Carpe Diem - St. Pius X Catholic High School

Carpe Diem 

2005 

St. Pius X Catholic High School 

Volume XV

Art 

3 Ceramic Box by Margy LaFreniere 

6 Graceful Woman 

by Danielle Brutto 

7 To Walk Along the Sidewalk 

By Carolyn Hernandez 

8 Still Life of Toys By Megan Kisling 

9 The Giving Tree by Andrea Bessey 

10 Face by Colleen Smith 

11 Wetland Wonder 

by James Watters 

12 A Still Life of Life 

by Mary Ellen Hogan 

12 Pretty Peppers 

by Shannon Barnes 

14 John by Anna Kramer 

16 To Play Bagpipes by Pierre Watson 

19 A Musical Life by Laura Papania 

21 A Loving Mother’s Touch 

by Lauren Elliott 

26 Frog by Taylor Davidson 

27 Life Quilt by Lindsey DiRito 

Poetry 

4 At the Intersection 

by Thom Schulte 

6 Reality by Mackenzie Ricker 

8 I Hear My Paintbrushes 

Wispering 

by Colleen Smith 

9 Society by Nolan Storey 

13 The Waffle House 

by Sean Robinson 

17 Dreams by Parker Gott 

23 Two Old Men by Pam Kennedy 

24 Bailamos by Ijeoma Okoro 

25 I Just Don’t Get You 

by Lindsey Rodney 

28 The Trail by Sidney Provenzano 

Photography 

1 The Streets of Savannah 

by Nina Bleacher 

3 Self-Portrait by Allison Basham 

5 Benched by Clare Sweeney 

5 Fountain at 999 Peachtree 

by Ryan Mckenzie 

13 Roses by Lauren Dick 

15 The Office Park by Sarah Asip 

15 Very Watery Nature 

by Mallory Phillips 

16 Intentions by Laura Papania 

17 Stairs and Art 

by Bradley Handziuk 

18 Sunflower by Brooke Stoker 

20 A Child’s Innocence 

by Chris Philpott 

22 Jackson by Erin Conboy 

22 Play Time by Brenna Berling 

23 Day After Rain 

by Stephanie Sizemore 

24 Silver Bells by Mary Ellen Hogan 

25 All You Need is Love 

by Emily Sutlive 

28 Footprint in the Sand 

by Taylor Jackson 

BC The House by Molly de Gorgue 

BC Harmony by Kendall Broussard 

Fiction/Non-Fiction 

10 The Complete Baffoon’s Guide 

To Being An Indie Rocker 

by Ijeoma Okoro 

14 Alone by Lauren Lightfoot 

18 Will You Sign My Yearbook? 

by Shauna Stuart 

20 Rita’s Lessons by Laura deGive 

26 El Tucán y Su Naríz 

by Andrea Bessey

Carpe Diem 2005 

Volume XV 

Streets of Savannah 

Nina Bleacher 

St. Pius X Catholic High School 

2674 Johnson Road NE 

Atlanta, Georgia 30345-1799 

404.636.3023 


1

Editors 

Joanna LaPaglia 

Robin Nevetral 

Artwork 


Cherise Basham 

Addy Edwards 

2 Carpe Diem 2005 

Carpe Diem Staff 

Prose/ Short Stories 

Erin Conboy 

Brooke Stoker 

Samantha Stewart 

Publisher 

Steve Spellman, Principal 

Publisher 

Print Direction, Inc. 

Business Manager 


Poetry 

Mackenzie Ricker 

Robin Nevetral 

Kathleen Hendrix 

Allison Basham 

Brandon Echols 

Tasha Posid 

Photography 

Kelli Weingartner 

Jaclyn Darcy 

Madeline Timm 

Laura Pendergast 

Stephanie Byron 

Brenna Berling 

Natasha Mattesi 

Adviser 

Rachel Braham

Self-Portrait 

Allison Basham 

Ceramic Box 

Margie LaFreniere 


3

4 Carpe Diem 2005

Benched 

Clare Sweeney 

Fountain at 999 Peachtree 

Ryan McKenzie 


5

Reality 

By: Mackenzie Ricker 

Picture a perfect woman 

Delicately trace her shapely curves 

Notice this: no lines or angles 

Her form is not mathematics 

but pure artistry 

She epitomizes Poise 

Beauty, 

the statuette, the Aphrodite, 

--The Model 

Ruben sculpted her, 

Donatello molded, 

Rafael and Michelangelo 

brushed her form upon 

the mountains, the Heavens. 

