| Summary: | The Fioretti is a literary journal consisting of original submissions and editing from contributing students at Marian University, Indianapolis. / VOLQ}le ~lQel1~ ·11111€ <nq~:s€n one . FIOla<6TTI ~f-llllal) qO:LL€<9€ LI~enf-In~ !in~110L0<9~ 'rust HOW I LEARNED TO LOVE PISUM SATIUM 8 DAVE SOOTS A TALE FROM THE LAND OF THE TALL TREES 20 W. DOUGLAS lENGE OUT THE WINDOW 23 W. DOUGLAS BENGE THEN AND NOW 37 SYLVIA JOHNSON THOUGHrs ON LEAVING THE OLD LIBRARY 40 SISTER CLARENCE MARIE, O.S.F. Art II ork DRAWINGS BY PHOTOGRAPHS BY PATRICK FARRELL ED FRERMANN SHARI RATHZ ifn rt ry HIGH ON A CLOUD 6 OF MYSTIC DREAMS KATHLEEN GIESTING MULTICOLORED IMAGES ~ OF LIGHT AND DARK ' KATHLEEN GIESTING RESURRECTION 12 DAVE SOOTS ALL LOVE IS UNIERGROUND 13 CHRIS PRUITT LIFE 14 CHRIS PRUITT I HAVE MALE CONTACT 17 'lESS EICHENBERGER GASLIGHTS MAIE OF MAGIC HAZE 18 'lESS EICHENBERGER LOVED ONE 19 SHERRY MEYER LILY OF THE FIELOO 26 PHIL MCLANE MY SPIRIT HAS LIVED 28 TERRY ANN PIACENZA A POET SPEAKS HIS POEMS 29 JOSEPH KEl'.lPF STONES 3D JOSEPH KEMPF DAY OF THE RAISIN 31 JOSEPH KEMPF OAK 32 JOSEPH KEMPF EVERYONE WILL 34 UNEQUIVbCABLY ADMIT ELLEN DUGAN TO CATCH A MOMENT OF TIME 3.5 ELLEN DUGAN LIKE A DREAM 42 JAMES ASHER DISTANCE 43 JAMES ASHER TENNESSEE 44 BILL DIVINE A PLEA TO PEGASUS 45 BILL DIVINE fBillliuinr tlDVI80n ~ui luI i(im l'prrial t~ank.8 tn: CATHY ANDRE DON MERRILL TERRY MILLER BARB REIMER DAVE SOOTS 1)1<31\ 0 )1) tI QLOqD'! OF ~8~IC (On€a~8 high on a cloud of mystic dreams - i look down and see all those whom i love - all those who have touched my life and made it better - and yet all i see is division - strife - discord - and i weep that these who mean so much to me cannot see the lesson they have taught. J'IqL~IQO;Lo)n~D,l I~aQ~8> OF LIQ~ anD DanE. Multicolored images of light and dark surround my fading senses I turn to look back and every remnant of the past is gone Ahead I see only darkness - darkness with a strange welcoming warmth coming closer and closer engulfing me in its black softness. A single shaft of golden l1ght pierces my consciousness And I stretch out my arms to touch its strength Suddenly my mind is flooded with the knowledge of a new day - a new way of life. l\Oltq I Leannen ltfo LOVe pI8q~ 8altflq~ -or- THE PEA AND ME Pisum satium is a leguminou::; plant, the seed of which is commonly known as the nutritious vegf'table, the pea. J love peas and, actualIy , can·t set'm to get enough of tht'm. The pea is the center of my vegetable- world and its presence makes the most bland repast a culinary delight. But this has not always bt'cn the case. Th{~ re was a time when I hoped I would never see a pea again. Over the years, our relationship developed, somewhat like that of the boy and girl who live next door to each oth('r as children, swear a mutual hatred for each other, only to one day fall in lov('. AfLera long and ~ truggling courts hip , today the pea and r an~ inseparable . As an infanl--so I'm told , as I was much too young to recall--I used to des pise peas. A very common practice among infants is to spit out food at random, regardles;;: of whether or not the infant lik e:,; or di slikes the food. And like most infants, 1, too , spit out my share of food. But when it ca n1t' to lJt'a~ , 1 rea lly outdid myself. ~I) y di stance record for pt'a-pelleting ::;till hold;;: ::;trong, which i::; more than can be said for those perforated walls that sent' as a testament to my expertise with peas . .-\t the agf' of nin e, T devt'lopl'tl this hatred further and expanded it to indude that dark-green (·olor of tht' pea. Right after this developnlt" nt. my mother purchased for me a dark-green suit for Easler. I don't know why she did it. I didn't understand then , and I still don 't understand to this day. That suit was the worst thing that had e,-er happened to me. It mdde me mean and gloomy--to the point that J began refering to it as my 'sad-green suit '. I couldn't stand to wear that garment, but when I was forced to wear it I did everything possible to tear it or spill-and-stain it. But it would not be intimidated. My only hope was to outgrow it. During puberty my hatred of the pea was strength ened furth er. It was during this stage in life that I faced many traumatic experi ences. with the pea. My mother was a Pea-worshipper. She really was. \lo~ saw the pea as the source of all life, nectar from the gods, manna from heaven, a kind of One-A.