Winner Of Thistle Writing Contest TO BE SO GRANDPA’S DEAD | SMART by Ann by Greg Sanders Perhaps one of the most unpublished aspects of a school is the debate team. Composed of the most intelligent and arrogant student, the Gebators show themselves to be a rare breed. Their unofficial yell— We will yell and we will bitch! Our big mouths will make us rich! —typifies their character. Debaters are smart and they know it. What hurts them is that no one else knows it. Because they defend their school Just as the football team does but without recognition, debaters are always quick to flaunt their accomplishments. They believe in the old adage, “If you don’t blow your own horn, no one else will!’ In spite of a lack of support, they carry on bravely. It’s not easy to stand before a judge in an empty room and talk to him for twevlve minutes with the sole purpose of convincing him that crime isn’t affecting him. Inner rivalry shows to be as catty as two women at a party with the same dress: “How many negative cards do you have?” “Three.” “Really, we just received a mail-order file of 588!” “You’re that lazy, huh?” Another example: ‘Doesn’t he ever shut-up? That five minute oration is going on twenty!”’ “T guess not. You could cut his head off and the voice would keep echoing out!” ‘My that was a great talk! Is the Union Pacific really that long?” Now let’s look at the teams themselves. How two opposite characters inevitable end up together exceeds comprehension. ‘“‘Where’s our affirmative plan?” “T loaned it to X and Y.”’ “But that’s whom we’re debating 1? “T know, but they asked so nicely.”’ It has been said before a debate starts: “What are you doing showing up in a green paisley vest, blue tie, and orange socks?” “I want to appear distinctive.” Actually teamwork shows in their work: “T’ll carry the Newsweeks in my briefcase and you carry the sand- wiches and pop in yours.” During a debate many notes are passed between partners. Often observers wonder what earth-shattering information is being passed. Some examples are: “If you don’t pull your zipper up, we’re going to lose this one!” “Is that Judge good-looking, or is she good-looking?”’ “T have to go to work in ten minutes.” “Did you have to quote Playboy?” After the debate is over and the team has discovered that they’ve won, they always have the same comment: “It was nothing!” 32 ‘ A maple, leaves. around hand. Manful thin haze glazed the afternoon sky, diffusing the sun’s rays. Trees, Russian olive, and oak shadded the cemetery. A breeze rustled the Orange and gold leaves sprinkled the grass. A group of people stood a grave site. Shirl, a girl eight years old, held onto her father’s They stood behind two folding chairs. Seated on the folding chairs were Shirl’s mother and grandmother. “Daddy,” Shirl stood on her toes. ““What’s going to happen now?” She looked at her father. He seemed so tall. Although he had shaved that morning, his chin and cheeks were darker than the rest of his face because his beard grew He looked down, so fast. “They’re going to bury your Grandfather.” Shirl leaned on her heels. They sank into the grass, still wet from the morning rain. She took a deep breath of air. She could smell the wet grass mixed with rotting leaves. Shirl looked at her Aunt Myra, who was standing a few feet away. Aunt Myra dabbed at the corner of her eyes with a man’s handkerchief. Her dyed gray hair had a bluish tone to it. Layers of fat hung limp from her chin. She wore a heavy black coat that went to the middle of the calf of her leg. The coat hung open, showing a black dress. There was practically no difference in the thickest part of the calf and her ankle. Fat over- lapped the barriers of Myra’s shoes. Apparently Myra saw Shirl looking at her so she gave her a big grin. As she smiled, deep wrinkles formed from her nose to the corners of her mouth. Shirl looked away. Six pallbearers, each wearing a fez, carried in a bronze colored coffin. They set it down on a platform covered with black tarpaulin. Shirl felt sorry for the men. They looked too old to carry anything so heavy. One pallbearer was taller than the rest. His face was covered with lacelike wrinkles. The skin from his Adam’s apple hung like a rooster’s wattle. Shirl pointed at the coffin, “Is Grandpa still in that box, Daddy?” ‘ eae I explained it all to you last night,” he said wrinkling his foreead. Shirl stared at the coffin, trying to imagine what her grandpa looked like. She tried to remember when she last saw him alive. It was a couple of years ago when she was four or five. Her father worked in a summer camp on Lake Erie while Shirl and her mother stayed in Toledo, Ohio, with her grandparents. Every evening Shirl and her Grandpa would sit on the porch. Grandpa always sat in a rocking chair smoking. Shirl would try to imitate him by rolling a piece of paper and putting it in her mouth. She’d get mad because the end didn’t glow. Grandpa would just laugh. Shirl looked up at the sky. The cloud cover had become thicker so that none of the sun’s rays shone through. Shirl’s hand that was held by her father was warm, but the other was cold. She raised her arm into her coat sleeve so that the cold hand didn’t show. | The Reverend Lindquist walked to the front of the people and stood beside the casket. The Reverend’s crew-cut hair was gray at the temples. He had deep lines on his forehead yet he didn’t have any wrinkles around, his mouth. He looked around at the people then took a deep breath raising the muscles in his chest. He cleared his throat and said, ‘Let us bow 33