Page 36 - 1961

34
AN ESSAY ON NOTHINGNESS
The old man's feet made a crunching sound in the fluffy, newly-fallen snow as he started to walk down the street. The big town clock rang out twelve times. Midnight, new snow, a deserted street, and Christmas Eve, he thought. On he crunched, passing the gayly decorated store windows with their corners rounded out by the snow, past the windows which would soon be empty of the snow, empty of the light which shone through them, as time brought another day 1 another week and another year, Time, he thought, time changes everything, He could remember the time when he had preached to his congregation on Christmas Eve--he could even remember what he had said although it tortured his mind to do so. But look at him now; old, useless, no longer any congregation to face; nothing. Nothing, that is, unless you could call the worn tweed coat, the rubbers which he had received from the charity organization last Christmas, the creaseless pants, the worn features of age and his bottle as something. The bottle! Ah yes, that was something! The bottle, his bottle, his companion through many a cold night, was something.
It meant more to him than did the money which he stole to get it. On he trudged.
On he trudged, his hands deep in his packets, his bock bent, his eyes forever downward, Then he paused before·
the big clock. Its hands showed twelve minutes after twelve. What the number twelve had meant to him over the years! As a young man, twelve represented the disciples of Jesus, the twelve verses of the Sermon on the Mount, the twelve little dirty-faced kids that made up his junior choir. Now, twelve represented the time for his free bowl of soup, the number of cents that would get him a bed in the local flop-house, the number of ounces of cheap Iiquor which he bought every day,
He paused no longer but continued on his shuffling way through the snow. The stores passed by him and were lost in the whirling snow. Ahead lay only the end of the street. He walked on until, at last, he came to the door of his abode, He paused and looked back up the street at the big clock, its hands now moving on to other numbers, at the footmarks that were slowly being filled by the whirling snow and he thought of the significance of this day. He shook his head, pulled out his bottle, thirstily drained it, threw it away and disappeared through the door.
Outside the only reminders of his presence were his footsteps, his battle, and, he hoped, one of his dirty-faced little choir boys making more out of his life than he had of his.
--Wayne Wheeler
Sandra Osburn and Joan Swaim were discussing boys, Joan asked: "Which would you prefer most in a boy friend, brains, wealth, or appearance?"
Appearance," replied Sandra, "and the sooner the better."
Sign on Mr. Peat's desk: Things..!.£ do today
1, Get organized 2. Talk to wife
3, Get reorganized
Paul Schuller: "Sir, are there any one word answers on the Christmas exam paper in chemistry." Mr, Murray: "I don't know, That depends on how much you know,"