice my load. The colored man showed where our boxes were to be put down, and as we came out from under them, he chased us upstairs for more. "Everything comes downstairs. Come on, Princess, find some-thing you can carry and get it down here." I couldn't believe a Negro was ordering me around like that, but I went back up the stairs. Some of the girls were filling baskets with cans of stuff, so I got a basket to fill too. It was oriental food, labeled in Chinese or Japanese maybe. Some of it was in glass jars and it made me sick to look at it. On the main floor, the boys were building low tables to hold the things we brought down. Cement blocks and rock slabs, Japanese looking, if that's what was wanted, and cheap. Julian slammed a block down behind me and sat down on it, sweat-ing. He pointed to a small, dark man with a narrow Jewish face who was gesturing from a corner to the colored man. "I think he's the owner." In the stock room again, for that's what the up-stairs was, I asked a blonde girl, "What is this place? All this stuff!" "He's an importer," she whispered. "Oh." I was thrilled. "What's he import?" We set cans and tins of food on shelves being put up along one wall. "Everything." She knew a lot. "All kinds of oriental stuff. Don't drop anything. It's expensive." I knew I'd fall if I carried anything more down the stairs after hearing that. I went to look around. The naked light bulbs that hung unevenly almost everywhere were being hung with huge paper lanterns of different colors and shapes. From the ceiling a fish net sagged with baskets. As the stock came down, the shop began to really look like something. We worked through the night, but toward morning none of us did anything much except walk around trying on hats and baskets. By nine the next morning the shop was something between a market place in Mexico and an oriental bazaar. We had discovered the incense burners during the night, and the air in the shop by mid-morning was hanging heavy with a strange mixture of rose, lotus, and sandalwood fumes. "Shop of the Far East" opened its street doors at ten o'clock that morning. Before noon the shop was crowded with people that had come in "just to have a look" but couldn't make themselves leave. People could lose themselves for the whole after-noon among the lanterns and beads, silks and teas, and children's toys. It was like that all summer. The shop carried ivory and jade and Indian cigarettes, rice bowls, candles, hanging ash trays, Italian soap, fortune cookies, lacquered trays, cricket cages, toe rings, bamboo snakes for little boys to frighten their mothers with, parasols, pup-pets and Sumi sets. Everything was over-priced. For Julian, the shop was just "some place" and extra money one night. He had already got taken on at Jones and Laughlin. For me it was a sum-mer job, one that I loved. My Dad and Julian were both working the night shift now, so they were coming in when my mother and I got up in the morning. We had time to talk, and it was nice, my mother said, to have both Julian and me working. My father and brother ate whatever there was left from dinner the night be-fore, while Mother and I had toast and coffee. We talked quietly because, when there wasn't any school, the kids didn't get up until nine or ten o'clock. Julian and I had a younger sister and two younger brothers. I used to have to stay home with them till Anne got in High School, but now the boys behaved for her. After my mother left for work, Dad and Julian went to bed, and I stacked the dishes for Anne. I made a sandwich for lunch if there was mayonnaise, or wrapped up a piece of meat loaf. We lived on the North Side. I had to walk across the Sixth Street Bridge and cut up through the alleys to the shop on Oliver. I loved to walk across the bridge in the mornings. There weren't too many cars and the mist came up from the river. Coming home the traffic jammed up on the bridge and there wasn't anything to breathe but exhaust. The men in the cars waiting for the traffic to move sometimes made remarks, or worse, honked their horns, but I was usually to tired to care. Just around the corner from the shop I could check how I looked in the window of "Maxine's." There in the glossy blackness of the dress shop window, my summer cotton reflection walked back and forth, feeling a little shabby beside the gloved and gowned mannequins. But I'd do. My slip wasn't showing. I was glad that it was summer and I didn't have to worry about runs in my stockings. "Far East" was written in wide, sweepy letters above the door of the shop. It looked like Japanese but it was English. The shop was usually quiet when I stepped in through the half open door. A quiet colored stock boy whose full name I didn't Mercury 17 II know was unloading a new shipment near the back door that led to the alley, his face shiny with sweat. "Morning, Fred, is anybody here yet?" I asked him as I passed on my way up to the stock room. "I'm here, but I guess tha's nobody. I think Mr. Beezey might be up there somewhere." Laughing at Fred and looking around for Mr. Beezey, I lined up A.M. and the day on my time card and pushed it under the clock. I took my long blue kimono with its dragon embroidered on the back from the rack where I had hung it the day before. The silk was cool against my bare arms and neck. But for my unslanting eyes, I was a Japanese lady. Mr. Beezey came from the far end of the loft where the stock was kept on numbered shelves. He was the little man Julian had pointed out to me that first night. "Tonie, I'm glad you're early this morning." He made it sound like if I'd been one of the other girls, he wouldn't have been quite so glad I was early. Mr. Beezey had a way of making us all feel spe-cial. "I want you to . . . I'm going to let you work the register. You know how to work the register? Tonie, I want you to go down and work the register this morning. Will you do that for me? You want to do that right now." Though he talked fast, he was hard to misunderstand. He disappeared into the stock again. I met Pat and Colly on the stairs. "Hi, Tonie, are you dusting?" "No, I've got the register." "You lucky thing!" "Yeah? Remind me not to be so lucky again." Mary Alice came down to help me when the people started to come in. The biggest allurement of the shop was that it was self service. There were even little shopping baskets the customers could carry over their arms. All shoppers have a little klepto-mania deep within them, so we tried to capitalize on it. The line at the cash register was usually