- Oct 9, 1999
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Or, as my Dad puts it, he's entering his 90th year. Lt. Commander George Henry Perkins, USN, ret. He was born and raised in New York City, NY, the son of immigrant parents. As he once told me, as a boy watching a parade in the city, he reflected on how lucky he, George, was to live and grow up in the greatest city in the greatest country on the face of this earth.
He went to and graduated from Bedford-Styuyvesant HS. Most of you know Bed-Sty as hard core (black) ghetto. In my Dad's day, the school had 5,500 students, all male, all "white", most all recent immigrants to these shores. My Dad would talk about someone showing up fresh off the boat from somehwere in Eastern Europe, barely knowing 10 words of English, not looking or dressing "American" (as he put it), and how by the next year they'd be at the top of the class.
My Dad's dad was cockney English, his Mom was French. His Dad worked as a chauffeur/mechanic for rich people (and later had his own limousine service), his Mom as a governess for those same rich people. His Mom, nee Victorine Chaudanson, my grandmother, was a survivor of the Titanic. Elsewise, I wouldn't be here!
My grandmom had been the governess for the Ryersons, a wealthy Philadelphia family who were rushing back home, ironically, for the funeral of their eldest son, who'd died in a car wreck. As far as getting off the Titanic alive, my grandmom was lucky to be both female, and traveling in first class. She was rescued by the Carpathia.
In the late '50's, the original Titanic movie A Night To Remember came out, and my grandmom's picture was in the paper, and my parents and her were feted at the Philadelphia premier. We had the original book, by Walter Lord, at home. When I pulled the book out of our big wall 'o books at home to show my friends her name on the passenger list, IT WASN'T THERE!!
It was then my Mom had to tell me that she was listed, as all the other travelling "help" was listed, as Mr. and Mrs. Ryerson, and maid. AND MAID!! Forty years later, just a few years ago, at the height of the fame of this last Titanic movie, my determined and resourceful Dad was able to finally correct this injustice.
He was a docent (volunteer) at the St. Petersburg, FL museum when it was hosting sold out crowds daily for the travelling Titanic exhibit. There was a list of all the passengers, carved in, I think, granite, or marble or some such. All of the rich people's "help" were still not listed by name, but grouped (I think there were 39 or so of them) at the end as such, nameless.
My Dad started and continued a campaign aimed at the exhibitors until they finally acknowledged this injustice and made amends, and had all 39 or so folks' names engraved on that piece, including my grandmother, Victorine Chaudanson. If the exhibit comes to your town, please look her up, and remember that her name is only there by dint of the love of her only son, undimmed even though he was well into his 80's, and she long since passed. That's my Dad.
Through the political connections of his parent's rich employers, my Dad gained an appointment to the New York State Maritime Academy, from which he graduated with a degree in Naval Engineering. These were the depression years. He went into the Merchant Marine.
My buttoned down Dad, the life-long Republican. I still have a picture of him with a friend on their Indians (cycles) on a Florida beach. He's got a bandanna -- a dew rag! -- on his head, and a two day growth on his face, and he looks dashing and dangerous. I treasure this photo.
My Dad saw WW11 coming. He enlisted in the Navy in 1938. By 1942, he was "stuck" on the West Coast, training others to be sailors and engineers. He said it was damn cushy. The Hollywood elite all wanted to do their part, so he was billeted in a cliffside civilian chalet on Catalina Island, off Los Angeles. His job was basically 9 to 5, and they were treated exceptionally well! Took a ferry to and from "work", went to parties at night.
Every single damn day, though, he went into his superior's office and begged for war duty. As he simply put it, "That's what you did. We all wanted to fight. This was our country, our fight." He wore his superiors down, finally, and he was off to the South Pacific.
When I was twelve, I came home from school one day with a watercolor from Art Class. It depicted an air and naval engagement. My Dad saw it, and he said to me softly, pointing to an explosion I'd depicted, "If you ever want to paint flames again, I've got them imprinted on my mind. I saw my sister ship (a fleet oiler!!!!!!!) go up after getting hit by a kamakaze."
Another time, when I was an adult and visiting him in Florida, maybe ten years ago or so, he did tell me how he was part of a Naval detail, packing their service revolvers, who went ashore on Japan at Yokohama Naval Base, and took light rail transport (still working) up into Tokyo. This was before the armistice was signed!!
