That One Thing

The phenomenon of High School graduation marks the occasion for reflection on the previous 18 or so years spent on this planet by the young men and women who appear on the stage in the gymnasium. Over two thirds of that time has been spent by both these students and their families pensive of school and the formalized socialization and education that school offers. During that time, they have wiped noses and held foreheads while faces have dipped into purging basins. They have shopped for school clothes and new school supplies. They have troubled over school lunches for sons and sisters and the odd one for the school dog. Parents have encouraged children to do homework and to study more, study harder, and just study, period. They have attended parent-teacher interviews and school plays, soccer games, rugby games, sports days. They have been on field trips to Science Centers and Parks and Industrial complexes. Students have painted, played, calculated, experimented, written, read, learned history, had crushes, fallen in and out of love, made friends like they will never have again. They have dissected pigs and frogs and eyeballs. They have raised money and dressed up like witches and Rock Stars and they have cried and laughed and shared and felt pain. They have heard about the same planet you and I have heard about for years and they have had thoughts regarding the workings of that planet that none of us have ever had before. And, now they are ready. The cookies are set to come out of the oven. They have laid all the groundwork necessary to change the world for the better and they have experienced all the tribulations of child and adolescent life so that they can strive for that one thing that all of us strive for. And what is that one thing? Like Curly told Mitch the Kid in the movie City Slickers, “We all look for that one thing. We spend our lives looking for that one thing.” And, nobody knows what that one thing is. But everyone still sets out to look for it. Everyone only knows to look and to keep looking. They don’t know what for, but they will know when they find it – because there is truth in it. There are so many paths to follow when they set out on this quest for that one thing. If they don’t know what they are looking for – how will they know which path will lead to that one thing. I contest though - if the path that is followed is the path with heart – then that one thing will surely be at the end of it.

The year was 1970 - my graduation year. I was fresh, eager, and 17, immature, naïve, fairly smart. I lived on a farm, had a big extended family, plans to go to university (without really knowing what to go for). Somehow, I knew that this path had heart though – so I took it. We, of course, had a guidance counselor in our school at that time. I’m not sure, but I think his duty was to direct students in a variety of life paths based on their interests and aptitudes. Novel approach to student counseling, I reckon. The only problem was that he had no idea what interests and aptitudes any of us had because he didn’t really take the time to know any of us other than what he read about us on paper – in our files. When my “appointment” came ‘round, I was called out of Geometry class and asked to make my way to the office of Mr. Counsellor. His shingle hung from the door of a little cubby hole-attic sort of room above the main staircase in the old part of the school. There are still times when I try to rack my brain on how one actually got up to that room but I can’t remember. Funny how those things go eh? Anyway, I arrived at his door, knocked and was beckoned in. In those days, teachers and staff were allowed to smoke in school so when I opened the door to walk in, a gray swirling haze slipped past me in the opposite direction as if this poisonous cloud had been his previous client seeking guidance and direction into the future and was now eagerly rushing forth to meet the challenges of the brave new world. The light from the window silhouetted his Brylcreemed hair. Mr. Counsellor leaned back in his chair with his Matador boots propped casually on his uncluttered desk. A single legal-sized file folder and a cheap blue BIC pen lay beside his heel. They were the only signs that any sort of research may have been carried out on my behalf.

“Well Smith! Whadya Wanna Be?” he queried.

“ I don’t know really. That’s why I’m here to see you I guess.”

“Okay, let’s look at your file.”

He opened up the file folder and pulled out the lone double-sided sheet of paper that it held.

“It says here you live on a farm. Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“You have any animals on that farm?”

“Yes sir – Pigs. We raise pigs.”

“Pigs eh? Well, seems pretty clear that you should become a Vet.”

“A Vet?”

“Yeh, a Vet. Veterinarian, you know – an animal doctor. You’re smart. You’re a farm kid. You’re taking all the right math and science classes anyway . . . Yeh, a Vet.”

“Well, I never really thought about –“

“What’s to think about. You’ll be great. Whadya say?”

“Well, I, uh, uh, I guess.”

“Alright, settled then – send Potter in next, see ya ‘round.”

And, that was it. My one minute and twenty-eight second life and career counseling session. “Life planned – goals set – bring it on baby – I am going to become a Vet.” I forwarded all the necessary applications, filled out all the necessary forms, found a place to stay in the city (room & board with this young Ukrainian Family – I gained 20 pounds my first year but that’s another story). My dad paid for my tuition in that first year with two truckloads of damp wheat. I attended classes regularly and my grades were pretty good. At the end of the first year of Arts and Sciences Pre-Vet courses I was required to write and pass a qualifying exam that would ensure my seat in the Western College of Veterinary Medicine a year hence. I remember being fairly nervous prior to the exam. I opened to page one and began the test without looking to see what else it had to offer further on. There were questions about science and history and then a section on animals and what I knew about them and a question about why I wanted to become a Vet. (I didn’t mention my brief interview with Mr. Counsellor.) The last page of the exam held one final question. It stopped me short. I was puzzled by its simplicity. It read – “WHAT”S WHAT?” Yeh, “WHAT’S WHAT?”