so long that we needed two girls working, one to work the register and the other to wrap. Mary Alice was a big colored girl I had known in high school. "Who was that guy you was with las' night, Tonie? He was cu—ute." "Mary Alice, where'd you see us?" "In the movies. Why, Ah was watchin' you. You's better than the picture!" "Get out'a here." "I'm goin', I'm goin'. I'm gonna see what that lady's up to with all them salt shakers. Bet she'll drop 'em when she sees Ah's no Gisha girl." She was back in a few minutes. "Tonie, guess who's comin' today, jus' guess who's comin'." "The Devil?" "Thas' right, thas' right!" "Rubio?" "That man thinks he's God but he's foolin' his-self. Ah hates that man, thinks he's God." I looked up from the register, over the packages and people to the low doorway. I saw the white teeth and thin lips in the dark face that had hired Julian and me the first night. There were several "Shops of the Far East." Rubio came from Atlantic City. There was something oriental in the Negro man whose job was to open new stores and come back every so often, as if he were a circuit riding preacher, to work out new displays and check on the management of the shops. Rubio's eyes took in the whole shop from the doorway. Mary Alice's customer smile widened and her "Thank you, come again," wasn't the usual mumble or movement of her lips. Rubio walked slowly into the shop. The man knew what made people spend money. The only object of his life, it seemed, was to think up ways to make people unable to resist buying. With "Chop Suey," three-for-a-dollar silverware, and men's dress shirts imported from Hong Kong, with a "You buy our mistakes, half price" table, the junky jewelry alongside expensive ivory and jade, teak tables, and lovely Indian saris, Rubio lured people without money for their $.99 and the more wealthy for their $99.99. To some, "Far East" was a Chinese bargain town. For others, the shop was an unusual gift shop where the loveliest hostess gifts could be found, or for a lovely price, a con-versation- stirring teak elephant or silk tapestry. I admired this man who could offer so much to so many different kinds of city people. Pittsburgh artists bought printing blocks at $5.99 to $13.99 that Rubio had picked up as cast-offs for almost nothing from heaps behind Indian textile mills. The shipping charge hadn't been much, and they certainly were not over a thousand years old as he claimed. What would be his "hot items" this visit? I knew the shop would be another place the next morning, and we would probably have to work through the night, just as we had done that night before the shop had opened. I was sitting on a stool in the back of the shop, trying to untangle puppet strings that snarled in a clump on my lap. Rubio and Mr. Beezey had been talking quietly in the stock room, but as I 18 Graduation Issue, 1966 listened, their voices got louder. They were always arguing, so at first I didn't pay much attention. "Rubio, I can't get fire insurance on this place!" Had Mr. Beezey said that?" "I thought you had that taken care of." "Who are you kidding? They take one look at this place, they send their people out to have a look at this place, and it's like we were asking them to insure a hay stack. This isn't Atlantic City, it's Pittsburgh. Weve got to have some kind of insurance. You know this whole place would go, and all these people. You can't stir 'em, let alone get them out." "The stuff sells this way. You think if we didn't take a little risk with the baskets and the beads, you think we'd haul in the money like we're doing if we changed this crazy atmosphere just to suit the insurance company? If it goes, it goes." A woman asked if I could find another cup to match one she had broken in a set her husband had brought her from Japan. "It was dark green, with a cracked enamel finish." I had to leave my puppets and heard no more of the conversation up-stairs. But I said something about it to Julian. He worried after that. The summer went by faster than any I could remember. Mary Alice and I walked up Fifth Avenue on our lunch hours, moving up and down the sidewalks and across the streets with shoppers, secretaries, and businessmen. We were working girls. All the times I had passed the woman with her cup and accordion on the corner of Wood Street, I hadn't had anything to give her; now I had a quarter or two once in a while. Most of my pay, like Julian's, went for things we needed at home, but Mother and Dad thought we should save some of it ourselves. Sometimes Mary Alice and I went into Murphy's for popcorn, a bracelet, or nail polish, and I could find something for Anne. Rubio came again during the first week of Sep-tember. He was worse than a woman who makes her husband move the furniture to suit her and then changes her mind. We carried grass mats and vases and wooden monkeys first to one place, then to another while he made up his mind. The win-dows weren't colorful. We draped silk scarves across them. "I hate those scarves! I hate those plastic flowers. Get rid of them." What were we to do? Throw them out? We changed the scarves to yellow, red, and turquoise porcelain kitchen ware. "Where're those tikis? They walk.out of the store? Come on, Princess, move!" Mary Alice and Colly could hardly stand Rubio by the end of the summer. Somehow he didn't bother me so much. I liked the look he gave to "Far East" and I knew he couldn't do it without being the way he was. I tried to think of what it would look like when he was finished. In the center of the shop, as Rubio directed, Fred and Mr. Beezey dragged a long wicker bas-ket with its lid thrown back like an oriental coffin. We filled it with a hundred different sizes and kinds of matches. Long kitchen matches, Christmas matches, gift matches, and fireplace matches. Peo-ple bought them faster than we could keep the basket filled. We had to watch carefully all the time to see that the matches didn't fall loose in the basket when people opened the boxes to look inside. I was trying to help a Puerto Rican family de-cide which Ming Tree they would buy for the old woman with them to take on a plane to Chicago, and would I "wrap it pleeze." They weren't igno-rant people as the other girls had joked. They just couldn't speak English very well. The old lady didn't like the planter the tree was set in. It would have been so easy to have found another one for her, but a little boy struck a long match that must have fallen from one of the boxes, and dropped it into the coffin of matches in the center of the