He said everyone was a little nervous, because no one knew quite what would happen. He said they walked through the wreckage of Tokyo, and that he'd never forget the blank, expressionless stares, probably masking fear and hatred, of the civilian populace as they walked by. He said he'll never forget those faces, that it was chilling.
My Dad and my Mom (who died on Mother's Day, 1983) were/are both dyed in the wool straight ticket Republicans, with but one notable exception. In 1960, my Mom, who was Catholic (I was raised Catholic, and went to Catholic school through 5th grade), wanted to vote for John Kennedy. My mom remembered how her brother and one sister (and countless others) had been denied teaching jobs in Delaware County back in the day solely because they were Catholic, and she thought it was time. She wore my Dad down, I believe, and though he never openly admitted it, I believe he voted for JFK in 1960. It probably helped that he had a personal dislike of Richard Nixon, the man.
My Dad was quietly against the Vietnam War as early as 1965. He just thought it was a strategic mistake, and not worth the toll in American lives. Not his son, though! I was never one to do more than necessary in school, but for my 8-10 page Senior History paper I wrote a detailed, thouroughly researched 33 page paper in support of our war effort that ended with the stirring, old-time phrase, "America, Right Or Wrong!"
I knew many, many people who died in that war.
My folks retired to Florida, which was golf heaven for my Dad. My Mom, an RN who had always feared a stroke, finally got one. It kind of addled her, but had the surprise effect of wiping 20-30 years of worry off her face (living with my Dad was never easy). She still had that creamy, Irish lass complexion, and, looking up with her two big, now childlike eyes in that hospital room at us, you could tell she was ecstatic to have the two men she loved most in the world with her.
My Dad got his pilot's license in his early 70's. He re-upped one last time about three years ago -- went through the rigorous physical and mental exams, flew one last time, and hung it up. Up until he had a couple of fender benders in the last year, he delivered meals on wheels to those who couldn't get out themselves daily.
Now, he's even given up his golf membership at his club. He only golfs occassionally, not every damn day, and more likely just 9 holes, which now tires him. He's slowing down more and more, but he's a survivor, and a fighter. Because he's always helped so many others in his condo, he's got a strong support system himself. He makes lists of everything, and follows those lists religiously.
My Dad and I can't really talk with each other for more than 20 minutes at a time without there being the good chance of a blowup. We're too much alike. But he's always been my hero, and I love him, and I know that he, in his own way, truly loves me.
He's my Dad. He turned 89 today.
He went to and graduated from Bedford-Styuyvesant HS. Most of you know Bed-Sty as hard core (black) ghetto. In my Dad's day, the school had 5,500 students, all male, all "white", most all recent immigrants to these shores. My Dad would talk about someone showing up fresh off the boat from somehwere in Eastern Europe, barely knowing 10 words of English, not looking or dressing "American" (as he put it), and how by the next year they'd be at the top of the class.
My Dad's dad was cockney English, his Mom was French. His Dad worked as a chauffeur/mechanic for rich people (and later had his own limousine service), his Mom as a governess for those same rich people. His Mom, nee Victorine Chaudanson, my grandmother, was a survivor of the Titanic. Elsewise, I wouldn't be here!
My grandmom had been the governess for the Ryersons, a wealthy Philadelphia family who were rushing back home, ironically, for the funeral of their eldest son, who'd died in a car wreck. As far as getting off the Titanic alive, my grandmom was lucky to be both female, and traveling in first class. She was rescued by the Carpathia.
In the late '50's, the original Titanic movie A Night To Remember came out, and my grandmom's picture was in the paper, and my parents and her were feted at the Philadelphia premier. We had the original book, by Walter Lord, at home. When I pulled the book out of our big wall 'o books at home to show my friends her name on the passenger list, IT WASN'T THERE!!
It was then my Mom had to tell me that she was listed, as all the other travelling "help" was listed, as Mr. and Mrs. Ryerson, and maid. AND MAID!! Forty years later, just a few years ago, at the height of the fame of this last Titanic movie, my determined and resourceful Dad was able to finally correct this injustice.
He was a docent (volunteer) at the St. Petersburg, FL museum when it was hosting sold out crowds daily for the travelling Titanic exhibit. There was a list of all the passengers, carved in, I think, granite, or marble or some such. All of the rich people's "help" were still not listed by name, but grouped (I think there were 39 or so of them) at the end as such, nameless.
