blackie parlin

My father was a powerful man.  At the apex of his career he was the senior partner in what then was the largest law firm in the world, Shearman and Sterling.  When he entered a room, he was the center.  At a critical point in my life I defied him.

 

As a boy I felt embarrassed by my family’s wealth.  I was reluctant to have friends see the mansion in which we lived.  Then, my life was critically changed by reading Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath which I casually picked up in the town library.  In the final scene flighty Rose a Sharon suckles a starving old man, a scene which caused me to ponder whether such poverty and degradation existed in our country.

 

I had no confidence that my parents or teachers could answer my questions.  In the tenth grade I started hitchhiking around, talking to people about their lives.  On one of my first long journeys near St, Johnsbury, Vermont, I had a late night ride with a grizzled old farmer who kept talking about “a burn out.”  I finally figured out that his house, barn, livestock---all his possessions were lost in a fire. What was extraordinary was the gratitude he expressed to a neighbor who let the farmer and his wife stay in a box stall in the cow barn. I felt like I as talking with Tom Joad.

 

At some point I learned that a young man could check into a town jail and spend the night as a “sleeper.”  I started sleeping in jails and flop houses, primitive accommodations for the homeless.

 

I learned so much from these experiences that I decided I would take a year to work my way around the country.  In my senior year I had a confrontation with my father.  He wanted me to go to Harvard.  All my friends had a sense of privilege and entitlement and were headed for the Ivies in their white buck shoes.  I wanted to work and see more of life  My father took me to his booklined library and scolded and lectured me,  His culminating line was, “It is said that it takes three generations to go from shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves.”  I understood his meaning---I would be a failure.

 

At the end of the summer in which I  worked a series of jobs in the state of Washington, I went for a few days to Silver Bay.  My father made another plea for me to go to Harvard, then gave me a letter.  In the letter he used the phrase that I was “disowned.”  I knew that he did not mean this in an economic sense.  He meant that he was completely disgusted and disappointed in me.

 

I worked my way around the country for a year.  Farm hand, factory worker, roustabout in the Clyde Beatty circus, artesian well-driller, grocery store clerk, copy boy at the St. Petersburg Times.

 

I learned an incredible amount about my country, myself, people.  One of my earlies experiences showed me that there are really fine people and, in contrast, some skunks.  One rancher had a neat, clean bunk house and fed the ranch hands at the family table while another rancher told me to bathe in a horse trough, sleep on a filthy mattress in a stable, and get my meals handed to me on a plate out of the back door.

 

At the end of the year I was ready for college.  I wanted to learn everything.  But I was unwilling to come east of the Mississippi River.

 

Some years later at my Father’s dinner party with some of his friends, my father was asked what he thought of my year of working around the country.  My father hesitated, then said, “I thought Blackie was wrong, but I have many respected friends who tell me that he was right.”  That was pretty close to an admission of admiration.  I’ve always felt that my defiance ultimately brought my father and me much closer together.