<![CDATA[Truly You Life Coaching and Grief Recovery Specialist

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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