-Day Multiple Vitamin. Not a day went by that we _didn 't see peas' on the tabl e. Without my mother , the Green Giant would be nothing today. She created his market, revolutionized his industry. In a word, she made him Jolly. But, she and her peas only made me sick. Into adol escence the pea campaign continued. I was bombarded with peas. Mom had them every where, all the time. We had creamed peas, fried peas, buttered peas, and baked peas. She became very clever at times, and tried ~o hide them. But I was always cautious. I found them folded in the mashed potatoes, baked in the meat loaf, and even suspended in the jcllo. She even went so far as to squash them and make icing for a cake. But no matter what trick mom tried , I always caught on and refused to eat her pea dishes. She frantically tried more and more tricks. Yet, I did not waver. Finally mom became peaved. When I was fifteen, August of '64 I believe, she gave up. It was a moment I'll never forget. At supper one evening she calmly and quietly announced that ~he could care less if I never ate anvther pea as long as I lived. She had done her best to make me aware of some of the finer things in life. It was all right with her if I chose not to accept them. That was it--no more fighting. Well, I received her announcement with mixed emotions. At first, I thought perhaps she didn't love me anymore. Ruling out that idea, I decided that she realized I was a grown man and capable of making my own decisions. It was at this time that I began to formulate my new outlook toward the pea. At age sixteen, I finally realized what a great thing the pea was. It was at this time that I saw the Good, made my Leap of Faith, and joined the ranks of pea-lovers all over the world. I began slowly, of course. I could never let on at home that I liked peas, not at first anyway . So I sneaked around--ate peas for lunch at school, had them at friends' houses, and even bought them at the TeePee on WeekEnds. At last, I became brave enough to eat them at home one evening. To my surpri:;e. no one noticed. It was not until weeks later that mom casually remarkPd that 'she didn't think I cared for peas', and this came only after I had asked for a third helping. The great pea controversy was over. Today, at age t.wenty-one, I can look back over my transformation ill a more enlightened manner. I see the basic reason for my change, the ct'ntt'f of the issue, was freedom of choice. When it no longer was a requirement to eat peas, they became more inviting. And subsequently, J chose to like p(~as. However, I have no regrets for my earlier outlook toward peas. On the contrary, those early experiences have strengthened our relationship. Without free choice, that beautiful relationship would never had come to be. I would haVf~ gone on hating peas, or, at best, 1 might have decided to passively accept them. But fre(~ dom allowed me to make a personal and lasting commitment. Hail freedom! Hail Pisum satium! <::> 11 <:/' i oftentimes wander from the lonely confines of my private nursery, very late at night, out to lose myself among the street-cleaners and the split-shifters, among the swingers and the cabbies, among the -whores and the midnight cowboys, who, all of them together with myself, have great doubts about the night. engulfed in a winding, spiritual subway, i walk as they sweep the previous day's defecation or they wait for the 8-east washington-eastgate--have you seen it pass?, i walk as they ascend in the glass tomb to the top of the hilton or they cab-nap in the shadow of oliver p. morton, i walk as they peddle their wares along the strip or crouch on the steps of christ church cathdedral, all the while, all, all in doubt. they go their way and imine, unaware of the other, yet constantly aware of the- other, for the night has absorbed us all in its mystique of distrusting fog; i cannot escape the other for i must depend upon him, i cannot depend upon the other for i cannot trust him, yet if i forsake the other then i am alone, all ~lone, and in the night. and the night becomes day and it is not the same but it is ever the same. aLL LOV~ IS qnD~n (ijn oqnu,: All love is under-ground - at a drive-in movie, motels, even in city swimming pools: on ,car/seats, beds, in water the pill or condom or empty bleachers Saran Wrap cannot order a total de1'ense against a love-in. It can happen in books too, hard words pulling us down stripped to the bone. Hand Manuals do not hold such risky a1'fairs, or the snake, gliding: In Asia under the moon in ditches and swamps and dark rice paddies, officers wade to signal triggers, bayonets thrusting; it's worse than attack abhorted, retreat to the held belly of a hill before the lost and the dying, where love is underground. {!fn,l~ fP'tuilt LIF~ Somewhere between birth and death-Existing. A time of frivolous rapture, a time of ecstasy. One which seeks contentment of the heart-- the soul. Times of pain and wishful resentment-- human oohav iour. A period of growing, knowing-not knowing. Uncertainty. Living in doubt--existing in ludicrous apathy. Suffering? Taking. (not