Category: History

3/28/2017

What is a sailor?

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My handsome Dad, James Francis Dickson, leaving Rossendale, Manitoba to pursue his naval career.

(Originally posted on Being Truly You 11/11/2016)

That was my Daddy, in or around 1953, as he began his career as a sailor with the Royal Canadian Navy. I don't remember too terribly much from the years of my life that he was in that role while my Mom was home with us kids. I remember going to the base to see him off. I remember going to the base to await his return. I remember trips to the beach, singing in front of his friends once or twice, the promises of one of his superiors of the life I would live with him as my Dad instead, should I want to trade up (which I vehemently refused) and I remember always knowing that I was loved deeply whenever he was around.

On Remembrance Day, he is always very close in my heart. He was so very proud of his service to our country for the 15 or so years that he served. He was so pleased when he, like all the others who had been involved in providing support during the Korean War were finally recognized for their contribution. He was proud to make the rounds every November, with the love and support of my Mom, as he made sure that the grave of every Veteran in all the surrounding cemeteries was adorned by a small white cross and red poppy. A part of him remained a Service Man until the day that he died.

Dad and I circa 1963 or so.

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Years later, in 2004 when Cecil and I got married, Mom and Dad made the trip out to join us on the coast. As part of that, I arranged for us to all go to Esquimalt Naval Base so that Dad could show us a bit of his own past. It was a wonderful day of watching him reminisce, salute others, and shake his head at the change of attire and haircuts, as he shared memories with all of us.

Mom at Esquimalt, waving goodbye to the men heading to sea, as she had done so many times in the past when Dad was leaving.

Regrettably, I never did ask him, and I have always wondered, what was it that convinced a young man from the central prairie farmlands of Manitoba to travel to the far coast of our country to pursue his life at sea? He'd spent time in the militia, and he'd heard the calling no doubt, but what was it that made him choose that and not a more land based career? I never will know the answer to that I guess. It is another mystery in the story of a life that will remain unsolved.

In cleaning through some of the boxes that are still to be sorted after my parent's deaths, I recently found this little typed up piece of paper in among the pictures and mementos. It's clearly very old, having been typed out on onionskin and kept for a very, long time. There is no indication on the paper as to who wrote the piece but it reads...

What is a Sailor?
Between the security of childhood and the insecurity of second childhood we find a fascinating group of humanity called "SAILORS". They come in assorted sizes, weights, and states of sobriety. They can be found anywhere. On ships, on shore establishments, in bars, on leave, in love and always in debt. Girls love them, towns tolerate them and the government supports them. A Sailor is laziness with a deck of cards, bravery with a tattooed arm, and protector of the seas with a copy of Playboy.

They have the energy of a turtle, the slyness of a fox, the brains of an idiot, the sincerity of a liar, the stories of a sea Captain, the aspirations of a Casanova, and when they want something it is usually connected with a request form. Some of their interests are women, girls, dames, females and the opposite sex. He dislikes wearing his uniform, superior officers, the chow and getting up on time.

No one else can cram into one jumper pocket a pack of crushed Luckies, a picture of his girl, a comb, a church key and what's left of last months pay. He likes to spend some of his money on girls, some on poker and the rest foolishly.

A Sailor is a magic creature, you can lock him out of your home but not out of your heart. You can scratch him off your mailing list but not off your mind. You might as well give up, he is your long away from home love and your one and only bleary eyed good for nothing bundle of worries, but all of your shattered dreams become insignificant when your sailor docks and looks at you with those bleary eyes and says "Hiya Honey, gotta beer?"

Shore leave fun in Tijuana

Its funny reading this little description, because very few times in my life could I say that my Father fit into the description that the little scrap of paper shares. I can't even say for sure if this was one of his saves...or my Mother's! I share it in hopes that no one who reads this becomes offended in any way, that is not my intention. But as time goes by, and we all get a little older and a little wiser and start to realize on Remembrance day just how much the young men and woman that dedicated periods of their life to the service of protecting our country and our rights and freedoms endured and experienced, I can smile at this description that the man I knew as my Father held on to. The lightness and self-deprecating humor was likely an armor of self-protection from the tough times that were experienced on an ongoing basis. Its a glimpse into the other side of the man that stole my mother's heart so many years ago, and another side of the complex, remarkable being that was my Father.

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1/11/2016

Every Family has one...

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There's one in every family. The person who holds on to the pictures, stories and memorabilia that are the threads, which when woven together, become the fabric of a family's history. It's the person that has the stacks of photos and notes and records that have been passed down from generation to generation, not always sure what to do with them, but knowing that there's a responsibility that comes with those items. In our family, that person seemed to be and still is...me.

I don't know how it happens in any given family. I look back and for myself I think it was the bond I had with my Grandparents. Having been so lucky as to have grown up in the same yard as Granny and Grandpa, countless hours were spent with them in their home, learning from them as we grew up. I still hold that time with them as some of the wonderful hours of my life. They were my lesson in the value of time spent as the most valued gift of all.

Grandpa was passionate about his ancestry and history, and loved to share all of that with us. I remember him spending painstaking hours, tracing and investigating leads to the family’s ancestors, at a time when it was not nearly as simple as it is today. Chronicling, documenting, then researching some more.

Year’s later, after reading a book called ‘The Homestead’ that had been written by a local man, Wilbert Aitkens, I remember a story he’d written about his watching my Grandmother playing baseball when he was a young man. Of course by that time, Granny was long gone, and although I knew much about her, I realized there was so much more that I hadn’t taken the time to ask. When I looked at what we had for the ‘English’ history (which was her maiden name) it didn’t go very far, so I started my own journey of discovery.

I remember sending out the letters, to names in phonebooks across provinces, hoping to get leads that would fill in the blanks for me. I got lucky, and did connect with a man, not all that far from here, who had more information than I could even imagine. It was exciting and rewarding, but life took over and got busy. My quest for information on those that went before me got put aside as the business of making a living and raising a family took over. Inside, i still found it all fascinating, but priorities for time were taken up elsewhere.

Now, time is much easier to come by again, as we’ve entered this next stage of our lives. I realize that I’ve still maintained the roll of the ‘Memory Keeper’ for this leg of our family, as I seem to be the one that has ended up with so many of those memories. I’ve also come to realize that if I don’t share them, they’ll be gone with me. In this time of high technology and low real contact, there seems to be very little interest from the generations that are following me in all of this stuff. But I’m not convinced that it will be that way always. I think it’s going to come back around that people will want and need to know where they came from to carve out a certain amount of meaning for their lives.. That they’ll want to know the stories that were passed down, so that they can see the strong, solid stock that they came from. So that they can understand what was sacrificed by the generations that came before so that we could enjoy all that we’ve been blessed with now. I really hope so anyhow. I’d hate to think that those earlier lives meant nothing after all that they gave.

So here, it’s my hope that I’ll make a home for some of the things that I’ve managed to collect and hold onto over time. My hope is that if I can share it virtually, either through sharing the stories and the knowledge here or on my Ancestry page, when the next ones are ready to know, the information will be available to them…whether I am around or not. Maybe my sharing will keep their stories alive for just one more generation. As long as our stories live, a part of us does to.

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The Memory Keeper

What is a sailor?

Every Family has one...

Lynda Dobbin-Turner

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