For so many ages 

tireless centuries, 

star-studded eons 

of idolatry, 

She was the Renaissance’s 

the Enlightenment’s 

the Industrial Revolution’s 

“IT” Girl 

Those who beheld her...well, 

Men’s hearts melted in awe, while 

Her protégés, wanna-be’s 

admired her simplistic, 

yet elegantly graceful 

style. 

She had lapped it up, 

loving to languor 

in the adoration 

of her ardent 

adorers. 

Her fashion statement: 

Pale, fresh-faced skin, yet 

tinged with an 

underlying rosy 

radiance. 

She glowed 

Her voluptuous form, 

ever-so-slightly-sheathed 

in a robe that draped her waist 

and hung off her shoulder, 


playing 

peek-a-boo 

Blonde ringlets 

coifed at the nape of her slender 

neck... 

a stray curl kissing her cheek. 

She was a Natural 

She was a Model 

Oh. 

but not so much 

And not for long. 

One day she fell 

Tumbled from her pedestal, 

Tangled, wrapped mummy-like 

in her ivory shroud 

Her flawless image shattered. 

You see, 

fame 

and renown 

and such trivial things as 

Beauty 

can go to one’s head 

implanting the seedlings 

of ideas 

of ponderings 

that ferment. 

The Model cannot just be set 

cross-legged on a shelf 

to be gazed at 

to be smiled at, 

and wondered at... Oh no. 

The Model wants more. 

She wants to prove 

how much more she can do 

how much more she can become. 

This was the new rule 

and She was no Exception 

She could not settle on being 

a body in the spotlight 

Isolated, elevated...Definitely not. 

She desired to be an Entity, 

a life in the spotlight 

Intermingling with her worshipers 

Graceful Woman 

Danielle Brutto

To Walk Along a Sidewalk 

Carolyn Hernadez 

And so The Model fell 

onto the Silverscreen 

into the Party Scene 

smack into the middle 

of the 21st Century 

She fell in love with 

The Camera--- 

their affair nearly 

destroyed her 

She flirted with The Media 

she yanked it onto the dance floor, 

dodging publicity stunts, handbag lines, 

cosmetic chains, book signings, 

movie premieres, night clubs,,,,,,, 

She whirled and twirled 

Spinning out of control 

Under the Pressure 

Until she ran dead on into REALITY 

And it crushed her. 

You see, 

we are but human, 

--even The Model 

humans must acknowledge 

that REALITY exists 

--even The Model 

REALITY looms overhead 

Daunting, mocking 

REALITY is a jealous force 

--of even The Model 

REALITY feels threatened 

when challenged 

by Overachievers 

by Goal-Setters 

by Dabblers 

by Artistes 

--by even The Model 

all who question 

the authenticity of REALITY, 

who defy it, deny it, push it to its Limit 

forcing it to finally 

push back. 

had acted the part, 

but lost pie ce s of h er sel f 

in the characters 

She had ridden the tortuous wave 

of the Parties, the Concerts, 

the Bars 

and it drowned her 

---She was washed up--- 

onto the shore, 

onto the pages of 

The Magazine, 

with her hair ripped 

her robes tattered 

her body in shreds. 

Focused in the Camera Lens 

ready for her photo shoot: 

The Model peers furtively 

from behind her Mask 

of animal waste and 

byproduct make-up 

her greasy, hairspray crusted, 

chopped up locks 

screen her from the harsh glare of 

the Lights 

Her bony chin tilts, her heavy eyes 

d 

r 

o 

o 

p 

her spine curves, her knobby knees bend 

right angles, she angles 

towards the camera 

She is a skeletal form, 

worn out, 

painted up, 

decked out, 

propped up. 

Once upon a time 

There was an Idol 

perched upon a pedestal. 

And oh, does it. 

The Model had danced herself, 

(gaunt and haggard) 

over the e 

dge 

Turn the page of Vogue 

and She’s a Doll 

propped up on a stool. 

