Image provided by: Clackamas Community College; Oregon City, OR
About The print. (Oregon City, Oregon) 1977-1989 | View Entire Issue (Dec. 2, 1987)
“Christmas Cam!” This night before Christmas finds Most children dreaming of toys and treats In the dark I'm turning pages silhouetted by the light but it's only passing stages that has kept me up all night. "The product of extremes (AD) is equal to the means (be) We lost our soul to Vietnam in 1963." "Below the main aorta lies the pulmonary vein and environmental studies show increasing acid rain." As the dawn cracks like a lightbulb in the mirror of my mind "The Far-East situation is entirely I get on to information out of hand and leave sanity behind. Is war the fatal answer as Irag blows up Iran? And I've tried to make connections with every passing train I wasn't past the final draft but it's lost between the shuffle when someone pulled thé line in the cartwheel of my brain. I barely made it to home base and into over-time. "Gorbachev, Mubarak, Parlez-Vous Français? Is over-crowding negative and should it be that way?" "The electron will re-energize but only under these conditions: There is no cure for AIDS as yet, but some are in remission." "Please check your pulse then run a mile this must be the solution. Remember not to over-kill make this your resolution." So much to learn so little time and what was that he said? I tried to keep the static down As thoughts churned in my head: But Jimmy and Carol, hope, not dream Of a blanket and bread with cheese for a feast. No mice to stir, they have long since starved No stockings to hang, no fire to glow. Jimmy $nd Carol huddle together for warmth Soon fall asleep and the candle burns low. ¿TbiQLigH tli^ir street level window they might have seen Perhaps Santa, his sleigh, and his eight reindeer. A box, not a pack, he holds in his arms Imagining the joy he brings, fills his eyes with tears. A concerned citizen, not Santa A hatchback Toyota, not a sleigh. With knowledge that pride is dear He knows to come only when Mom is away. Turn up the volume another round! Would someone spike my drink? I need some time to think (I said), I need some time to think. Crunch, crunch, his boots make in the snow As they carry him, not down a chimney, but to the door. I conclude that my survival, (as my pen runs out of ink) Should be placed upon Endangered List but not quite yet Extinct. Dim though the light, in that barren room He sees through the window a child's weak hope. He raises his mitten clad hand to knock When he gets an idea that makes his heart soar. For what is life-the knowledge gained, is worth each tribulation- The silhouette of man is viewed by his determination. by Carol Harrington “Warriors” The bell has just blown for lunch, and everybody is settling down to eat The opening day of the deer hunting season is this weekend and everyone is in anticipation of getting the big buck. Everyone, that is, except Sally, the only female in an all male crew, and she is being increasingly irritated by all the talk of hunting. "Kill, kill, kill. That's all men think about," she says. The remark is made that, "That's not all we think about, most of us have kids." At this point Sally leaves mut tering something about a "stupid jerk." ''Do you hunt," someone asks me. "No, not anymore," I reply. He goes on to state that he will always hunt because he loves it, and fur ther interjects, that it is the greatest sport on earth. People who don't hunt don't know what fun they're missing. I realize at this point that the deer has never been asked how it likes the "fun" and "sport" of deer hunting. A bullet ripping flesh and shattering bones as it impacts and enters a living body, is fun? To track down and kill something that has never done you harm, and to use a weapon-that fires a'projectile three times faster than the victim can run while its only means-of defense is running — is a sport? My thoughts are broken by another^ voice. The voice belongs to a very religious black man in his late twenties, saying he could not take the life of anything because God gave life to everything, and everything has a right to life; therefore, he could never be a hunter. I take offense to his statements because they seem to be directed to me. Regaining my composure, I explain that not everyone is a hunter, but everyone is a warrior. Everyone will do whatever is necessary to survive or protect their offspring, whether it be eating bugs, snakes, and grasses, right down to taking a human life. Survival will take priority over everything, in cluding religion. My comments brought a very hasty rebuttal of, "No way will I ever take a human life." I suggest that the man has just gotten home from work to find a stranger with his^rm around his wife, and a knife to her throat He is convinced that the stranger is going to kill his wife and child. He has one chance to save them - pick up the loaded .38 ' ^’Maying on the desk, and blow his brains out "Now, what will you do?" I asked. The bell blew to return to work and everyone hustled to their work areas. About an hour had-passed and I was checking on a problem when I heard, "Mr. Smith." "Yes," I replied. "I be a war rior," he says. "We are all warriors, and some are hunters," I replied. No matter what activities we may enjoy, or what status we may achieve in life, we are all "Warriors" first. by Joe A. Smith It began, Dear Santa, I know you didn't forget Last year you just didn't know that we moved. I would like mittens, but my brother needs mor$ A scarf for the cold Santa, thank you. P.S., it continued: Mom says you aren't real But I still believe. Love Carol. Quietly he set the box down on the step Took out a pen and began to scrawl. Carol, I'm sorry if these don't fit But my elves ordered the wrong size. A scarf for your brother, a coat for Mom To make her believe; a twinkle in his eye. And, of course, these mittens, I guessed on the color. Oh, please find a use For the turkey, rolls, and dessert, sent by Mrs. Claus, Because I can just barely fit in my suit. Now he wore only a shirt, slacks, and shoes But the warmth he felt inside blocked out the cold. He ended the letter, Be good,Love Santa Most of all — Merry Christmas, Carol. by Julia Singer