shop. > s;13 Frank Cressotti <D 20 Graduation Issue, 1966 Iriangular ghosts float through twilight Cast golden shadows before overnight sweep slowly over lake's silent lapping sniff summer breezes with white sheets flapping ll each deep, light drifters, drink in the youth under dark giant hands cupping crystalline blue granite shores, pine forests sparkle together boathouses wood fires bald eagle's feather Oail on, bright ghosts, under spiraling gulls the last warmth of day reflects on your hulls Sail south in the sunset by the round sloping rocks Sail quietly into night's calm locks Sander Zulauf Mercury 21 Beyond The Waters Adele Miller November 2, 1964 Dear Cora, I wish I could soothe your heart as easily as I do the troubled complexions of Millbury Plains, but even my best ointments or newest sunlamps can't help you. What's a father to do? I've read your letter many times, and the hollowness you feel at this point is quite evident. But young hearts heal amazingly fast, even after a long romance like yours, and I'm sure you'll pull out of this slump shortly. I realize what a small amount of consola-tion that brings to you, but if I can't write out a prescription, I'm lost. Though your unhappiness is painful to me, I'm glad you have made this de-cision. Somehow, I could never see Dave as my son-in-law. He's a fine boy, but he never seemed to get half the kick out of this old world that you do, and I often wondered what would happen when you got tired of pointing out the sights to him. That kind of one-way tour can become awfully hard on the guide. If I had had my way, there would have been two guides in my marriage in-stead of two tourists traveling together and always wanting to see different sights in the same city. But there's no sense talking in the past tense. Per-haps you have avoided the very mistakes I made, and, in that case, your suffering now is worth every minute of unhappiness you won't have in the future. Being your father's moody child, you must be very depressed right now. I hope you try to fight off as much as you can, because self-indulgence at this point is deadly and only worsens the disease. I don't want this to turn into a homily on melan-cholia. As you said, after a boy is around for a year and a half, he creates a big gap when he walks out, and I only want to see you fill that spot in as soon and as neatly as possible. I'm very glad you could talk to me about it, though. It means a great deal that you can confide in me now. With Phoebe, it's quite another story. She is so untameable—always running around with the private school kids and making her appearances here when she pleases. I can't keep a grip on her. Sometimes I think it would have been better to let her go with her mother instead of fighting to keep her here six months of the year. Now with office hours three nights a week, I just don't have the time I should to talk to her and see that she doesn't outgrow high school in her first year as you seemed to do. Has she written to you yet? She's promised to do so for weeks now. I'm really looking forward to Christmas this year, baby, because we'll be able to spend the holiday together. Ida wants to take Phoebe with her to Michigan to see your grandmother, and I think it would be good for your sister to be with two generations of Falltons for two weeks. If that doesn't tame her, nothing will. I thought that you and I might take a little trip—maybe Vermont for some skiing or, even better, to Bermuda, if you like. I could use a vacation pretty soon, and I think you could, too. Think about it and let me' know how you feel. We'll have the time of our lives, Cora. Well a mountain of papers and bills on my desk is towering towards me with a menac-ing slope, so I'll cut it short. Keep up your spirits, dear. I miss you every minute. Your loving Dad Nov. 10th Dear Dad, I'm just emerging from tailspin number fourteen, so I'd better write before number fifteen comes along or all will be lost. The school must have heard about my exile from the fraternity world of pins and romance and decided to apply the stand-ard remedy of losing oneself in one's work. How-ever, after an exhausting week of tests and papers and labs, I have less love than ever for statistics and criminology and none at all for abnormal psych. After a week of study my only profound 22 Graduation Issue, 1966 discovery was the realization of how little all this knowledge of the human psyche was able to help or comfort me with my own problem. I suppose this is all part of the stripping process—rolling back the endless layers from the college myth that was fed to us as innocents in high school. It's funny, but once you've destroyed the illusion of "Aren't we happy in our cozy little college shell?" there isn't much to hang onto. Were college days ever really happy or has the myth always been with us (complete with football hero and homecoming queen as reigning deities to fool us into that "happi-ness")? Forgive my bitterness, I'm very tired and cranky tonight. Perhaps I'm more upset about Dave than I'd like to admit. The most upsetting thing seems to be the drastic change in my habits and routine from two people to one—no more weekly food shopping for Dave's apartment, no more horse-back riding on his uncle's farm or the other million things we did together. Of course, these were only fringe benefits, a fact I should have realized long ago, and I don't mean to moan over them like lost jewels. When the realtionship wore itself out and I realized that I could never share my whole life with David, all these other things faded out of sight and now are just drifting back into my mind as I try to con-centrate on my reading or draw pretty statistics charts. I know this will go away, just wish it would start soon. School work is meaningless to me right now; my only salvation is a paper I'm doing for the Psy-chology Honorary. Dr. Trevose has been so helpful to me, and I'm afraid I take up too much of his time talking about this paper, but he seems to enjoy my interest and is quite willing to help, so I'm not being too selfish. He knows Dave rather well, and I sense that he would like me to talk about it and get it out of my system, or else he just wants me to know that he is aware of this transitional period of mine, and I'm very thankful for this. He is certainly the most human professor in the entire department. I thought about your vacation idea, and a cruise to Bermuda sounds wonderful. It should do me a world of good at this point, Daddy—even if all your patients break out while