giving enough) And greed overwhelms all virtues that may have straightened our backs in the bleachers at school. Pride? in what? Somewhere between birth and death is life. I have made contact As casually and certainly as one Rereads a favorite passage When one chooses lIve always known my place People would ask Where they belonged I could cite a page Or Recall a book lId never read To set them in And on their way. You took I did not choose to love You took, and choice removed There was More than paper torn-- . A steady reader stumbling An author almost born I will give; wait Contact once came easily Today An honest touch, an unplanned reach Is such a complex thing. (3,R8LI(31~8 ~aD<S a ~a(3I<l l\tIZ<S Gaslights made a magic haze Along Decatur Street Sandaling down towards the sea Creak slap creak I owned it all, Decreed that sounds' Bent leather, bending seas That honeysuckle salty tastes From Cape things meshed Belonged to me. I walked until I knew The Silver time for gulls and bikes Was near - The time to share. And on that final August night I smiled, and left, a magic thief The haze for dark Decatur Street Now mine, for darker days. ~lB~ LOVen one lo.ved one whose single word lights the darkest hour ••• whose smallest murmur clouds the sunshine moment ••• whose gentle touch warms the coldest night ••• whose absent hand chills the warmest twilight ••• loved one a ~aLe Fno~' ~l\e LanD OF ~l\e ~aLL ~nee8 Once upon a time, long before you were born, there was in the Great North Country a beautiful forest kingdom which was known as the Land of the Tall Trees. This land was the source of all that was lucky and pure and Kold. The trees that grew there had become, through the ages, the most famuus and best loved trees in the world. Their boughs intermingled with the douds. So tall did they stand, and so strong were they that the North Wind feared to blow through them. Each tree sheltered one tiny Fairy, for fairies were the citizens of this land. In the center uf the forest there was set in a vast clearing, a palace. Within the palace there WtlS a great cuurtyard, and in the middle of the courtyard 'sat a old,old man. . His eyes were a dull steel grey and his brow was disfigured with the wrinkLe,~ of wisdom. His beard was Longer than the journey of the migrating pigeon and as white as the snows of the Arctic Polar Cap. His skin was a deep tan from wind, rain and the sun yet it had begun to show age. His body was also aging but still reminded one of him as a young warrior. Hi,~ name was Trophopus, King Trophopus, indeed of the Land of the Tall Trees. lIe was a man -, a mortal, not warlock or waizrd . but he /Vas the wisest man in the entire world. He had ruled the Fairies form Long as anyone could remember and the Fairies loved him deeply. The king had but one advisor since his wife, Neela, had died, and that was the owL, Breed. Breed was an extraordinarily wise bird, as wwls go, and was a great heLp to the king. So wise was he in fact, that his wisdom was as well known as the awesome trees. He had been enchanted by the first Fairy that had ever lived so that he might never die and thus always be able to aid th King of this forest. Thorphopus had a yuung son whom the Fairies named Acorn. His eyes were placid blue but not without a deep glimmer offire that comes with youthful vigor. His body had been well conditioned by the Fairies who had trained him through the years since his mother had passed on. He Loved his father, and his rcspect for him rivaLed the sea in depth. Now there lived in the wild ranges to the south of the forest kingdom a rich and powerfuL knight called ArnoLd. Arnold was a strong warrior but not a good and just man. He would stop at nothing to extend his power. For years he had coveted the famous owL, Breed, but had always feared to journey to the Land of the Tall Trees. Now his greed and egotism had overcome his fear. He had decided to take Breed from King Trophopus so that he himself could become the wisest man in the worLd. He searched the land from top to bottom acquiring the finest armor, the swiftest steed, the keenest sword. He obtained supplies and made ready for battle. Feeling well prepared, he set forth to invade the forest kingdom. MeanwhiLe, word had traveLed quickly to the Fairies, King Trophopus was in great despair, for though he was wise, he was old and frail and defenseless. As he reached the height of anziety, into the courtyard strode Acorn, armed .and ready for battle. 'Father,' said Acorn in a loud voice, 'the time has come when I, your son, can do something to repay you and the Fairies for your love and kindness. I shall take arm.