Thank-you REALITY. 


7


Still Life of Toys 

Megan Kisling

The Giving Tree 

Andrea Bessey 


9

The Complete Buffoon’s Guide to Being an Indie Rocker 

by Ijeoma Okoro 

You’re tired of MTV’s mainstream music offal. You’re nauseated by the 

overproduction of bogus boy bands and bubble gum pop princesses. You want to be 

edgier… hipper… independent! But you don’t know how to start? Don’t worry! Just 

follow these simple instructions so that you too can join the secret society of 

the Indie rock hipsters who cast their disdainful glowers upon the pedestrian music 

industry. 

If you want to play the part of an Indie rocker, you need to look like one. Don’t 

let people fool you into believing looks don’t matter- they are wrong. Smack them 

upside the head and shut your ears whenever they start on their inner beauty 

harangue. To create this rocker persona you need to develop a complete disregard 

for hygiene. Who needs combed hair and clear skin? If you have any makeup or stylish 

jewelry, throw it out. If you own any designer labels, give them away. If you possess 

anything that could possibly be linked to a current trend, get rid of them .Everyone 

knows Indie rockers never wear anything more than vintage, undersized t-shirts 

in vibrant colors. Hot pink, neon green, and purple work, but avoid white and black. 

A white t-shirt looks forced and awkward while black is more suited for the Goth 

scene. Also the correct pair of pants can distinguish a phony from the real deal. 

A tattered pair of jeans is usually the easiest solution, but even those are much 

too obvious. To be a true Indie rocker, you must procure and wear Dickies. The more 

ragged they are, the better. Make sure you have your second- hand Converse All- 

Stars. And no outfit is complete without a few strategically positioned buttons 

expressing your contempt for the capitalist system, the name of your favorite 

obscure band, or a cartoon from your childhood. Be careful! Too many buttons 

arranged in a distinct geometric shape shows too much consideration went into 

your outfit layout and that would completely undermine your Indie guise. 

So you’ve got the hair and outfit down? Well, you’re nowhere near the finish 

line. It takes more than bed head hair and a tight t-shirt to pass of as an Indie 

rocker. Looks aren’t the only thing! To successfully pull of the façade you need to 

work the attitude. Everyone knows Indie rockers never show emotions beyond the 

scope of boredom, indifference, and condescension. Always keep your shoulders 

hunched, your voice dripping with disdain, and your eyelids droopy hidden behind 

thick black reading glasses. Your posture tells a lot about yourself. It’s best to 

keep a nonchalant stance at all times no matter what the situation. Even when 

you’re engaged in an intense discussion evaluation the best albums of the Velvet 

Underground and the Stooges, maintain an appearance of utter insouciance. When 

you look like you care, you’re obviously not a true Indie rocker. 

But the key element to the Indie rocker brain is revulsion for all things un-Indie. 

If you find yourself singing along to the local pop station’s latest remix of “Toxic” 


Face 

Colleen Smith

y Britney 

Spears, donate 

your radio to 

charity. If you 

have a favorite 

character 

from MTV’s 

Real World 

series, kick in 

your television 

set. If you 

get a monthly 

subscription of 

any periodical 

that has age 

references 

in the title 

including and 

not limited to Seventeen, Teen People, and Teen Vogue, don’t burn 

them because that would be harming the environment (which is so 

un-Indie), but recycle them immediately. Everyone knows Indie rockers never allow 

mainstream influences pollute their superior nonconformist minds. You are required 

to absorb only obscure alternative music that no one has ever heard of, but you 

Wetland Wonder 

James Watters 

must dropped them as soon as they become famous. You cannot mention bands like 

Violent Femmes or Pixies because everyone is familiar with their music. Randomly 

throw in an esoteric band name like Galaxie 500 during an Indie rocker gathering 

and you get instantaneous acclaim. Also, true Indie rockers participate only in antimainstream 

activities. The best way to expose your maverick side is by protesting. 

It doesn’t matter what you’re protesting exactly, just as long as it appears to be a 

profound problem or social matter that is not in accordance with the Indie mode of 

thinking. Create a catchy slogan or jargon for your issue and you get bonus points. 

