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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Exeter Times-Advocate, 1971-06-10, Page 17Second forothert John MeAuley Popp 17 This is the final issue of the 1970-71 term of the Guardian, the voice of South Huron District High School, This edition is devoted entirely to the recently concluded photo and literary contests. The co-editors wish to thank students and staff members for their excellent co-operation not only during the contests but throughout the year in providing interesting articles for the Guardian, This school newspaper will be back again next year With what we hope will be a bigger and better page. An editor for the fall term is- being selected this week. See you in the fall. The dream of reality First for human interest— Robert Whilsmith By Janet. Eeker The car slowly crunched to a stop on the gravel road. I sat in silence and looked at the Contest • winners Timoi-Advocatpf Junk 1O. Ve4 STARTING TO. RAIN By PARRY HESS It's starting to pin, I'm beginning to think Cleansing all things of soot and stink, All life ceases now, But yet, I feel P.m never along out there, somehow High in the sky, technology 'ambers. through the air. Heading ,for the middle of nowhere, I don't really care For I'm secure in my mind away from the downpour. But still away in the distance the waterfall continues to roar What is our purpeee, I don't really .knew. Is it to sit or to reap or to sow, Or to destroy our Souls with sorrow and woe, Or to leave something behind that will always last Or to end this world with a helluva blast. War seems so unimportant while I'm sitting way out here, But wait, what in the distance do I hear? I hear guns and men dying It seems too close - too near So what some men would say with a grin or sneer What is their purpose to ,shoot and kill? Or is it to live in peace — and still The rain it keeps falling, As I sit here contemplating wisdom of ages old and new I beginto wonder what Colossus have we built here, me and you, Has society given us morals to use from day to day Or has it taken us so close to destruction? All we can do is pray. This bold new age of wonder has opened up our eyes Stillthe only thing we're sure of is that all men will die. And still the rain — it keeps falling. DEATH HAUNTS SPRINGHILL By CATHY EASTON Peace and quiet filled the town of Springhill; The sun shone brightly upon the land, But in the earth where men must fight, Darkness closed its mighty hand. Darkness rules below the land. This page of the Guardian contains thp winning contributions in the literary and photo contests that were judged last week. In the photographic contest Robert Whilsmith won the human interest division with Bob Read and John McAuley following in that order. The portrait section was won by John McAuley with Bart DeVries and Bob Dobbs in the runner-up positions. The third grouping listed as other */# photos was won by Bob Read. Second and third, respectively were John McAuley and Paui Armstrong. Janet Ecker's contribution in creative writing was judged best with Kim Pridham second. The essay contest was won by Marilyn Whitney. The judges decided not to pick a single winner in the poetry contest but came up with six winners. The winners were: Garry Hess, Cathy Easton, Rob Doerr, Shirley DeVries, . Sally Verkerk and Brenda Lavender. Rumbles and shakes shattered the peace; Men were trapped beneath the land, And with them were their hopes and dreams, And dead companions and unheard screams. And dead companions and unheard screams. Parched were the throats of the living dead. men; They strayed from hope to hopelessness, But Death kept up its lonely searching, To claim the lives the rocks had missed. To claim the lives the rocks had missed. Despite the risk men will continue To dig for coal in God's own veins. In doing so they must be ready To pay the price in blood-filled caves. To pay the price in blood-filled caves. Even now the earth may tremble, As if another man has died. And these, the guardians of the ore-fields, Will strive to keep brave men alive. Will strive to keep brave men alive. By ROB DOERR dilapidated stone church, half- hidden by the red and gold tresses of the surrounding trees. At any other time the sight of the afternoon sun, tenderly caressing the grey stone walls would have been comforting. But new, it did little to ease the agony which flooded my soul. For Michael had died early this morning and my aching heart had been vainly searching for peace. I had lived with the knowledge of his terminal illness for many months and now that his heart-rending struggle against death was over I longed for the comfort of tears that would not come. Somehow, amid the superficial sobs of distant relatives I had gratefully escaped to the peace and quiet of my ear. But it had taken an hour of driving before I realized that it was the stone church which I sought. Even then, it was another hour or so before I reached it. Of course, it has been winter that first day, a blizzard actually, and now the sun was warming the autumn air. I had come to thank the old man. The realization suddenly dawned on me as I got out of the car. My rational mind kept telling me that there was nothing here for me. It had all been a dream. But my heart yearned for the peace I had known that night in his presence. As my feet slowly climbed the grassy slope, the memories started to wash over me, everyone poignant and clear — the cold dinner patiently waiting while Michael worked on in his study, the heated quarrel, my anger as I slammed out the door, the drive through the blinding snow. I could remember getting stuck on an unknown road, the long cold walk and the panic when I couldn't find a farm house. And then I had seen the church steeple, barely visible ih the swirling snow. Wearily I climbed up the snow covered slope. Seeing the door; what an inviting sight, I made Bob Read First for others — Marilyn Whitney War — objective view-point By MARILYN WHITNEY "Last night I had the strangest dream Rob Read John