~ and do battle with the henthern. Arnold. ' King Truphopus was surprieed as well as he might be. Even his elf. Like attcndants were amazed. Seeing he was full ready for battle, the king said in a voice choked with fatherly pride tempered by regal dignity, 'My son, today you are a man. Kneel. 0 boy, who was called Acorn, be no longer called a boy. Rise Sir Knight, and henceforth be ye known as Sir Oaks. ' Sir Oaks was now fully ready to defend the forest kingdom from the villain,A rnold. His heart yearned to do battle and his wish was not long in coming. Then, early one spring day whild the fog still hanged heavy in the air, Arnold rode into the Land of the Tall Trees. Onward he pressed, with the boLdness of a conquering general, until upon entering the great clearing he came face to face with young Sir Oaks armed and ready for a fight. 'Hold, ' cried Sir Oaks, ·in the name of the crown!' 'What young idiot is this who stand,s in the great Arnold's path and would prevent his taking the famous owl? bellowed Arnold. 'It is I, -, returned Oaks, 'Sir Oaks; crown prince of the Land of the Tall Trees. Now get ye hence from my land or prepare to taste my lance. ' 'Does the young puppy dare challenge the great Arnold? roared Irnold. 'Prepare to die, filthy dog!' said Oaks. The two warriors readied their lances and spurred their horses. They collided with such force that both were hurled from their mounts. Their lances splintered to toothpicks, iach man drew his sword. Corning together as two bull elk the knights hacked at each other for two hours. The ground ran crimson with blood as both men suffered great injuries. Both were sorely hampered by their wounds. Ready to faint from loss of blood, Sir Oales detected his foe beginning to tire and so began a renewed attack. In a final effort Oaks managed to throw himself at Arnold krrocking him from his feet. He then unlaced Arnold's helm and slew the blackguard. Faint from exhaustion and blood loss the mutilated Sir Oaks sta/!gered a few steps and collapsed. Around him appeared a host of Fairies, all grateful for his sacrifice to them. Bearing him up they brought him unto the king and laid him to rest before him. Seeing a gaping slash in the boy's left side, the !zing realized his wounds were mortal. 'My father;' struggled Oaks, 'I am your son. I have saved you and my friends, Breed, and the Fairies, from the evil of the world. Thank you for your love and goodness. ' Seeing his son, his only son, dying before his eyes was too great a burden for the aged king and he began to sob and shake. When sudden= ly, as if by magic, came forth the voice of the enchanted Owl, Breed, saying, 'Sir Oaks, crown prince of the Land of the Tall Trees, today you have saved your father, the Fairies and myself - even mankind itself from evil. Sir Oaks, you shall never die but shall live forever with regal pomp and. majesty befitting a crown prince. And your seed shall have no num'ber. ' And then, as the Fairies and Trophopus looked on, ther appeared where Sir Oaks had lain, a tree. And as they watched, the tree grew until it was larger than any tree in the Great Forest. It grew till those onlookers could no longer see the top. And again came the voice of Breed saying, 'Know ye that from this day forth this tree shall be called Oaks and all that come from it Oaks, and its seed shall be known as Acorn for so also was the young Sir Oaks. ' And from that day to this we have had the mighty oak trees. These trees have helped men build houses, sail the seas and hoist the flag. And the next time you see a mighty oak tree or feel its pleasing shade or comforting strength, know you that in each of these courageous oak trees lives on the spirit of the young . --- SI H OAKS. oq~ There is darkness. There has been darkness for several hours. And this darkness, laying heavily over the landscape, obscures largely, the features of the terrain. This night the darkness is wet. Fog curls in tenebrous circles while a cold rain slobbers mindlessly on the windows fogged and cleared alternately by my breath. The only light is a hazy glow from some window away and to my left. At the head of the drive leading from the road to my house stands a tree--that is, a tree by Iigb1, but in the darkness its knobby, twisted form becomes to the glancing eye, the head of a giant Medusa. And the drive, which is a dull grey in the sun's rays, is now transformed to a strip of black onyx, shiny even through the gloom. There is no smell but of rain in the air, there is no feeling but of chilly drafts, there is no sound but of rain on glass. There is no sight but of whirling wet murk. It is because of this pervading overcast that I was not noticed when, only 47 minutes ago, I left my house, walked to the end of my drive, and stabbed Arthur Dedrick to his death. !~I~ e >- >- 8 ~ #' = . = ~ = ~ . . . #' = a #' .=. .