But if your issue or slang becomes too popular than you lose all your Indie cred 

(Indie-speak for credibility). 

Have you rejected old hygiene habits? Are you dressed in an eccentric 

outfit found in the bottom barrels of your local thrift store? Have you perfected 

your jaded facial expression? Do you only listen to unknown alternative bands on 

dedicated music labels? Have you picketed at a bizarre demonstration? If you 

answered “yes” to all these questions then dust off your Chuck Taylor’s and pat 

yourself on the back- you are officially and Indie rocker! But remember don’t be too 

excited. That would mean you are trying to look cooler than you actually are. And 

everyone knows there is no greater sin the Indie world. 


11

A Still Life of Life 

Mary Ellen Hogan 


Pretty Peppers 

Shannon Barnes


Roses 

Lauren Dick 

13

Alone 

Lauren Lightfoot 

The pungent odor of decaying flesh 

encroaches my nose. I do not see the source. I 

scream and yelp and nearly choke yet no one comes to 

save me from this nightmare. My family. Dead. Everyone I 

love in the world. Gone. They left me alone. 

I wander from house to house, neighborhood to neighborhood, 

city to city and find cars, homes, and streets filles with dead bodies. 

I do not know the causes of their deaths. I am the last person on earth 

and it’s not as exciting as I thought it would be. 

This world betrays my precious illusions. It was not this way in my dreams. 

I am supposed to be able to do what I want for as long as I want without 

consequence and they are supposed to pop in and out whenever I need them. 

They do not pop in. They are not retuning to me. Visions of fairies and stardust do 

not cloud my mind. My friends do not fill this world, emptiness does. This world is 

abandoned. Deserted. And I am all of those things as well. No laughter fills my heart. 

Not a tear of joy leaves my eye. There are tears, however. They fall silently as I 

realize that my screams and sighs will not be heard by anyone. 

Why did this have to happen to me? Maybe I wished for it once or twice, but 

never seriously. What did I do wrong? I wish I could take back every cruel thing I ever 

said 

I do not deserve this. 

I try to retrace my thoughts in my head. Maybe there is a solution. An answer. 

Sadly, I cannot think of one. Everyday in school I can spit out answers left and 

right. Who killed Desdemona? What is a common ion? I know those answers. This 

should be no different, but it is. I can’t remember. I can’t piece together my 

memories well enough to know what I did to bring this upon myself. I can’t even 

pull myself together well enough to stand up and stop crying in the middle of 

the street. Where should I go? 

Maybe this a dream. Maybe I’m only imagining this. 

I race back to my home and climb into my bed. The thick comforter 

and pillows swallow my fragile body whole. 

Sleep is my only deliverance and with this deliverance 

comes peace, complacency, and stillness. All things that 

this world lacks, with or without people. All things 

that I have searched for only to cause more 

chaos and disorders. My search is over 

now. I am free to dream. 

John 

Anna Kramer 


The Office Park 

Sarah Asip 


Very Watery Nature 

Mallory Phillips 

15


Intentions 

Laura Papania

Stairs and Art 

Bradley Handziuk 

To Play Bagpipes 

Pierre Watson 


17

By:Shauna Stuart 

Will you sign my yearbook? 

As my second year at St. Pius X Catholic 

High School draws to a close, I begin to reflect on 

sophomore year, and I wonder What exactly have 

I done this year? I have reflected on this school 

year’s past experiences, but it wouldn’t be so easy 

without the help of my trusty yearbook. Every 

year, the week before school ends, the students at 

St. Pius are given a yearbook, whether we want it 

or not (we all pay a 100 dollar yearbook fee at the 

beginning of the year, so it would be stupid not to 

take one). We all crowd around the huge table while 

the journalism students hurriedly try to find a name 

and cross it out. When we 

finally get our yearbooks, 

we all rush off to our 

corners with our friends 

to sign them and giggle 

over the pictures. This 

is a tradition and we all 

love it, but I still wonder: 

What exactly makes a 

yearbook so special in 

the first place? 

When we first 

get the yearbook, we 

all complain a little bit 

too loudly about how 

‘bad’ we look because our faces were too shiny or 

our hair wasn’t lying exactly right that day we had 

our pictures taken. We either smiled too much so 

we look fake, or smiled too little so we look angry. 