you're gone. The only dermatologist of Millbury Plains deserves a vacation from staring at those faces all day. Make the reservations as soon as you can. I'd love to go tomorrow. The walls are closing in at a dangerous rate, and I'm beginning to wonder about the great gift of a liberal arts education. I don't even sing in the shower anymore. Can you imagine that? Betty sends her hello. She's busy dating four boys simultaneously, sometimes two in one night, which keeps matters very interesting. I've become quite a good storyteller, fabricating tales on the phone about where she is, etc., while she guides me with hand signals. It's only fair; she would do the same for me. I'm afraid men don't stand a chance in this world. Must go. I hope all goes well with you, pater. Give my love to Phoebe and try to give her as much time as you can. Even though she's quiet, it means so much to her to know that you care. Write soon. Love (from the underground), Cora November 15 Dear Cora, I just got the okay on our reservations today— we set sail on December 21st and return on Jan-uary 2nd. That gives you time to get back to school, doesn't it? You can fly from New York and get a bus from Boston back to school in no time at all. I'm really looking forward to this trip, sweetheart. Had a rather unpleasant talk with Ida today (were our conversations ever pleasant? I can't seem to remember that far back), and she is definitely taking Phoebe with her to Michigan. In her delicate way she hinted at my inadequacies for providing a happy holiday for Phoebe, and then told me how glad she was that she could give a real Christmas to at least one of her daughters. Her mental image of you and me carousing our way to Bermuda came over the phone much clearer than her voice. I suppose I shouldn't have even mentioned our trip to her, but my exuberance got the best of me and I wanted to tell someone about it. Ida reminds me of a dentist; no matter how much pain the woman has caused me, she always makes it clear that it hurts her worse than it does me. Perhaps I shouldn't talk that way about your mother, and if you and I weren't so painfully honest with each other, I'd probably keep my foot-filled mouth shut. I took Phoebe to the movies the other night. She doesn't seem to have much homework, so I thought it would be all right. She didn't talk very much, but I think she had a good time. She mystifies me Mercury 23 completely—your mother's child in that respect. I asked Emma to teach her how to cook supper so that the old girl can take a few days off every week. Emma is aging rapidly, and I think this old house and the office are too much for her to keep clean. Even I'm beginning to notice it. Don't let college get you down, baby. You always had a way of getting tired of things before they were over. Was there ever a pot-holder started that you finished or a boyfriend that lasted over three weeks until Dave? In six months you'll be out, and the world of books might start looking very good to you in a year, so don't get too disgusted. It all has a way of working out in the long run. I dimly remember great plans to run away to South America during my senior year and forget about Med School, but I guess, after flunking college Spanish three semesters, learning anatomy seemed easier than trying to understand Spanish bartenders the rest of my life. Well, it's time for my nightcap. Wish you could be here for Thankiviging. Too bad colleges don't believe in giving thanks for more than one day. Keep your old blithe spirit, sweetheart. Your loving Dad Nov. 18th Dear Dad, Thank you for your cheery "give it the old col-lege try" letter. I didn't realize how depressed my letters must sound and apologize for throwing all my mental garbage in your lap, but there are so few people I can really talk to around here. Betty is too caught up with her social life, and I'm not really close to any of the other girls. My only balm continues to be Dr. Trevose, who has become my personal psychiatrist. Quite a plush deal, I think. We've had many good, long talks, and though the situation here hasn't improved any, I feel more able to cope with it. Often wonder if Mrs. Trevose knows how lucky she is. The important thing is that he lets me feel like a human being, and that is practically unheard of in this wonderful academic atmosphere. Oh yes, my paper was a grand success at the Psi Chi meeting, and I was even compli-mented by the head of the department! Oh, if he only knew how I felt about my dear studies in psychology. I'm so glad about our trip. We're really going! There are so many things I'd like to tell you and can't in a letter—about you and me and what I will do next year now that David is no longer in the picture and maybe the possibility of working next semester and finishing school later. I know what you're thinking, that it's only one more se-mester, but—well, we'll talk about it later. Mother would say to pray for the answer, but she never seemed to like the replies she got, so I won't even bother. Anyhow, God's will doesn't seem to be too related to my situation, so I don't think I'll drag Him in on it. He's busy enough trying to tell the righteous why they suffer (did mother find out yet?). I think I could use a nightcap myself to-night. I had better figure out the statistics on schizophrenics before the age of twenty-five so that I can draw pretty charts for my professor. Be kind to yourself, mon pere. Your loving academic anomaly, Cora November 22 Dear Cora, How is my favorite psychological study doing? You know, sometimes I think you should have gone into dermatology, too. Staying on the surface of things is certainly a lot less wearing than constantly probing the mental conditions of yourself and others. It's so easy for things to get out of propor-tion in your closed community, and your major field only aids the disproportion, I think. Whatever you do, my sweet, don't take anything too seriously. Sometimes humor is the only touchstone I have with reality—a risky philosophy of life, perhaps, but highly useful on most occasions. How do you think your mother and I stayed married as long as we did? My cultivation of a good, hearty, drown-out-the-noise laugh. Although, perhaps if I'd understood her mind as easily as I did her face, this bitter taste wouldn't be left in my mouth today. Is that why you went into psychology, baby? Funny that I didn't think of that before. Maybe I don't know you as well as I'd like to think I do. But as long as we can still talk honestly to each other, I'm not too worried. Phoebe