=. . = .f'O. = == = ., f'O = a ~ . 11 fo1 . . 0 a . f'O = s = f'O =. = ~ ~ . = . = 0. ., f'O --=- f'O . ., ~ fo1 f'O f'O fa ~ = = . f'O « -=- = ~ (") --. . = ::r . #' . III = = = e ~ 0 = = . = CD . 11 = ~ . - . . ~ #' C1l ~ = = ~ . ~ ~ = . f'O = #' :x; ~ . f'O c0: : = = ~ #' tn t-\ #' . = ~ I ~ 0 • t #' tzj . --=- fa >tzj fa I b' t"\ f'O ~ f'O Eiiiiii~iil I\:! i ',I fl!,I", ~ , I' " 'i: :~ I I !', I , ,III i I I ~ ,\, j ' I ij , I A ' ~I , 1:1 i1 !:~t I;n Irl J HV~'I I:IIJ '~;I:~'i ':: I,1Ii "i , Ii ~ I " i j ",I I I i 1I:,' /' , il i LIL~ FI(1LDS Sea~ons I have spent Hours aching for your breast Seasons wasted weeping Smiling summer's mask removed We huddle together for warmth-Bundled skeletons, Gorging our bellies With stolen flesh. Stark trees, Dead grass Cold 'wind Grey leaves with no cover of white Dry tears call to the sun For in Winter we know what we are. I have considered The lilies of the field And although I know The fields will feed me if I only dare The lilies are braver than I In Autumn I watch them die. So give me hot meals and soft linen Clothes, song, And light against the dark. Give me these comforts And let me forget what I am. On a smiling August hillside I have held you in my arms, a lady of incense and chimes Lovers naked In never-ending sun --Cold wind sweeps Emptied fields Autumn has come and you are gone. One for fields and one for city Summer's lovers take their leave And I wish I were a braver man-- Is your campsite as fine as my room? You gave me, once, a poem-- "My storehouse destroyed by fire, Nothing now blocks out the moon" And ,1 wish I were a braver man, I wish I were not what I am. ~. LIVen:~ 8plnI~ Utl8 DIeD, 11e:80n11 My spirit has lived, died, reborn. I am now at peace with life, Ready to accept the new trials, The many steps down for everyone up. Yet, now I am not afraid; I no longer tremble. Curiosity has enveloped me, I don't care whether I am knocked down. All I know is that very word. YOU. fJl!.'ti c:fInn. rPiaC!anza a po~ 8p~an8 1\18 pO~8 It must have been your hair. Like Beethoven. Two great wings Above your ears. And not even gray. I prepared to dislike you, Despite your eyes of polished coal. But when you spoke, they burned. Not even using a book, by heart You filled the room with words That echoed and echoed and refused To die in ears and minds. And what came between Was almost as good. That was you, Stripped of words and poems To hide behind. Stripped of hair And skin and last yearls tie. Those things, they were not you, As leaf and bark are not the tree. No manls heart burns in his hair. You were in your eyes, and words, Your poems. I saw you there. S~Ol1eS One who was my friend threw stones at owls at night. Till one returned to catch him full in the eye and put it out. Now he wears a patch and throws only at crows in the sun. 0 ,]8 Green was the time and golden the hills when the siren sun sang each morn ~8aI .8In fertile into the skies. o the earth was a melon plump on an August day, and the sun ripened slow as an orange in the amber noon. The world was an olive green on the hill or an infant almond sweet in its shell. Each day was sovereign, like the promise of grapes turgid with wine. But now is the day of the raisin. The melon lies black in the sun, its gaping side sp~lling barren seeds over the sand. Almonds shrink in their shells and olives drop bloated and black, rolling down sterile hills into a wind-scorched sea. Raisins hang wrinkled and brown, rattling on sapless vines; they clack with stick-like tongues, dreaming of harvests old and touch of human hands. oan Backing the fleshed earth's spine, jeaned buttocks tight against bark, she hugs the trunk rising between fevered thighs, crushes softness beyond self against unyielding fiber, welds herself to earth and sky. Her hands find the lover, fingers score themselves on scored bark. She thrusts, thrusts again, heaves herself through dreams of root and leaves, explodes sap upward in green orgasm of bud and branch. Her fee~ is fe~l of green and all growing woody things, knows herself swollen to earthy greatness, full of creation's cosmic lust to grow swell extend itself beyond mere tree in leafy shade. The silence is of knowledge borne between her thighs, arch of silence that stills now even blood, calls in quiet crescendo to deepest self. She welds herself to earth and sky; dreams are acorns pregnant with oak. '- ._._._--. --., . __ ., :- -~ eVen~O)l)e lQILL qneOQIVO)Gf-l:SL~ aD~I~ Everyone will unequivocably admit That Shakespeare is the epitome Of literary achievement. Undoubtedly, he is the most Oft quoted, most respected, And e'er most famous author In any language--- Particularly noted for his "Immortal verse" and Study of human nature. Yet, as a student of Shakespeare I would