Whatever the reasons we have for not liking our 

pictures, we always protest adamantly about our 

friends looking at our school photos. At the same 

time, we practically turn to the same page it is on 

in the yearbook and say, “Don’t look at it! I look so 

bad!” even though we really don’t think we look that 

awful. We are human beings. We search endlessly 

for compliments to feed our need egos and to feel 

accepted. So when our friends say, “No you look 

really cute in this picture” we smile and say, “Thanks” 

because we secretly thought so all along. 

Next, there is the yearbook signing. Yearbook 

signing may not seem like a huge deal, but there is 

more to signing a yearbook than simply writing a 


message and a name. There is an art to signing a 

yearbook. Signing a yearbook does not simply involve 

writing. It also involves body language. For example, 

if a person singles you out in a crowd of people and 

asks you to sign his or her yearbook, then that 

person obviously really cares about your friendship. 

On the other hand, if you just happen to be standing 

there when he asks someone else, he may just ask 

you to sign it because he doesn’t want to be rude. 

Once you and another person actually exchange 

yearbooks, thinking about what to sign can be very 

difficult. If the person is a good acquaintance, but 

not one of your closest 

friends, you may not 

want to write too short a 

message because it might 

give the impression of being 

indifferent and impersonal. 

Then again, if you write 

a message that is too 

long and sentimental, the 

person may think that you 

Sunflower 

Brooke Stoker 

are too clingy. To solve 

this problem, you may 

peek over the cover of the 

other person’s yearbook 

that you are signing and 

watch him or her sign yours so you can get an idea 

about how long your message should be. Signing a 

good friend’s yearbook can prove to be even more 

difficult. You and a friend may have a wonderful and 

fun-filled year full of classes, parties, sleepovers, 

and conversations in the hallway. But I guarantee 

you, once it comes time for you to sign that friend’s 

yearbook; you will not have a clue what to write. So 

you will give it back to your friend and say, “I’ll sign it 

later, so I can think of something really good. Just 

reserve that page for me.” What you are really 

thinking in your head is, “What can I possibly say 

that can take up a full page?” When you finally do 

sign that friend’s yearbook, you use a paragraph 

to write about how great the year was, another 

paragraph for private jokes that only the two of you 

share, and yet another paragraph about how great 

the year was.

Of course, one can’t forget the special sign 

off to make one’s message truly special. There is 

always the original, “Luv ya” or “C ya later”. “Sincerely” 

always sounds so formal, but “from” sounds so 

plain. Of course, there is the dreaded and overused 

“H.A.G.S.” which stands for “Have A Great Summer”. 

Whoever made 

up that acronym 

should be shot. 

Nevertheless, 

the sign off 

is always 

important. It’s 

like the cherry 

perched atop the 

whipped cream 

of the ice-cream 

sundae. Without 

the perfect sign 

off, a message 

just isn’t right. 

Everyone 

wants to sign 

a yearbook or 

have a yearbook 

signed. An 

underlying goal 

of us all is to 

accumulate as 

many signatures 

as possible. If 

we ask someone 

to sign our 

yearbook and we 

don’t have a lot of 

signatures yet, 

we may casually 

say, “Oh. I just 

got it, so not 

a lot of people 

have signed it 

yet.” People never ask, but a person signing your 

yearbook may do that preliminary “flip” through the 

front and back covers, appearing to be searching for 

room to sign. While this person is “searching” for 

room, he or she is actually subconsciously looking 

to see how many signatures you have and checking 

to see if he or she has more than you do. 

Like with every popular situation or fad, there 

are always the rebels. When you ask them to sign your 

yearbook, these so-called yearbook rebels always 

say, “I’m not into the whole yearbook ‘thing’, but I 

guess I can make an exception.” Then they casually 

take your yearbook, sign it lackadaisically, and hang 

it back to you, as if it were no big deal. These people 

would gladly sign your yearbook, but not offer you 

A Musical Life 

Laura Papania 


theirs. 

These 

same 

people 

feel 

flattered 

when they are 

asked to sign a 

yearbook, just 

like 

everyone 

else. It is 

human nature 

to feel needed 

and accepted. 