My Dad started and continued a campaign aimed at the exhibitors until they finally acknowledged this injustice and made amends, and had all 39 or so folks' names engraved on that piece, including my grandmother, Victorine Chaudanson. If the exhibit comes to your town, please look her up, and remember that her name is only there by dint of the love of her only son, undimmed even though he was well into his 80's, and she long since passed. That's my Dad.
Through the political connections of his parent's rich employers, my Dad gained an appointment to the New York State Maritime Academy, from which he graduated with a degree in Naval Engineering. These were the depression years. He went into the Merchant Marine.
My buttoned down Dad, the life-long Republican. I still have a picture of him with a friend on their Indians (cycles) on a Florida beach. He's got a bandanna -- a dew rag! -- on his head, and a two day growth on his face, and he looks dashing and dangerous. I treasure this photo.
My Dad saw WW11 coming. He enlisted in the Navy in 1938. By 1942, he was "stuck" on the West Coast, training others to be sailors and engineers. He said it was damn cushy. The Hollywood elite all wanted to do their part, so he was billeted in a cliffside civilian chalet on Catalina Island, off Los Angeles. His job was basically 9 to 5, and they were treated exceptionally well! Took a ferry to and from "work", went to parties at night.
Every single damn day, though, he went into his superior's office and begged for war duty. As he simply put it, "That's what you did. We all wanted to fight. This was our country, our fight." He wore his superiors down, finally, and he was off to the South Pacific.
When I was twelve, I came home from school one day with a watercolor from Art Class. It depicted an air and naval engagement. My Dad saw it, and he said to me softly, pointing to an explosion I'd depicted, "If you ever want to paint flames again, I've got them imprinted on my mind. I saw my sister ship (a fleet oiler!!!!!!!) go up after getting hit by a kamakaze."
Another time, when I was an adult and visiting him in Florida, maybe ten years ago or so, he did tell me how he was part of a Naval detail, packing their service revolvers, who went ashore on Japan at Yokohama Naval Base, and took light rail transport (still working) up into Tokyo. This was before the armistice was signed!!
He said everyone was a little nervous, because no one knew quite what would happen. He said they walked through the wreckage of Tokyo, and that he'd never forget the blank, expressionless stares, probably masking fear and hatred, of the civilian populace as they walked by. He said he'll never forget those faces, that it was chilling.
My Dad and my Mom (who died on Mother's Day, 1983) were/are both dyed in the wool straight ticket Republicans, with but one notable exception. In 1960, my Mom, who was Catholic (I was raised Catholic, and went to Catholic school through 5th grade), wanted to vote for John Kennedy. My mom remembered how her brother and one sister (and countless others) had been denied teaching jobs in Delaware County back in the day solely because they were Catholic, and she thought it was time. She wore my Dad down, I believe, and though he never openly admitted it, I believe he voted for JFK in 1960. It probably helped that he had a personal dislike of Richard Nixon, the man.
My Dad was quietly against the Vietnam War as early as 1965. He just thought it was a strategic mistake, and not worth the toll in American lives. Not his son, though! I was never one to do more than necessary in school, but for my 8-10 page Senior History paper I wrote a detailed, thouroughly researched 33 page paper in support of our war effort that ended with the stirring, old-time phrase, "America, Right Or Wrong!"
I knew many, many people who died in that war.
My folks retired to Florida, which was golf heaven for my Dad. My Mom, an RN who had always feared a stroke, finally got one. It kind of addled her, but had the surprise effect of wiping 20-30 years of worry off her face (living with my Dad was never easy). She still had that creamy, Irish lass complexion, and, looking up with her two big, now childlike eyes in that hospital room at us, you could tell she was ecstatic to have the two men she loved most in the world with her.
My Dad got his pilot's license in his early 70's. He re-upped one last time about three years ago -- went through the rigorous physical and mental exams, flew one last time, and hung it up. Up until he had a couple of fender benders in the last year, he delivered meals on wheels to those who couldn't get out themselves daily.
Now, he's even given up his golf membership at his club. He only golfs occassionally, not every damn day, and more likely just 9 holes, which now tires him. He's slowing down more and more, but he's a survivor, and a fighter. Because he's always helped so many others in his condo, he's got a strong support system himself. He makes lists of everything, and follows those lists religiously.
My Dad and I can't really talk with each other for more than 20 minutes at a time without there being the good chance of a blowup. We're too much alike. But he's always been my hero, and I love him, and I know that he, in his own way, truly loves me.
He's my Dad. He turned 89 today.
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