is staying at a girl friend's house for the weekend, and the house seems awfully big and empty tonight. Even Emma has deserted me until Monday. I suppose I should develop a hobby or something, but I've always put my spare time into my work and now I wouldn't know how to begin to learn diversionary tactics if you chained me to a chess board or stuck a paint brush in my hand. 24 Graduation Issue, 1966 Maybe I'll become a late show expert and know every movie, all the stars, directors and producers from 1932 on. It always makes good conversation for my patients. Phoebe and I are going to Stoneway Manor for Thanksgiving dinner. It's about time that she should know what real dining is like, and that is certainly the place to begin. When I told her my idea, she was delighted and called four friends in ten min-utes to tell them the big news. Haven't seen a female so excited since I bought Ida her mink coat about four light years ago. Before I get too nostalgic I had better sign off. Not a day goes by without my thinking of our trip and the time to be together. Now rest up so we can dance our way down to Bermuda. Bill Pyne invited me out for dinner tomorrow night while his wife is visiting her mother for the weekend. He seems lonelier married than I do without a wife. We should be good company for each other anyhow, like two patients discussing their appendectomies, one before the operation and one after. Well, enough medical metaphors for the night. Think I'll call it a day. Please write soon. Miss you all the time, sweetheart. Your loving Dad Nov. 26 Dear Dad, I should be studying for my Abnormal test to-morrow, but I had to talk to you. Hardly know where to begin. First, I got a statistics test back today with my first fat F, which I had expected, but it still had quite an impact on me when I saw it in all its red finality on the blue cover. Dr. Mar-chell just "can't understand how this happened, Miss Eaton." I was tempted to say that if he, a qualified psychologist, can't explain it, I can hardly attempt to do so myself, but instead I walked out of class. Several minutes later I ran into Dave whom I haven't really talked to since we broke up. He carelessly informed me that he was flunking two or possibly three courses and wanted to quit school to join the Navy. This is hardly the David Fram-inghan that was going to be a lawyer like his father, and I keep wondering if he'd do such a thing if we were still together. But much as I think about it, I know we could never make a go of it. He looked at me like an injured puppy but defiant enough to hide the pain, and I wondered how it all started and where it will end and who is to blame? Nobody? I don't know. I'm beginning to doubt my motives which, at the time of the split, seemed so clear to me. In fact, I'm beginning to doubt my motives about many things. And here I sit leafing through the text, trying to study, but it's getting so that every case study in abnormal behavior seems to be some small part of me. It's like reading the health book in seventh grade and walking around for days truly convinced that I was dying of cancer. Except now the consequences of my imagined (or real, maybe) diseases are more severe, and I can't seem to get a grasp on myself long enough to imagine a cure. And what is the cure? The "cure" is that loftiest of all liberal arts goals—self-definition, the ability to label oneself neatly and punch one's mental IBM card accord-ingly. But it doesn't work that way. I've been put out to sea amidst constructs, concepts, theories and mental sets, operational definitions and every psychological aberration known to man, but I find them very poor life rafts. They just don't work in rough waters. I'd like to get back to shore, but they've seen to it that my stepping stones have been sunk—first my nice Sunday School faith, and then all the conventional standards we accept seemed to go down like so many little pebbles thrown on the waters. There isn't much left now except all that water (the "existential ocean" says Dr. Trevose) that we swim around in from one situation to another, hoping we're doing the right stroke and acting only on self-faith and doubt. Can you understand that, Daddy? I'm so afraid that I'm not swimming in the right direction or that I'll get tired and latch onto one of the stones out of cowardice and fatigue. Sometimes I even see myself disappearing completely below the sur-face. And where does salvation come from? The silent, oozy, enveloping slime of the ocean bottom that accepts and covers without comment? I don't like this swimming around. I need something to cling to very badly. And I think I'm in danger of reaching out for the wrong island. Isn't it Frost that talks about "little stays against confusion"? Well, they aren't enough anymore. I need a big stay, a warm, palpable, personal Something to reassure and guide me. And they don't even sell them at Christmas, so there is nothing you can do for me. Forgive me, Dad. I don't want to upset you. You know how much I love you and want to be honest with you, but everything is so confusing now. I'm Mercury 25 a little bewildered about where all that sense of direction and Tightness went that always seemed to impress others and deluded me into believing I had some kind of infallible code of proper ac-tion. Did I? Or am I just waking up? I don't know. I've wished for Christmas to come fast this year, faster than I've ever wished for it, even as a child. It always came in time before, but I don't think it's going to make it this year. I have such a long way to swim. Please be good to yourself and give my love to Phoebe. All my love, Cora » « * 24 November Dear Cora, Though we have never shared a very lively correspondence, I am always interested in your wel-fare and hope that, as far as you are concerned, no news is good news. I have been busy planning the trip to Michigan with Phoebe about which your father has already informed you, I'm sure. My eve-nings are tied up with church meetings and the missionary society's preparations for sending hand-made Christmas gifts overseas. During the day I'm now working as a part-time secretary for a heart surgeon at the hospital and find the arrangement very satisfactory. I'm saving the little left-over amount of my pay for mother in case she ever has to be hospitalized. I'm the only one left who cares about her now, and I know how happy she'll be to have one of her granddaughters with her over Christmas. Raymond told me about your Bermuda cruise to-gether, and I must say that is quite a