Signing a 

y e a r b o o k 

m a k e s 

someone feel 

special. Even if 

they aren’t into 

the yearbook 

“thing” they 

still feel happy 

to sign it. 

S o m e t i m e s , 

living can 

make a person 

feel invisible, 

especially being 

in high school. 

People are so 

busy trying 

to find where 

they fit in that 

they don’t have 

a chance to 

recognize you, 

much less themselves. It is like the world is a stage, 

but no one is watching the production because we 

are all too busy acting to notice the show has 

started. Sooner or later, someone will notice you. 

That person will pick you out of the crowd and watch 

with an “inner” eye. That person will see you, and 

you will see them. And they will ask you, “Will you 

sign my yearbook?” 

19

It is the first day of Kindergarten at St. 

John Neumann School, and I am standing with 

my mother just inside the doorway of my new 

classroom with my new teacher, who is advancing 

towards me to shake my hand. I step backwards 

as she steps forwards, retreating into the hallway. 

My backward motion is halted by a bump and a 

soft exclamation of surprise. 

Whirling around to 

face this new peril, I 

fearfully look up into the 

face of my 

attacker. I am met by 

the 

kindest pair of eyes 

I have ever seen 

and a wonderfully 

comforting smile. 

This is no fiend; 

this is a nice 

old lady with a 

pair of large 

glasses 

perched on 

her nose 

and a 

crown 

of neatly 

trimmed gray 

hair. I could stay 

standing there just looking at her, 

examining the way her large silver cross 

shines in the fluorescent lighting or the intricacy 

of the fine wrinkles that frame her eyes, but my 

mother immediately appears behind me, urging me 

to apologize for my minor collision. After a moment 

or two of listening to me stammer an attempt at 

an apology, she rescues me with a light laugh and 

“That’s quite all right, dear. Welcome to St. John 

Neumann. My name is Sister Rita.” 

“A sister,” I think. “I’ve always wanted one of 

those.” This is the first lesson she taught me: you 

can never underestimate the power of a smile. 

Seven years later, I am standing on the 

altar steps, rehearsing for the annual school 

pageant on the life of St. Marguerite D’Youville, 

foundress of the Grey Nuns. Slowly and carefully, I 


Rita’s Lessons 

Laura deGive 

pronounce the syllables of Marguerite’s Magnificat. 

Sr. Rita is working with some of the younger 

pageant participants behind me, herding them 

around like a mother duck. “Good, Marguerite!” she 

calls over her shoulders as I finish the studiously 

memorized speech. 

Coming around the altar, she moves 

towards me, ready to offer her advice on how to 

improve my presentation. Then, as if in slow motion, 

she slips and falls backwards, an expression of 

surprise on her delicate features. A cry of alarm 

escapes my lips, but as I start to move to her side, 

the teachers in attendance rush forward and 

hover over her, demanding to know 

if she is all right. I change 

course and usher 

the children 

behind me 

off of the 

altar, and 

then I sprint 

as quickly as 

I can to the 

school’s front 

office to get 

help. Realizing that 

there is nothing 

A Child’s Innocence 

Chris Philpott 

more I can physically 

do for her, I wonder 

what she would want 

to be doing. In an instant 

me 

I have it. 

Rita’s 

second lesson: when you 

find yourself in a crisis, pray, pray, and pray some 

more. 

After a time spent in recovery, Rita visits 

the school. I glimpse her from the other end of 

the hallway; she is surrounded by teachers and 

staff wanting to know if she will be better soon 

and whether she needs anything. Amazed, I stand 

apart from the group and watch her patiently 

answer each person with humility and kindness/ 

the bright smile on her face extend to her eyes, 

which are crinkled at the corners in cheerfulness. I

know that if I had been in the middle of that much 

condescension, I would have been more than a little 

prickly. I realize that she knew how worried we had 

all been about her and that at that moment people 

surrounding her needed to be comforted. This 

was her third lesson to me: in a trying situation, 

be humble, patient, and above all compassionate, 

because you never know what the other party is 

going through at the time. 

