Show Me The Way To Go Home By Don Farris Alcoholism (three beers multiplied by a thousand and one nights) by degrees ascend like the old-fashioned stair bound for the attic of the abandoned house, and when the "soak" arrives he finds the attic is still there. He rattles around in its emptiness until, probing everywhere in search of nothing at all, finally out the paneless window he tumbles. I speak through experience and state this not in bragging but only because it is imperative that the reader sees the statements have been thoroughly attested and are really cold fact. But in this commentary I will not try to excuse myself, and if some such thought creeps in it will be from an entirely subconscious desire to feel a reason for it all. Maybe just possibly you yourself have gone, or will go, through this too. To be entirely cosy, let me take you up the escalator with me arm in arm . . . hic .... Often the drinking starts during an evening with some friends. The first drink is mixed with something sweet; yet it still tastes raw and you cannot understand why anyone likes the stuff. This is the time to stop, right now. Of course, you do not. It cannot get hold of you. And it does make a party a little more pleasant. The evening passes much more swiftly. Best of all, the drinks actually do not bother you. Days and nights pass; more pleasant evenings slip by. And then you find this sweet, sickening liquid you mix your whiskey with is becoming unbearable. You want something different. Ah, there it is: soda or sour is best. You can finally taste your drink. It is not like a cherry soda at the corner drug store any more. My, but it is nice to get out of an evening. For the first time you find you can think. Being a witty conversationalist is not hard at all. Here is life starting all over again. Weeks and months pass in this state, and then you notice you are looking forward to those pleasing hours you spend in the company of a few friends and the extra party on the table. You find that after one or two drinks a door opens in your mind and those little men come tumbling out. No, not hallucinations but just thoughts . . . weird imaginings ... no feelings for anyone else . . . just a thought for yourself and your smooth flowing friend. By now you are taking your drinks straight. "None of that damned stuff in mine if you please!" You tend to stay by yourself and begrudge the least little bit of time you have to give to a friend, for in this stage there is really only one friend now. And he gets inside you and makes you warm and contented and most peaceful when left entirely alone. From now on it is just neglect of yourself and everything that has meant anything to you. This is the stage you cannot beat. If you are on the short path to this condition, do not laugh it off. Stop now! Don't let it get .... Pardon me, there is the phone. "Hello .... Oh, yes, John. How are you? Fine, thanks .... Tonight? Sure .... Ten minutes .... Wabash club .... I'll be there. So long." Pick Up Your Bed An Editorial By Darrell S. Willey Man is like the oceanic tides, rising and falling, forever shifting through the ages in an effort to put his mark higher on the rock cliffs of the shoreline. From his efforts come great fortunes or comparative wealth or at least independence. From his restless hours have come the long list of machines which lighten man's day-by-day labors. Come also from his innate restlessness the space-eaters such as the automobile, airplane, jet propulsion and atomic power. In physical matters, coupled with the natural wealth of the earth, man's progress is unquestioned. In these realms, he becomes himself a god, if it be not sacrilege to say so. Socially he has also made far-steps, we must concede, though we may first see chiefly losses. His progress here includes care for the aged, improvements in medicine, dissemination of educational privileges. Negatively may be listed the inevitability of war, the increase in divorce so that nationally two out of five marriages are failures. Internationally, it is understood that England would gladly return India to the Indians if the natives knew what to do with it. China is impotent with its tremendous populace, suffering from famine, lack of transportation, internecine conflict. Germany, one of the most forward scientifically of all nations, showed herself the most barbarous of all in World War II. At the crossroads of unrest, herself subject to unrest and uncertainty, stands democracy, of which the presently rated greatest nation on earth, the United States is the apostle. Our viewpoint in this country is that if the peoples of such lands as these, including this one, would shoulder their responsibilities to see that foreign and domestic policies of their countries square with their own individual consciences, then the world would take a big step forward. Our restlessness should be subdued to the cause of human betterment, which itself may well be something of an endlessly recurring fight. Preliminary to all this, is the prerequisite of somehow educating the populace of all lands to social conscience so that not only will they work for good government everywhere but also they will draw back before an individual course of action harmful to others. Let us not do things, as far as we know, to consciously bring unhappiness and misery to others. We think that education is largely the answer to the world's ills. We think also that democratic processes, though seeming often at fault and faltering in our own country, are the best means of giving the common man a voice after education has given him a will. The immense problems of our own country and other countries are, accordingly, largely in the hands of the individual, we feel. Consequently, the scriptural suggestion Page Eighteen The Traitors By Marjorie Hill The keenest of the Indian braves, A hundred years ago, Departed after tribal prayers, With arrow and with bow, While anxious tribesmen watched for signs Of how the hunt did go. My father started off today With all his hunting gear, While we, rememb'ring venison We ate for weeks last year, Sent up a silent, pleading prayer Don't let him get a deer!" Page Nineteen