A few years ago, I was getting a haircut from the local barber. I found myself talking about the years I lived in Alaska. I told him one of my many stories, and he found it “wicked cool” and suggested I share some of my stories with my readers in my weekly column. Many people have found them interesting and fun so I figured I would share one with you. Let me know what you think.
When I graduated high school in 1977, I immediately made my way to Juneau, Alaska. The economy was awful at the time. I had no marketable skills, and although I had gone to virtually every business owner in the city trying to secure some employment ”“ for I was completely broke by the time I got there ”“ not one business could, or would, hire me.
So I ended up squatting in a tiny cabin on a cliff up in the mountains. I was thoroughly prepared to kill my food, or so I thought. I had the rifle my grandfather had given me, a .35 caliber Marlin, but I learned that it was a bush gun and only appropriate for short range, no more than about 30 yards. If I could get within 100 yards of a deer, I would’ve been lucky. Average shots in that environment were more like 200 to 300 yards.
It had been about a week since I had eaten. It never occurred to me to call my folks back in New York and ask for help. I was raised to stand on my own two feet, to make my own way in the world, to use my mind, which my mother said was a good one, to get what I needed and wanted in life. Nor would I ask anyone local for help for the same reason.
That’s how my sister and I were raised, but the truth is, I think I was born with an independent streak. For example, when I was 4 years old, we were living in my grandmother’s house in Queens, New York, which is part of the city for those of you unfamiliar with that area. Although she was actually quite poor, she had a two-family home that her siblings chipped in to help her buy, and she rented one unit to my folks for very little money.
One day, when it was time to go home from preschool (we called them nursery schools back then), I missed the bus. It didn’t occur to me to ask for help (familiar theme, huh?) since it was my own fault, and besides I felt perfectly capable at 4 years old to walk home the mile or so from the school, figuring out what turns to make, crossing large streets and going through some neighborhoods that were far from safe.
I walked home to find my mother crying and just a little frantic since I didn’t come off the bus and was about an hour late. I said, “Why are you crying, Mom? I was able to find my way home.”
Back to Alaska: It had been about a week since I had eaten, and I was only 150 pounds at 6 feet, 2 inches tall before the unintended diet. So I was very hungry and got creative. By shooting the water next to the fish I posited it would cause the fish to suffer a concussion that would allow me to then grab them with my hands. I didn’t want to shoot the fish because that would’ve ruined some of the meat, and “being wasteful is a sin,” my mother always said. I had reasoned that although that .35 caliber Marlin rifle wasn’t good for long-range shooting, it was powerful, and for short range, useful. I went to a nearby stream and shot the water right next to a large salmon, and by golly that is exactly what happened, and I was quite proud of myself for figuring it out and solving my hunger problem.
When I reflect about it, I am reminded that our minds are the most powerful tools we have, and reason or analytical thinking is the most powerful tool of the mind.
Thanks for reading and have a great week!
— Bruce M. Hardina is the publisher of the Journal Tribune, a business and marketing consultant, a singer-songwriter, a philosopher, a student of life and the human experience, a columnist, an entrepreneur, a loving father, husband, son, brother, neighbor and friend. To comment on his musings, email bhardina@journaltribune.com or mail a note to Journal Tribune, Attn: Bruce Hardina, 457 Alfred St., Biddeford. ME 04005.
Comments are not available on this story.
Send questions/comments to the editors.