When the day of the pageant rolls around, I 

find myself standing in her tiny office, dressed as 

St. Marguerite D’Youville. Even though I have been 

to countless rehearsals and spent many evenings 

fixing the words of the speech in my mind, my 

hands are shaking from nervousness. Rita looks at 

me, carefully adjusting my veil, and I wonder 

why on Earth she picked me to be her 

Marguerite. I am so afraid 

that I will disappoint 

her. Her warm 

hands enclose 

mine, steadying 

the, she gives 

me her ever ready 

smile. Then, silently, 

she unclasps her 

silver cross from 

around her neck and 

fastens it around mine. 

Reverently, I touch the 

cross, and then I throw my 

arms around her neck. She 

laughs a little and hugs me 

back, and I realize that I am 

no longer afraid. 

Lesson number four: fear 

can only truly 

be conquered by love. 

I am standing in my high school’s chapel, 

between Sr. Rita and my old grade school principal, 

Sr. Dawn. We are posing for pictures after a Mass 

of Thanksgiving offered for the Grey Nuns in 

Atlanta. I haven’t spoken to Rita in person for at 

least two years, and I am anxious as to what she 

will think of me. Dawn half-jokes: “The retired sister, 

the active sister, and the sister to be. Aren’t we a 

sight?” 

I glance at Rita, wondering what her reaction 

will be to this statement. “Now, Dawny,” Rita says 

with a smile, “Don’t pressure her. That’s the Holy 

Spirit’s job.” I smile with relief. 

Hidden in those lines is Rita’s fifth bit of 

wisdom: never attempt to take on any of God’s 

responsibilities. 

A breeze wafts through the trees on a calm 

evening in the summer of 2004. Taking a deep 

breath, I walk through the doors of the church. 

There are many familiar faces in the tiny crowded 

vestibule. My eyes fall on Dawn, standing to the 

side with a line of 

people winding 

around her. 

Her eyes are red 

from crying. I blink 

hard. The news 

of Rita’s death 

had come very 

suddenly and 

harshly to 

me because 

I had been 

unaware 

of the 

A Loving Mother’s Touch 

Lauren Elliott 

severity of 

her illness and I heard 

of her passing weeks after the 

funeral through a newspaper article. The 

church chosen for her memorial Mass in Atlanta 

is of a moderately large size, but I know that her 

friends will fill every pew. 

I wait in Dawn’s line, wondering what I will say 

to her when it is my turn. The tidal wave of grief 

threatening to overwhelm me must be nothing like 

what is filling Dawn’s heart. Then I am standing in 

front of Dawn, who is vigorously wiping her eyes. 

When Dawn sees me, she exclaims, “Here’s one that 

Rita loved!” and embraces me. For a moment, we 

stand there crying together, and then she breaks 

away to talk with the next person in line. 

Rita’s final lesson: love is eternal. 


21

Jackson 

Erin Conboy 


Playtime 

Brenna Berling

Day After Rain 

Stephanie Sizemore 


23


Silver Bells 

Mary Ellen Hogan

All You Need Is Love 

Emily Sutlive 


25

El Tucán y Su Naríz 

Andrea Bessey 

Frog 

Taylor Davidson 

Los tucanes son aves con narices muy grandes y coloridas. No es la 

verdad que las narices siempre hayan sido asi. Habia una vez cuando las 

narices parecian normales con una tallas pequenas. Sin embargo, cuando 

ellos empezaban comer el cereal de los Fruit Loops, sus vidas cambiaron 

por siempre. 

Un tucan con una nariz pequena y sin colores brillantes comia 

frecuentamente los Fruit Loops, porque, como todoa los tucanes, le 

gustaba comer frutas. (Los tucanes no se preocupan por su salud y 

comen comida con mucho azucar.) Un dia por la manana, este tucan 

queria comer Fruit Loops otra vez, pero solo. El era muy avaro, decidio 

que el se levantaria mas temprano que los otros. Luego, el podria comer 

todos los Fruit Loops sin compartir. “Es necesario que yo los comsuma 

rapidamente,” el tucan penso. Si los otros tucanes nunca vinieran, el 

terminaria comer su desayuno antes ellos se despertaron. Por lo tanto, el 

se apresuro y entonces, sufrio las consecuencias. 

