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Summer School Announcements

By Jacquelyn M. Crews

All students must vacate dormitories by 2 p.m., August 19. Keys should be returned to the custodian and linen to the linen deposits. All students must return keys and linen as well as leave their rooms in a clean condition in order to have the $25 deposit returned in September. The Freshman Union will close after dinner on Friday. Any student leaving early should see their proctor.


1st Place Savages (Michael Livingston.   Freeman Montague, Errol Bailey   Haskell Humes, Rudy Russell)

2nd Place   Stoughton Studs


1st Place   Stoughton Spikers   (Karl Rogers, John Kelly   Paul Sutton, Eddie Brock,   Dan Davies, Dave Yates,   Jay Garcia, Bob Roberts,   Emory Robinson, Steve Ecker)


1st Place   Matthews South

The results of the Summer School Poetry Competition have been decided by judges Gail Mazur, Margot Lockwood, Carol Oles and Peter Theroux. A first prize of $50 was awarded to Jacquelyn M. Crews for her poem "Rebecca," which is printed below. A second prize of $20 each went to Marcia Hulley for her entire collection and to Michael Wasserman for his poem, "To An Autistic Boy." Julia L. Fein and Steven Albert received honorable mentions. The Summer School Photography Competition was cancelled due to insufficient entries.


In the evenings after supper I hate him least, when the rheum in his blind eyes looks less like weakness, an impassive twilight severity in his backbone. He sits alone as I am alone, feeling the heat of the sand warm the sun-fallen air.

When we were most apart, we sat together on his purple rug listening to the bleat of lams and ewes, listening for our children. He listened for Esau. His beloved Esau. The elder son. As though first were sum of all the parts. As though life were nothing more than a transparent fluid for passing on the seed of Abraham. And he was jealous for that, content to be the shadow of an eagle as I never was.

Not that I was ambitious.

I came from Ur already bound his bride, came with my impulsive ways, offering water to the servant and his camel. Why shouldn't I offer? I wasn't afraid. My tongue was a lithe muscle to welcome or harass. I wasn't afraid to come a thousand miles to marry the son of Abraham, join his caravan of vagabonds.

To the rolling gait of the camel I dreamed his face: neck muscles, taut; eyes, direct, alert. But when we approached the camp he stood tallow beside the iron of his father, his beard combed so, his eyes on the servant, never on me. I was not prepared for the courteous awkwardness of his hands on my robe, his lips like a slug. He loved me with the cowed need of an abused child.

One night I slipped from his bed and threw stones at the camel that brought me here till its bellows woke the camp.

Esau was the hunger, the simple, direct son. I preferred the imaginative one, the smooth, clever Jacob who sat in my tent watching the rages of Isaac turn first on the son within himself, the pitiful kitten fathered by a lion, careful of its stride, watching slow rage then turn on us like the thunder of winter sleet driving in from the mountains. So it wasn't for Jacob alone I schemed to steal Esau's blessing, laughing, giddy, a tenor different from Abraham's hard laugh.

Oh, Isaac, the wrinkles stack on my face like the inches I used to measure the years by, and there is no more game in provoking your cornered authority. You strain toward the desert shadows, seeing something I don't see. Maybe your god speaking to you. Drawn not by love, I settle beside you, my breath light so I won't disturb you. With my presence you rage like a young falcon and beseech your god that my death be slow.

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