ask. "How can Shakespeare say 'brevity .is the soul of wit' And still take 89 lines to Make Hamlet decide and argue 'To be or not to be' Is the question of the play?" ~O) I ~O~en~ ~I~e OF To catch a moment of time And hold it for awhile ••• The cold wind on a dark night A kiss, a gift~ a smile. A fleeting second here then gone As the night gives way to dawn. ~35o 110«1 Reprinted from Fiorelli Volume XV , Number I (1957-1958) How milch difference doet; the pass ing of time really make in thiH world of OurH? I--lave people and placcH changed much in the last fifty years?'Y t's, of course, things have changed! At leaHt , I think . . . but no, wait, I'm not sure. f guess I really don't know. ' Well , shall we try to find ouf( Let \; consider a certain place, parlicular people and a period of time and compare the present with the past. A random t;e\f'c tion from an Indianapolis map, and we have a place, :3200 Cold ~pring Road. The year'?Wdl , 19 ;~5 is a good enough start. Ln 1935, this address was known ar,: Rive rdale estate, home of Mr. James Alli son , indu:;triali sl, millionaire and philanthropist wdl known throughout Indiana. Wht'n the fabulouH man:;ion was built in 1912, it war,: an objt'ct of much interest and sJ.wc ulation. I,oeal citizens gasped at ru lOor" of inlaid oak floors, a marLIt' aviary, huge stone fireplaceH and a private It'lf ~ l'h()ne system. The descriptioll of the Allison horne rnnain('d rumor until 1936, when activity begall to stir at I:{iverdale. The howw had bet'll uno c cupi(~ d for a llurnbfT of years, ib ownf~r spending most of his time in Florida befon' hiH death in 1928. Now it was anlloun c t~ d that the (!stat(' had been l-lurehas('d by the Sister:; of Saint Franeis of Oldt'nburg to be used as a Catholic college for girl s. W('Il , that was quite a change, and in just two years' lime. A millionain'' s palatial hOlT\!' was transformed into a girls' coll cg". llivf'J'dal l' was now :\larian Co11('/;1;" and the mansion \~ as ~larian Hall. I n th t~ ori/ lillal library, with it:; pressed-leather wall;; and fantastic pollen - fir /-! plaet ·, S i s t(~ r Mary John, tllP first dean of ~:Iarian , had her office. Acror,:s the hall wa" the chapel of Mary I mmaculak , o nct' the music room , where one of the fillt!st organs in Indianapolis had be('[l played for the entertainment of /!uest:;. Th(' solarium , whid. strddwd across on( ~ sid(~ of th" houst! and ov~rlook e d two of tht! fi"t' lakes, bt'carne the librarv. \Iadollna Hall Reading Room was locatt'd in lh(' whitt' , marblt· avia;y, in the center of which wa:'; a largt· pool. Th" variou:,; other room:;-five bedrooms, dining room , parlors-were made into lec ture halls, offiCt!s, and art and music studio;;. What about tht, people who were thd'irst oce u(Jallts of \1arian I-Iall'( What were Marian 's first studt'nts likt'?\Vell , in S t'ptf~ JTI1wr 19:37, th e student body numbered thirty alld by UdoLer of that yt 'ar it was nindy strong. The girls altt~ nded liberal arb dass(!s and thcir athletic endeavors included swimming, hiking, arc ht'fY and riding over the uridle paths on tht· campus. In 1938, the first i ss w ~ of tilt-! sehool papt . was published. It was call ed the Phoenix after lht' statue:; of the legt'ndary bird found guarding the Slt'psillto the readiilg room, The early w pir.s of the Phoenix can giv(' us soml' fascinating facts about Marian's first students. For instance, in 1941, tht! Phoenix staff took a poll to discover tlw most popular pastime at Marian. These were the results: dancing was the first on the list, with the Tommy Dorsey and the (; lenn Miller orchestras the favorites. Many an evening was spent listening to the radio in 1941 for this pastime was runner-up. and most f;tudt:nts tuned in to Jack Benny's 1 ello Hour and th(~ College of Musical Knowledge. Reading such bookf; as Magnificent Obsession and _Madame Curie was next and sportf; was lowest as a favorite occupation of only four percent of the girls. Apecial events such as dances, plays, chili suppers and rummage f;ales wt:re highlights in the social lift! of these years. But all was not fun and laughter in those days, Marianites had their serious side and thert~ was plenty to be serious about. The threat of a world war waf; ert~epiJlg into their lives and they were very much conscious of its danger. This threat was recogniz.ed in the firf;t issue of the Phoenix in the i:'pring of 1938. Hitler had begun his march through Europt' and the editor of the paper urged united prayer to hold this destruction in cheek. When the world was swept into war, Marian was carril'd along with it. The Phoenix expressec1 its concern in many ways. Reports and editorials on the war effort dominated lighter things. The students questioned their