gift, even for your open-walleted father. His sudden fits of extravagance never cease to amaze me. But as long as it makes him happy, who am I to say anything? I'm glad to see he is socializing again. I caught a glimpse of him and Bill Pyne at the Towne Inn last night having dinner with two lovely young women, one of whom I assume is Bill's wife (much younger than Bill and quite chic) and the other very attractive woman seemed to be enjoying your father's charming company. Needless to say, your father has told you all this in much more colorful detail than I could, but I don't think you should worry about him sitting home alone and waiting for your vacation while you have a good time at college. He will survive nicely. I was sorry to hear from Raymond that you re-turned David's pin. He seemed like such an intel-ligent and polite boy, and rather well poised for a college student. Perhaps you may even get back together. Don't be too hasty to shut him out of your life entirely. Very strange things can happen during your last year, and you must guard against acting too rashly, a trait you seem to share with your father. Well, dear, I must leave for work now. Drop me a line when you have a few minutes of spare time, and study hard. I know you will do' well this year; you always have been a reliable student. Have a nice Thanksgiving. Love, Mother a a a November 30 Dear Cora, All that thankfulness yesterday took a lot out of me, and I was more thankful for only a half day of work today. I guess everyone else in this town had as happy a holiday as we did, because I had four cancellations before 9:30 this morning. Phoebe and I shot the works at Stoneway's yesterday from the mandarin-orange stuffed duck right down to the plum pudding. I must say I was impressed with my younger daughter's elegance. She looked very regal, and all the waiters scurried around her as if they were her personal court. She was so elegant that they took her order for a cock-tail, and I've always been a sucker for pretty girls, so what could I do but wink and let her have one. We haven't talked so much in years, though I must admit she frightens me more now than when she was quiet. What an amazing little steel-trap mind she has. Certainly doesn't stem from my side of the family. I wish you could have been with us, sweetheart. What did they serve you up there on the Great Day—turkey a la king? Well, we shall make amends for that at Christmas. And please don't worry, Christmas will get here in time. I read and re-read your letter, and I don't really know what stroke to tell you to use. We're all in that big water together, baby, but everyone is so busy swimming for himself that not too much instruction is given out, and first aid is late too often. The only life-raft I can throw you is my love and faith that you'll come out on top. You always have, and I know it will take more than the bewilderments of your college years to pull you under. I know the loneliness you feel and the temptation to dispel it any way you can, but to 26 Graduation Issue, 1966 yield to that convenience is often disastrous in the long run, and your island will prove only a deadly marsh. Stick to the late show—it's the best friend I've got. Please try to keep laughing, dear, and call me anytime if you are feeling too low. You know I'm always anxious to hear from you. Phoebe sends her love and wants me to ask you to bring home your blue mohair sweater so she may take it to Michigan, please. I miss you, Cora. Your loving Dad o o o December 11 Dear Cora, I called your dormitory last night, but Betty said that you weren't in yet, and I suppose you got back too late to call me. She said that you had had a heavy schedule of tests and papers this week, and I certainly hope you're still salvageable. I was a little worried that I hadn't heard from you for a while, but I understand how studies can absorb your time, my little psychologist. I hope you are crossing the days off as anxiously as I am. This big house is getting to me, and I've spent several of my free evenings with Bill Pyne. Now there is a man who needs an island. Though many people are quite willing to condemn the man for God knows what, I find his company pretty en-joyable. Bitch of a wife from what he tells me (though I've had the good fortune not to have met her yet) and no children. At the worst level, he is just a pathetic little creature in need of some human love, and I think you might find him an interesting study as well as a rather likeable person if you ever met him. Anyhow, we pass the time together, and it's a change of routine from the late show. You're not still worried, are you, Cora? Please drop me a line or, better, call me when you get a chance and let me know how things are going. It's been so long since you talked to me, and we have to make some more plans for the trip as well. There's not much more to tell you. Please write soon and let me know how you are. I'll meet you at the bus terminal on the 17th at our usual place. Is 7:30 p.m. the right time? Let me know. Your loving Dad o o o Dec. 14th Dear Dad, I'm very sorry, but Christmas didn't get here in time this year, and I didn't want to tell you about it. I don't even want to tell you about it now, but at least I'm being honest with you. Blessed hon-esty. Are you confused? How shall I tell you? I suppose its enough to say I found my island. It was green and vital and warm and it wanted me to stay on it forever. I wanted to stay there, too. I was never so happy in my life, never. I swam ashore right before Thanksgiving and spent the whole weekend in thanks, thanks to the almighty ocean and its big wave who pushed me inland. And I sat in the sun on my little island and dried myself. Such a beautiful island. And then they took it away, Daddy. They yanked it from me and threw me back into the water, and I'm swimming so hard now. But I don't think I'll have to swim much longer. I'm so tired and the waves are lapping, lapping, slapping my face and going up my nose. The doctor thinks I need a long rest and is sending me home for awhile. He says I went in over my head. I did, but I didn't know what else to do, so I grabbed my lovely island. Please understand. No, it doesn't matter. They'll explain it all to you pretty soon. I don't think I can go to Bermuda. It's such a big ocean, and I'm so tired. I want to come home, Daddy. Please let me come home soon. Love, Cora December 15, 1964 Dr. Raymond Eaton 14 Blakesley Drive Millbury Plains, N. J. Dear Dr. Eaton: Though I am very reluctant to perform this