McAuley Robert Whilsmith Janet Ecker Autumn in the woods a mole, which had got itself caught in a fence during a nocturnal adventure, was the subject of interest of a large crowd of small boys. one little lad, younger than the rest, stared through tear filled eyes as he held tightly to his brother who, with some other older boys, was poking the mole with twigs and throwing small pebbles at it while one boy, larger than the rest, with a thick stick in his hand and a smile upon his face was quietly beating the mole's head in. By SHIRLEY DnVRIES He can create whirlwinds when in flight, His feet can cause great boulders to tremble, His outstretched palm can blot out the sun, And yet he must remain peaceful. Surveying the land around him he cries out in despair, And his voice echoes throughout the country Falling on deaf ears. Across the sea grows a deadly mushroom And around him cluster broken, shattered and crushed beings Turning to him, seeking help, In the corridors of his mind a thought travels, "When will I be able to end it all?" Like I've never had before. I dreamed that all nations agreed To put an end to war." The author of this poem must have been a politician or a very wise man. A world without wars or hate or killing would truly be a strange and different world. However, this person would not venture an opinion; he would not or dared not say if he believed a world without wars would be beneficial or harmful. I am neither a very wise man nor a politician; nevertheless, I By BRENDA LAVENDER Scurrying Clutching books Hurrying Bell ringing People All kinds of people Laughing joking talking people All around you Pressing against you Surging urging along. would like to venture my humble opinion on war. I am especially concerned about the war in Vietnam and its effects on Canada. Some Canadians oppose the war in Vietnam; this has already been made apparent by the many violent and emotional antiwar demonstrations. This emotional opposition reflects the muddled thinking of the fanatical faction of the Canadian population. This, however, is not the point. The topic that I would like to discuss is whether it is economically beneficial to Canada and to Canadians to oppose this war or not. The answer, very simply, is no! There are many companies across Canada that manufacture materials for the Americans to use in this war. Most of these companies would have to shut down part or all of their operations if the Vietnam war ever ended. I am sure most of you have heard of the Dow Chemical DEATH By SALLY VERKERK The people assembled and tore the dead dove apart. Feather by feather It screamed For its death spoke. High above an eagle flew. Shouts and cheers are now heard As they wave him on. Screams Screams from you that don't stop No laughing joking talking people Quiet people, silent people No screams now People move on again. Laughing joking talking people By KIM PRIOHAM Behind the landmark lay a high velvety bank and a moss-filled ditch. Long beech roots, like sliding serpents, broke through the moss, their bark stained with oily colour. Everything was red and fiery. The sun was sinking. On the wooded slope the setting sun struck the autumn leaves and turned their rusty brown to burning gold. The whole forest was set ablaze, and became a shim- mering glory. Toward the middle of the wood, bramble, burdock and thistle had sprung up in profusion. The evening sunlight struck seed-pods of the willow herb and turned them to great masses of silver down. At that moment the breath of evening came. At odd places in the clearing clouds of willow down rose, flashing scarlet and silver in the oblique sunlight. The sun sank lower, and a great beech tree changed from gold to bronze. A whispering wind rose and then murmured, making the dry leaves rustle. The wind dropped, and a cathedral hush settled over the purple-faced mountains and woods and fields. A little dew pond shone sombrely. A red- breast fluttered gracefully down and peered at itself in the pool. It broke into a wistful song — the sweet, yet melancholy song heard in autumn. The shadowy reflections of little squirrels bowed to each other in the fading light of the autumn evening. The great fires of sunset had fallen, and the magic light had stolen softly from the blazing trees, leaving them r inky and bronze, Now the moonlight shone down on a dead tree, making its bark soft and silky. The hideous fungi gleamed with an unhealthy brightness. The withered spires of foxgloves seemed like wands of ivory in the moonlight. They stood so uniform, so still, so silent. The berries of a large holly tree glistened like luscent pearls. Now morning came. A great, burning globe of fire rose in the east, and thousands of spiders' webs flashed and glittered, swinging in the air under the weight of mist and dewdrops. Single long threads of silk floated softly along, each trailing a diamond of dew. Reborn in all its perfection, paradise began to stir again, Second for portrait — Bart DeVries our "healing" atmosphere. So what if they are never quite the same again? It is none of our business if they still wake up in the middle of the night sweating, shivering and crying as they remember and go on remem- bering for the rest of their lives. It's their problem, not ours. What about our morals and our beliefs about the Vietnam war? If we think it is wrong then we should not support it in any way, should we? The answer, again, is no! We may not agree with all aspects of this war. We may even admit that there seems to be some evidence of sufferiq and loss of life involved in the prolonged effort. However we Company of Canada. This company manufactures napalm, a jellied mixture of aluminum soap powder and oil or gasoline. This mixture is used in flame throwers and bombs. These effective devices are used in the Vietnam war to flush the Viet Cong out of their hiding places, and to burn down Viet Cong outposts. If one of these "outposts" happens to be inhabited by innocent civilians who are burned alive in the holocaust, the United States