I answered to the best of my ability based on my life experience to that point. I handed the paper in and two weeks later classes ended for the year and I went back to the farm to work for the summer. In mid-July I received a letter from the College. I opened and read it.

It began – “Dear Mr. Smith, based on the results of your qualifying exam and specifically on your response to the final question, we cannot, at this time, hold a seat for you in the class beginning in 1972.”

Wow! What had gone wrong, I wonder? I went to see the Dean (or at least an assistant) and was told basically the same thing but was assured that I could regain a position once I passed the qualifying exam at the end of my second year and that no one had ever failed two years in a row – so, not to worry. Alright, I finished the summer, got a little harvesting done before school started and I was back for round two. The school year passed and as expected, the qualifying exam reared its ugly head yet again in April of that second year. I entered the exam room, which was a long dimly lit lab room in the Chemistry Building on campus. On being handed the paper, I immediately flipped to the last page. There it was – the same bloody question – “WHAT’S WHAT?” I thought about possible answers to that single final question as I completed the rest of the exam. Thinking of last year’s fairly lengthy response, I opted for brevity this year. My answer consisted of just two words as I recall. I nervously handed it in, went back to the farm for the summer and waited for the letter.

Again, in mid-July, the letter arrived. I opened it. It read – “Dear Mr. Smith, based on the results of your qualifying exam and specifically on your response to the final question, we cannot, at this time, hold a seat for you in the class beginning in 1972. The earliest possible date for entry into the Western College of Veterinary Medicine will be September, 1973.”

Dreams on hold, I guess. In fact, with this news I wasn’t even sure that I wanted to continue down this chosen path. My mother (bless her little heart) convinced/persuaded me to take one more year and try it all again at the end of that year. Even if I didn’t make it into the College, at least I would have a Science Degree. So I did. I took her advice because she was the “Mom” and she was always right.

Having completed all of my science, math, English and history requirements for pre-Veterinary Medicine in my first two years I was free to study courses of a slightly more elective nature in year three. My hair grew longer, I tried to learn the guitar. I studied astronomy, Far Eastern Studies (we called them Far Out Studies), Philosophy and Music Appreciation. I enjoyed the decreased workload but deep inside I felt that I was somehow preparing myself to answer THE QUESTION come April. And I did. I took the test one more time. And, I opened it up one more time. And, I turned to the last page one more time and there it was, one more time – “WHAT’S WHAT?”

I was ready though I had taken philosophy – I knew what TRUTH was. I knew that Socrates and Plato were Greek and that they were related – father-son or uncle-nephew or something. I was tempered steel. My answer was concise. It was profound. I was poetic and proseful all at once. I was sure that I had finally snatched the pebble from the hand of the master. I was at last going to become a Vet. There was also a good chance now that I would become a Cosmic Vet – able to heal and cure a variety of exotic species by merely channeling the energies of the universe through me to right the physiologic maladies of the beasts that I touched.

WRONG!!! - That July I received my final letter from the WCVM. I opened it with great confidence but read it with even greater dismay - “Dear Mr. Smith, based on the results of your qualifying exam and specifically on your response to the final question, we cannot, at this time, hold a seat for you in the class beginning in 1973. The earliest possible date for entry into the Western College of Veterinary Medicine will now be September, 1975.”

Final straw. No more. I hung ‘em up right then and there. Nope, didn’t even make an appointment to see the Dean or anybody that had ever heard of him. Mom or not – didn’t matter – I was through. I went out and got a job on a shrimp fishing boat on the salt lake – Lake Manitou – near my hometown in Saskatchewan. I earned some good money (good at the time – I got a vehicle and purchased the latest in sound technology to put into it. My 8-track stereo was one of the best in town. I kept my rat-tail comb at ready to place into the tape slot, just above the tape to keep it from double tracking) I had sort of forgotten all about Vet Medicine and school. I was rich by my standards. I was going to parties. I was having fun. My fishing partner was a good friend of mine and a hard worker. We were bringing in 30 cans of shrimp a day at five dollars clear a can. We were fishing five days a week and getting the greatest of tans. We were young, rich and smokin’

As hard a worker as my partner/friend was though, he was an insufferable flatulente. He didn’t eat beans any more often than anyone else but he didn’t have to. He could let ‘em go at will or at anyone else for that matter. On one extremely calm day we sat in the middle of the lake of glass and he passed wind of hurricane proportions and actually sent little shock waves scurrying away from the hull of the boat in all directions. I sat in the bow seat facing away from him when I heard the thunder and saw the ripples making their way across the water like some Grade 12 Physics experiment. I couldn’t believe it. I turned and stared and asked, “What the hell was that?” To which he replied, “WHAT’S WHAT?”

I paused, . . .and . . .selected my words carefully -

“If I knew the answer to that question, I would be studying to become a veterinary doctor and I would not be in this boat with you right now, let me tell you.”

There is a moral to this story and it is as follows:

When you set your goals, as a grade 12 graduate – make them your own. Everyone has a different ONE THING that they search for and everyone will find that one thing in a different way and in a different place. Make your paths your own. Be yourself and be happy within your own skin. And, if you don’t – well, you just may end up in the front end of some dinky little shrimp boat stuck out in the middle of some salt lake in Dry Gulch, Saskatchewan with some guy that farts a lot.