task, especially in the case of such a gifted student, I must confirm the telephone call you received yester-day from the school psychologist and inform you that your daughter has been asked to leave the college under permanent suspension. Unfortunately, as you were told, the situation also involves a faculty member who, as a result, has been asked to resign from the faculty at the end of this se-mester. His absence will be a great loss to the psychology department and causes us as much pain as does the loss of your daughter. Cora has rejected any psychiatric help that has been offered, so we feel it is best for her to leave school on December 17th in order that she may be at home and, with your aid, receive attention as soon as possible. I have talked with the college psychologist, and he strongly recommends that Cora see a psychiatrist in the near future. Mercury If there is any way I can be of further help to you in this matter, please feel free to contact me. Cora has shown great promise here, and when she has overcome her personal problems, I would be glad to write a recommendation for her future col-lege or job applications. Sincerely, John Wright Dean of Students December 15th Dear Cora, I've been tiptoeing across the stepping stones of my brain, trying to find the right words to give you, but the path is a difficult one. Forgive me if I stumble. From the moment you first entered my office until the night someone reported to the dean our being together at the Salem Inn, I have managed to justify what we've shared, and my careful rational-izations assured me that no one would be hurt, neither you, nor my wife and child, nor me. I re-member how cautious you seemed about believing in our happiness at first and called it a "kaleido-scopic affair." You were right, and now our kaleido-scopes have both been jarred, and the pattern we shared has disappeared. You were the soft pink stone that encircled my design and gave it order, but that stone is gone. My wife's glass chip dom-inates the design and imposes a new kind of order with its icy blue brilliant ring. I'm trying to under-stand this new pattern and hope that it will some-day be as unified as it was when we were first married. As for my teaching profession—the jagged chip of red that contains all the mysterious freight of psychology—that has disappeared completely, and who knows how many turns and shakes will bring it back into the picture. Perhaps I should discuss all this in more con-crete terms, though I doubt that is necessary. The nice part about our talks was the spontaneous understanding we had for each other's images. If my wife and I had been able to talk on the same frequency of meaning, the kaleidoscopic pattern would be very different today. But I can't honestly say that I regret that missing pattern any more than I regret the one we designed together. I don't look back at any of them because the revolutions 27 only go clockwise. I guess that's the most impor-tant thing to tell you if you've forgotten during the last two weeks. What does your picture look like now? I know it's chaotic, but that's a permanent condition. From now on there will just be varieties of chaos, but don't let that frighten you. There is a kind of ordered beauty in the multi-colored maze of a new turn, and you are fortunate to be one of those who possess a kaleidoscope that can produce such lavish complexity. From what you've told me, your mother had such a thriftily made model that the resulting patterns were eventually inadequate for your father. I hope your marital choice is more fortunate. This is getting out of hand, and I'm not saying what I want to say. You must keep trying to understand the terrible beauty and motif of each pattern, Cora, every minute you breathe. If you cling to the private design we had, you are lost. I won't be around to help you because a wife and child are now asking to be understood again since this last abrupt turn. Have you tried to find your father's place again? Have you tried to find your position in this new scheme? That is all I can tell you. Don't break your precious toy or shatter the glass chips because of me, Cora. You've created some handsome forms, and I've no doubt that you will make many more. Hal December 18, 1964 Dr. Raymond Eaton 14 Blakesley Drive Millbury Plains, N. J. Dear Dr. Eaton: This is to confirm our telephone conversation yesterday, December 17th, at which time you re-versed your cancellation for the December 21st Bermuda Holiday Cruise. Fortunately, no one had taken your place, so we can confirm your reserva-tions once again. We are pleased that your daugh-ter recovered so quickly and feels strong enough to make the trip. We hope you have a most enjoyable holiday cruise and, until we hear from you again, smooth sailing! Truly yours, (Mrs.) Caroline Forsythe Seaways Travel Agency 28 Graduation Issue, 1966 before these days of youth are gone from earth still green and full dive in the sounds and smells of spring that tumble the river's pool then swim on widening waters under warm immortal rays enjoy willow shadows and dream of youthful days ft ft ft the hawk soars the snow falls the pine shades winter from blandness the creek rises the snow thaws the white turns quickly to rust the sun warms the birds record vanilla chocolate strawberry spring the earth spins its temporal lord man can conquer anything his machine grows his church slows his world bypasses winters . . . his poets' song of Three sounds hollow the hawk falls the snow splinters Sander Zulauf
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|The Mercury - Graduation 1966
|Alternate Title
Gettysburg College Mercury
College Mercury
|Gettysburg College
|Gettysburg College, 1894-
|Gettysburg, Pa
|Original Format
|v. : ill. ; 18-22 cm
Gettysburg College -- Periodicals
College students -- United States
College student newspapers and periodicals
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|Special Collections, Gettysburg College
|Creator (if known), Title, Date (if known), GettDigital: Historic Gettysburg College Publications, Special Collections / Musselman Library, Gettysburg College, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, Access Date, Link to Item
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Gettysburg College
Graduation Issue, 1966


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NASD Reminds Members About Hedge-Fund Rules
The National Association of Securities Dealers issued a notice to members, reminding them of their obligations when selling hedge funds.