own place in the upside down world, holding pens and booh while others carried guns. So they picked up knitting needles, bandages and shove\[;' and joined tilt' battle. Sweaters, and socks wert! knitted and sent overseas, first aid was practiced and victory gardens were planted on the campus. Let's leavI! the past for awhile. Wt' know the Allies won the war and we're f;llfe that Marianshared in the victory as she shared in the battle. R~t let's return to the present, here and 'now. We \e folio wed a particular group of people living in a certain place for about ten years. Now we can ask our question again. How much difference does the passing of time really make'? TIlt' girls who loved to dance to (; lenn Miller's music and listen to the .J dlo Hour have their counterparts in the girls and boys who are still devoted to both dancing and Clenn Miller, but have forsaken the .I dlo entertainers for Pat Boone and his cohorts. The occupants of Marian Hall no longer canter around the campus on horseback. Smooth roads replace bridle path:; and the roar of a car mGtor is heard instead of the clop of horse's hooves. The war has almost been forgotten. The terrihle events which so concerned the students of the 1940's are now met in a history book for Marianites, of the 1950's face other, different problems. . Considering alltht!se contrasts, we would have to say' Yes' in answer to our question. Things have changed. We arc differt~nt pl~ople living in a different world. But. . think agaifl. Are we really so clifferent? Granted that the things around us and the situations we face have changed. But do people, human beings, ever really change? Arc Marian Collegl! and its students in 195B drastically different from the Marian of years gone by?] 'm not so sure they are. I: PZ1fVI<1n Ii?' ~'l.1P Jl l. W What are the thoughts that come to the mind of one who has spent the days of many years in the building now outgrown? Too many to mention them all, but here are some of the memories that linger . the story of the house itself in its various roles---Allison home, the first administration and classroom building of Marian College, part of it used as the home of the Sisters who found themselves sleeping quarters in the third floor attic, the growth of the library into all the available space. the very great privilege of having the chapel in the building for several years, in the room later known as the browsing room, and the blessing of having the companionship of the sacramental presence of Christ. the beauty of the view from the windows---lake, fields, trees--· spring's first ~reen promise, summer's colorful and lavish treasures, autumn s glorious, flaming trees, the unmatched beauty of a snowy day, and always the lake, in its varied moods. even the thought of the busy chipmunks, who periodically and systematically made their appearance in the ceiling of the stack room, their sharp teeth finding a way to gnaw their way through, and their small beady eyes looking down a bit quizzically at the persons beneath. but above all, the students who have come and gone, the eager ones, the reluctant ones, those who came early and those who stayed late, the ones who found the library a good place to be and who learned to love it. and the student assistants who became friends and were good enough to share their dreams and hopes with one who would always follow them with prayer. surely, too, a thought of thankfulness for the hours of doing the work that forms one stone in the building of the education of Marian's students. After all, not every player in an erchestra plays first violin, but each one is necessary for the perfect rendition of the composer's achievement. It is good to know that the building, strongly built and beautiful in its workmanship, can look forward to a renewal of its life and its beauty through a projected restoration. The memories and the books go with us to the new building, calling for ad.iustment, advancement, and continued service. All so like a dream Sings that voice All so like a dream Enchanted Wine And enchantment Touch As lips press 'gainst lips Wine-warm hands Entwine Warm in intoxicating Embrace Deep And embracement Of the sea Dark velvet, Star-fire light Gulfs under stark stillness Of the Night All so like a dream Dreams that night Embracing wine-warm enchantment of the Night Rock and jagged shines morning sun just new from iced sleep. As the sea tumbles and froths on shores yet unknown but known. No time yet in timeLess passage eons iron pass past. The eagle bounds takes flight. And circles. Silently reaps them strewn about fields green and golden once now brown and. Blackened with once what was crimson flowed endLessly like the sea fLowed swiftLy then slowly revuLets. Dried with maddened crusted. Enraptures. Raged and fierece born of Chaos tears wildly into the au'esome night. Void darkened si!