government always apologizes for the tactical error. These errors could be looked upon as very fortunate. Most, if not all, of the casualties would have died a slow, painful death because of disease, malnutrition or both. The girls who survived Would probably have ended up as prostitutes for or mistresses of the American soldiers had this tactical error not saved them from such a corrupt life. The people who were killed are probably in heaven now thanking "good old Uncle Sam" for keeping them from the degrading existence that had awaited them here on earth. In 1969 the Union Theological Seminary in New York sold their holdings in Dow Chemical stock because this company was making napalm for use in Vietnam. I am overjoyed to say that no Canadians have felt in- clined to follow this erroneous lead. Why should we worry over the fact that some of money has blood on it? We must avoid being swayed by examples of petty emotionalism and continue to think and act pragmatically. As clear-thinking Canadians we must realize the obvious rewards involved in a prolonged war as long as we are the ones who get rich, not the ones who are getting burnt. Our doctors, psychiatrists and touristry department also profit from the continuation of the Vietnam war. Every year thousands of draft-dodgers And "war veterans" flock to Canada seeking a place of quiet and solitude in which to heal their broken minds and bodies, and sort out their true feelings about their country. The veterans, battle-scarred and haunted, come to Canada to forget, and perhaps to make a new beginning. If it weren't for this war, they would not be cousin' north for the benefit of one final lunge to get through the snow. But one tired foot slipped and I fell, striking my head hard against the stone wall, I awoke slowly, painfully aware of the pulsing throb within my head. My eyes opened, but they had to blink several times before anything came into focus. I was inside the church, lying on a front pew near the altar. From this vantage point I could make out the slight figure of an old man, sitting crosslegged on the floor. In the hazy light of a flickering candle I could distinguish an age worn face with eyes closed. He was slowly fondling a small object which caught and reflected the light, in his longtapering fingers.Grasping the back of the pew I tried to sit up but the pulsing in my head had other notions. Alerted by the movement, the old man got to his feet and moved slowly to my side. The object in his hand was a gold symbol of some kind on a long chain. He quickly hung it around his neck, and then grasped my cold hand. His hand was warm .and his voice when he spoke was low and soothing. "How do you feel now Catherine?" "My head — "‘ I stopped suddenly. "How do you know my name?" His answer was sur- prising. "I know many things, my child." My child? Great, just what I don't need now, a senile old man. And yet, the moment the idea crossed my mind it seemed strangely ludicrous. Those deep dark eyes that gazed into mine did not belong to senility. His whole soul seemed to be radiating from those two piercing sockets. It seemed as though he could view my deepest thoughts. But, instead of arousing any fear within me, I only felt the presence' of his gr i eat nner peace and infinite wisdom. Who was he? He was an old man certainly, but there was also a quality of agelessness about him, an im- mortality. He suddenly laughed quietly. "Of course you would like to know who I am." I tried to stammer a reply, embarrassed at my revealed curiosity. He smiled a smile that was beautiful yet very sad. "It is only natural that you should wonder. What a strange thing for an old man to be alone in a place like this on such a night you say. True? But I am glad you have come at last though. It has been a long vigil and I was afraid you might not get here before I had to leave." For a minute, the pain in my head was forgotten as I stared, trying to evaluate his sanity. This was so unreal, I wondered if my own mental state needed reassessing. "You've been waiting for me?" I asked incredulously. That smile again and then, "I have been waiting for someone who has need of me. One more person before I leave. You, I presume are that person." "Me?" "Yes, my child. That is why you are here." "You've gotta be kidding? Who are you anyway?" I cried fearfully. He looked at me patiently, as one would a small child. "That does not matter. I am simply an old man who has one more task to complete his purpose. You are , that one more task. ' He paused, as if waiting for me to say something. But the pain in my head was again broadcasting its presence so, I lay still, `You love your husband, don't you Catherine?" he asked sud- denly. My head turned and my eyes sought his, "What do you mean? Of course I do." I said, a little heatedly. "yes, and he loves you, more so than you realize." "Oh tome off it!" I said, greatly irritated. But running through my tilled Was the hurt look on Mike's face as I had stormed oet of the house. "Do not be angry Catherine," he chided gently, "You must listen to Me. It is of great im- pedance. Why did you quarrel today?" I stared at him, This must be a dream. How could he know what had happened? "hid you ever ask him why he WAS spending so much time working on his manuscript?" The question startled Tile. It had never occurred to me to ask — Please Wm to page 20 Bob Read should not be so blind that we do not realize just how much we depend on the United States and their wars for Our livelihood. Why should we jeopardize our wealth just to save a few insignificant lives? We are not God, We don't make the rules; we merely play the game, Canada, throughout history, has looked up to the United States as a "big brother". After all, we both have the same motherland. During World War II Canada was forted, because of the emotional response of her people, to enter the war against Germany. We suffered greatly because Of this. It took us a long time to regain our former eeettottie and Please turn to page 20 Beeond for human interest —