The association said Friday that it is concerned about the sales practices of members who sell direct interests in hedge funds and indirect interests through funds of hedge funds, especially given recent growth in the funds' popularity.
The NASD said in the notice that members must provide...

subset: commoncrawl


text:
Overstrand coastal erosion?
I want to buy in Overstrand but possible coastal erosion makes me very frightened. Will village still be there in 20 years time and how about house prices if no beach and no cliffs?
Asked on Feb 19 2012, House Prices in Cromer | Report content
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Best to speak to a local surveyor who can give you some impartial, honest advise before you make an offer.Answered on Feb 20 2012, Report content
The short term policy is for managed realignment with the medium to long term policy of non-intervention. This means that in the medium to long term (next 20-100 years) some properties will be lost. The devil is in the detail. In otherwords, where are you buying in Overstrand?
Web reference: http://www.martinandmortimer.co.uk/coastal_erosionAnswered on Jun 2 2012, Report content
Hi I purchased a house in the next village 2 years ago its quiet easy to find the information you need ... You go onto North Norfolk council website and look at coastal errosion I puchased in the next Village of Sidestrand and the coastal errosion was no problem where my barn conversion is ...its safe for hundreds of years ..... Its an ongoing coastal survey which tells you exactly whats going on hope this is of helpAnswered on Sep 15 2013, Report content
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Amwick Early Origins
Northumberland where they held a family seat as Lords of the Manor. The Norman influence of English history dominated after the Battle of Hastings in 1066. The language of the courts was French for the next three centuries and the Norman ambience prevailed. The family name was first referenced in the 11th century when they held estates in the county.
Amwick Spelling Variations
Amwick Spelling Variations
Before the advent of the printing press and the first dictionaries, the English language was not standardized. Sound was what guided spelling in the Middle Ages, so one person's name was often recorded under several variations during a single lifetime. Spelling variations were common, even among the names of the most literate people. Known variations of the Amwick family name include Alnwick, Alnick, Annick, Annicke, Almwake, Alnwyk and others.
Amwick Early History
Amwick Early History
This web page shows only a small excerpt of our Amwick research. Another 251 words (18 lines of text) covering the years 1069, 1230, 1455 and 1487 are included under the topic Early Amwick History in all our PDF Extended History products and printed products wherever possible.
Amwick Early Notables (pre 1700)
Amwick Early Notables (pre 1700)
More information is included under the topic Early Amwick Notables in all our PDF Extended History products and printed products wherever possible.
The Great Migration
The Great Migration
To escape the political and religious chaos of this era, thousands of English families began to migrate to the New World in search of land and freedom from religious and political persecution. The passage was expensive and the ships were dark, crowded, and unsafe; however, those who made the voyage safely were encountered opportunities that were not available to them in their homeland. Many of the families that reached the New World at this time went on to make important contributions to the emerging nations of the United States and Canada. Research into various historical records has revealed some of first members of the Amwick family to immigrate North America: Amick, aged 58, who arrived at Ellis Island, in 1904; Adele Amick, aged 42, who arrived at Ellis Island from Paris, France, in 1910; J. W. Amick, aged 46, who arrived at Ellis Island, in 1904.
Amwick Family Crest Products
Amwick Family Crest Products
See Also
See Also
Other References
The Amwick Family Crest was acquired from the Houseofnames.com archives. The Amwick Family Crest was drawn according to heraldic standards based on published blazons. We generally include the oldest published family crest once associated with each surname.
This page was last modified on 23 January 2014 at 10:42.
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With its long sleeves, the Men's Hummvee L/S Jersey is ideal for springtime (and for all-year-round use in Scotland). The loose fit allows for a baselayer to be worn underneath, so you can also wear it in winter in combination with a jacket. Like the popular Hummvee S/S Jersey, the long sleeved version is made from rapidwicking textured fabric with contrast mesh panels. It is equipped with silicone backpack gripper shoulder prints, triple rear pockets, and a long CF zipper with snap-down puller and reflective piping.
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