{htless rage the storm exploding life. Sulphuric vapor sears void time time for what as rains down fire and rock molten flows over jagged mountain tops. Stops in silence coLd barren and still wheat sways gently in chanting breeze. Filingpast time not lost but captured in rapture of secret thoughts not. Tops of candles light the night voices chanting silence stops. Stillness settles filing past the grave time lost but now. Breathed barren tu the sky jagged mountain tops brushed but grave. Overhead the eagle soars under protection offluffed clouds die as u:hite rises up held high tu the skies then the nigh /,. Eyes see cold and frozen in time. Ago flows now grown spLendid wide and light in golden fields and green taken flight the eagle landing upon the forest tops beyond a distance mountains and streams fire blazes now. How yellow, blue, crimson of flame darkens siLent in roaring rage billows smoke cloudlilce silence reigns over bLackened stillness graved f;·ost. GLeaming mountain tops bright blinding sightLess the eagle soars to the height"s dives siLentLy secret thoughts feel pangs of birth not sought as time dies green near mountain tops below frost pines tower to the heights the eagle splendid in flight. Stop. On jagged rock atop fire ravaged mountain still, silent, and bLackened lies the eagle eyes white iced sLeep. Endless passage coLd to the sea yet unknown. EndLess passage timeLess paths siLently lead to the shore. Paths lost unknown. In the distance tops of candles Light the night voices chanting siLence. Stop. In the distance thunder rumbles. Voices silent stop. Raged and/ierce born is chaos the morning sun bursts cataclysm upon jagged rock. In the early morning of late summer Cold in the Southern summer's valley Cold and dark and newly suspended From the former hour's deadness of darkest night The universe celebrates in peace; In toasting, and tossing sequenced confetti Towards the hazy blackness of deepest vision. And the Milky Way stradles the horizons. Verging on morning's metaphor, the sun, lingering in grey shadow behind morning drapes of leisure clouds, anticifates an entrance in a star. Iess sky. By the shore, the open wood fire s smoke cuts through the fog - the fog creeping dense along the bank, gliding denser atop the lake, weaving densest through the trees on the surrounding hills. The first sounds are those of which fish do jump. It's understandable, I guess. Or funny, I know That your time won't win the largest life Or lose, by death, the smallest part of me. !Bitt fbioine Hail on the morn's warm golden sun, and Ride, ride, climb with the wind to the sky On the breeze's back -- black blou'ing mane on ward; Pegasus, guide your mount. For a while in the mist of fortune's face, Smiling, let her with grace the poet meet. Led 'round u'ith rays to the very door-Past Helicon, and Hippocrene runs beneath. Bellerophon moves the spirit on-- Fearless, straining to grasp the golden bit And rein.~ that know no humble way to curb The curs-ed image, screaming and spitting Blood and fire from the heart of a favored man. The Plain lies well in sight below the douds Like an empty grave on the poet's paw . , Or like a barren grassland, grovelling-Stretched in painfuL memories of the height. The name Bellerophon is writ and forgot Though his image stands still in the spring, And runs like a frieze of his feats -- thruugh The pool broke open by your dustless hoof-Making us call you, Pegaus, back again: Descend, sweep, hurl like a kingfisher deep crypt Below to absorb the form of your ancient equestrain. Then rise, aspire, and spray the waters wide-- As the neu'-soaked poets clutch to your slapping mane; Snatch to the down of your wing-beating stroke-- Soar, burst through, vent and scatter the clouds. And later, if the sun calls yuu closer alone, Drop your fare to the fate of Bellerophon-- But let drop from the height where music was once: Hail on the morn's warm golden sun, and Ride, ride, climb with the wind to the sky On the bree::e's back -- black blowing TMne onward; Pegasus, guide your mount. Where music was once: Past Helicon, And Hippocrene runs beneath. !Bllt r:Dlulne. JIII~rn artists hrnb t~rir brtams anb ~anbs 1\11 agrs Utit~ onr kry unlock, Ytl10w sanbs Art on t~t s~orts of 'aumanok. · . W~t rnuplr a~uanrrb furt~tr intn t~is pauilinn nf t~t nig~t till t~tY staub in its mibst. "11t is j;tunt~rngt ff, Baib <!!Iarr. " . ff 'W~t ~rat~tn trmplt, Ynu mtau? . , r B', u I ~ r r t ~ ant ~ t r tnt uri r B ff nlbtr t~an t~r iJ'lllrbtruillts. from Thomas Hardy's TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES
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