No work at all

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I was interviewing for a copywriter position at WorkStress, a minor distributor for retail book giant Barnes & Noble,  when this HR interrogation guy asked me, right out of blue, right at the last minute, what had been my favorite subject in school?

I thought the interview done. He had even shaken my hand, given me the “wink” of assurance and even stated the traditional parting words “we’ll let you know.” 

I was  already contemplating a cool one, or a few more than one, at a little bar I’d seen around the corner. I was quite pleased with myself

Then in that brief second of swishing out  the automatic door between outside and the main lobby, I heard his placid voice just over my shoulder, “Oh, Carl, just one more thing…”

It was too late, I turned and there he was, Bruce, the Interrogator, walking towards me in his firm, friendly, professional gate. “Oh, Mr. Perry, I’m glad I caught you. I was curious, and just forgot to ask during our conversation: “what was your favorite class in school?”

Well, that was freaking out of the blue and caught me way off gaurd. I felt suddenly any answer I gave the man either wouldn’t matter, or would be immediately fact checked against my Permanent Record. I must have looked surprised . My lips and cheeks scrunched in panic for a second.

Here I was all thinking of ducking into the nearest bar for a beer and now suddenly trying to recall some meaningless scrap of academic trivia which I had to suddenly invent on the spot.  I paused , just to give myself an extra awkward moment, hoping he might somehow forget what he had asked me, or that I might come up with an answer.

Uh…

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The truth was that, just like my father before me, I felt strongly that being schooled by others was an annoyance, and mostly a waste of time. It certainly was not the family-favored form of education that men from Newfoundland should endure, and it certainly did not ensure that boys become men.

Or, for that matter, that girls become women. At that time there were no inbetweens. Life on the Rock demanded everything beyond books.

Dad pressed disconcertingly through his youth, where passing through life without first the lessons of the sea was a useless endeavor, and knowing that any endeavor upon these bitterly cold lands was senseless without fortitude and endurance. Like him, I prefered to discover myself aimlessly within my own structure.

Attending the few classes as he did was a tedious distraction from his love: time better spent hanging around the docks of Saint John’s harbor, or wandering  far around the Dominion of Newfoundland. He longed someday to captain a crew aboard a proud schooner. Ply the Grand Banks like his uncles, or return from the spring hunt with a record hold full of “swill” pelts.

As a lad, he loved boats, their men, even the dories stacked on their decks. His heart left the harbor with them every sunrise before school began. Dad was there early, on watch, studying every action, every move, every day, only to be left in port.

My Dad’s love for fishing was augmented only slightly by his love of football. It was a reason, a bare incentive to enter those warm school buildings  He played varsity in High School in a time when winning was hardly second to learning. He nearly went pro after receiving a scholarship from college, but his hopes were shattered along with his knee in the last game of the season.

But he fished. He always found time to fish, because  there is always time to fish. The canyons with their bountiful streams, the secret coves just beyond  townl, called  him, beckoned him to fish.

Rather than turn and walk the road up the hill to school, he would stop at the tackle barn, pull his kit from a corner near the sail loft, and be gone for the day, winding up the canyons contributing contributing to the great Saint John’s Valley. Following the rivers, fishing, for that he knew and loved. Dad would return to town after sunset, the children of the town would approach him meekly, seek him out as he walked up towards home knowing his spare catch would be theirs for a smile.

These were the treats, the little he could give to the tiny hands of children. He knew such gifts would reach the widow, the poorest, the younger children, and the poor broken men whose plentiful souls of  Saint John’s who could never return to the sea in ships again.

The sea, the hunting grounds, and the wars of others created unfortunate potentials for young men left ashore.

Fortunately, fate took a turn, and well for me. When that Second Horror Filled World War ended without drawing my father in to die, he spent his service by becoming a medic in the US Army, Spending his bit of time in France, protecting French folk from Koreans.

And, lucky for me, while stationed in Paris, he met and courted my mom. With time earned in service, Dad received his US citizenship. Not long after that, he married his sweetheart, moved to Southern California, and after a few months there, I was born!

Dad skipped school to fish, I skipped to cruise the coast and surf, anywhere the waves were good between San Onofre and Oceanside. But that’s another story, and this one was better. Don’t you think?

PLUG: If you happen to be interested in my roots in Newfoundland, read DEATH ON THE ICE. The Great Newfoundland Sealing Disaster of 1914. Those were our folk.

It’s New Years!! A special Dance Night! I’ll tidy this post up later.

-dp-

12-31-25

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