Durante este proceso, mientras el se apresuraba con avaricia, po 


accidente, su nariz se puso en el 

centro de unos Fruit Loops. Era 

muy doloroso para el tucan. El 

estaba solo y no podia remover 

se nariz de los Fruit Loops. “Nariz,” 

el dijo, “Trabajemos juntos para 

removernos. Uno, dos, tres… 

!Vamos!” El tiro los Fruit Loops, 

pero ellos no movian. “!Ojala 

que los Fruit Loops no 

esten sobre me nariz 

para siempre!” el se 

dijo. El intento 

por muchos 

diea hasta 

que 

estaba tenida de varios colores de 

los Fruit Loops, como anaranjado, 

amarillo, rojo, verde, y azul. Este 

tucan era muy codicioso, y habia 

querido comer todos los Fruit 

Loops para su desayuno, todos los 

tucanes hoy tienen unas narices 

grandes y de colores brillantes. 

Para prevenir otra 

situacion similar, los 

tucanes ahora son 

muy sociables y 

siempre viajan en 

grupos de 6 o 

mas. Si un 

amigo 

Life Quilt 

Lindsey DiRito 

tucan 

finalmente, 

los Fruit Loops 

salieron. El estaba 

muy emocionado 

quee los Fruit Loops 

hayan sido removido por 

fun. El no estaria como alegre 

con los resultados. 

Era desmasiado tarde. Los 

Fruit Loops habian estado en su nariz 

por mucho tiempo y, por lo tanto, su 

nariz estaba muy hinchada. Tambien, 

los colores de los Fruit Loops habian 

sangrado sobre su nariz y ella 

necesitara 

ayuda con 

este accidente, 

los otros estarian 

alli para asistirle. 

No es seguro que los 

tucanes esten solos. 

Con la ayuda de otros en un 

grupo, ellos no se descoloraran 

o agrandaran otras partes de sus 

cuerpos. Es la razon que el tucan 

mas famoso del mundo, Tucan Sam, 

siempre esta con sus sobrinos 

jovenes. 


27


Footprint in the Sand 

Taylor Jackson

Contributions and Support 

SPONSOR (up to $24) 

FRIENDS ($25 - $49) 

Mary Jean Good 

Randy and Mary Hanzlick 

Tom and Weesi Kisger 

Deborah Coroman and Steve Pettie 

Jane Grutchfield-Groenier 

Christie and Nate Jones 

Mary Ann and Thomas Creagan 

Jennifer and Phillip Carver 

Joe and Kay Greenwood 

Mr. Stan Bird 

Mr. Mike Scirocco 

Grummer-Strawn Family 

Debra Thiele 

Matt Lammers 

Gail Goodman 

Georges Jeanty 

Lunch Room Staff of Mrs. Green, 

Mrs. Birmingham, and Mrs. Variano 

Nancy and Steve Bittner 

Virginia and Bill Lane 

Steve and Debby Lackley 

Frank and Jackie Walsh 

David and Beth Summers 

Jenn and Chuck Martel 

Charlene Klister 

Posid Family 

Chris and Tina Press 

Ernie and Shirley Byron 

Williams Family 

Rebekah Jennings Murphy 

AJ McCray 

Donny Magana 

Tyler Aardema 

Shauna Stuart 

Caroline de Golian 

Casey and Remington Reynolds 

Anthony LaPaglia 

Colleen and Michael LaPaglia 

Carol Magana 

Peter and Mary Ann Green 

CLUB ($50 - $99) 

David and Cecilia Edwards 

Peyton Family 

Bob and Rosalie Carlston 

Steve and Julie Byron 

Gretchen and Joe Conboy 

Ron and JoAnne Maloney 

Rob and Diane McLaughlin 

Steve and Dee Stoker 

George and Judy Walton 

Cyndi Nevetral 

Jim Walsh 

Steve and Patrice Pendergast 

Honors ($100+) 

John and Susan Euart 

Jon Aardema 

TGIF Potato Snacks 

Joel Quartarone 

John Bekkers 

Paul and Lynn Darcy 

Pat and Bob Timm 

Halpern Enterprises 

Berling Associates 


29

The House 

Molly de Gorgue 

Harmony 

Kendall Broussard

Carpe Diem - St. Pius X Catholic High School

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