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to a previously marked area. The assistant had a
     stopwatch and called from the finish line for us to start. I won my race against
     the other three but was not told my time or that of the others. On the next day
     of physical education we were again outside to complete the other track and
     field tests in high jump, broad jump, and so on. Our cranky main instructor was
     back in action, and we were lined up in military formation in our shorts and
     T-shirts. We were lectured about our appearance and punctuality, and then he
     looked down at his clipboard to review the results from the previous day. A few
     moments passed, and then he scowled.
    “Peckford!”
    “Yes, sir,” I responded.
    “What do I have here? You did the 100-yard dash in eleven
     seconds? You can’t do that! Our top football star can barely do that! Did you do
     this?”
    “Yes, sir,” I responded respectfully. “Your assistant supervised the
     race.”
    “Yes, yes, I know that,” he shouted, “but I just can’t believe it. You will
     have to do it again!”
    I protested: “Sir, if the times of everyone else are good, why isn’t mine? And
     running by myself, without competition, is much more difficult.”
    “Get up there, now,” he shouted.
    So I proceeded to the starting line. The assistant had a starter gun and the
     instructor was at the finish line with the stopwatch.
    Bang!
    I never ran so hard in all my life. Across the finish line the stopwatch
     clicked—eleven seconds!
    An unamused instructor passed the clipboard and stopwatch to his assistant and
     shouted to us all, “Let’s get on to the high jump.”
    Although school was not going as well as it should have, I had to be mindful
     that I was expected to work after school and generate revenue for home. My
     father was working hard at the university and spent caseload time at different
     social services offices across Toronto, and my older brother was working for CPR
     in the daytime and going to school at night at IBM. My mother was managing the
     small apartment for the other seven: meals, clothes, groceries. She was doing
     the work of two or three people. I was the only other person in the family old
     enough to get a job, though part-time it would be. It was not easy getting a
     job. There were a fair number of Italian and Greek immigrants in the area and
     they were competing for any employment. And, of course, the hours I could work
     were restricted by my school time. I got a job at a nearby corner store for a
     few hours after school, but this was not enough.
    I went to the Power Supermarket, several blocks down Parliament Street from
     where we lived. This was a fairly large supermarket that employed a lot of
     temporary workers. I completed an application formand was
     queried by the assistant manager, Mr. Pettis—a short, rotund, bald-headed man
     who looked like this is where he belonged—and the manager, a Mr. Mueller,
     well-dressed, tall, and businesslike.
    I believed they could tell where I was from by my accent, but they asked
     anyway. I found out later that there was already a Newfoundlander working there
     who after six months was still only making his starting wage. They told me that
     there was no opening right now but that if a vacancy arose they would contact
     me. I told them that I really needed a job and I would work for nothing for a
     week just to show them that I could work hard. Pettis looked at Mueller, and
     Mueller at Pettis.
    Pettis said, “We have never had anyone make that proposal before. I guess that
     if you want to work for nothing, we could put you on the soap aisle.”
    And so, unknown to anyone else, I worked for nothing for a week: Wednesday,
     Thursday, Friday, 4: 00 p.m. to midnight, and on Saturday and Sunday from 8:
     00 a.m. to midnight. I worked like a dog and sweated my heart out. The next week
     Mr. Pettis called and told my mother that I had a job and I could come to work
     on Wednesday. Wow—was I proud—forty-five