REMEMBERING OUR VETERANS, AND THE GREAT SACRIFICES FOR FREEDOM
PLEASE MAKE SURE TO BUY A POPPY AS A SIGN OF ENDURING RESPECT FOR THEIR FIGHT TO GIVE US A BETTER LIFE
THE OLD SAILOR'S LAMENT
THE COLUMN BELOW WAS RECENTLY PREPARED FOR "CURIOUS; THE TOURIST GUIDE," FOR THEIR NOVEMBER ISSUE, AND IS ON NEWSTANDS NOW. IT IS A STORY I'VE WRITTEN ABOUT BEFORE, WITH SOME ADMITTED HASTE, BECAUSE FRANKLY, IT PROFOUNDLY BOTHERED ME. EVEN AFTER DECADES, THE MISSING WORLD WAR II PORTRAIT OF MY FATHER, CAN AT TIMES, THROB LIKE A DEEP SLIVER, THAT HAS NEVER BEEN PULLED OUT. I KNOW IT'S THERE, AND THAT I COULD GET RID OF THE PROBLEM IF I DESIRED. THERE'S ALWAYS A BUMP WHERE IT RESIDES, AND ONCE IN A WHILE IT HURTS THE SOFT TISSUE, AND MAY EVEN BECOME INFECTED. I DON'T KNOW WHY I FEEL THE ANALOGY OF A SLIVER FITS THIS STORY. IT JUST DOES.
FOR YEARS I WAS FURIOUS ABOUT LOSING AN IMPORTANT HEIRLOOM, AND NEVER GETTING A SATISFACTORY EXPLANATION FROM EITHER MY FATHER OR MOTHER. SHORTLY BEFORE MY MOTHER DIED, SHE DID OFFER SOME INSIGHT, ABOUT AN EVENT I HAD BEEN TOLD TO FORGET……AND GET ON WITH MY LIFE. AFTER MY FATHER PASSED AWAY, I STARTED PICKING AT THIS SLIVER, UNTIL I FINALLY PUT ALL THE INFORMATION TOGETHER, AND ALTHOUGH WHAT HAD HURT ME, DIDN'T ALL OF A SUDDEN DISAPPEAR……I DID FIND IT EASIER TO APPRECIATE, JUST WHAT POST TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER DID TO MY OWN FATHER……..SUCH THAT HE SOLD HIS NAVAL PORTRAIT TO AN ANTIQUE DEALER. WHAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN MINE, AND MY SONS' CONNECTION TO EDWARD JOHN CURRIE'S LEGACY, ABOARD THE SHIP "COATICOOK," NOW BELONGS TO A PRIVATE COLLECTOR, WHO KNOWS NOTHING AT ALL ABOUT THE CANADIAN SAILOR FROM CABBAGETOWN…..WHO SHOT DOWN GERMAN PLANES AND PULLED HALF DEAD SAILORS FROM THE ATLANTIC OCEAN. MY MOTHER ONCE SAID TO ME, IN REGARDS TO THE MISSING PICTURE, THAT "HE GAVE YOU HIS NAME…..THAT IS THE LEGACY YOU SHOULD BE PROUD OF." OF COURSE IT'S TRUE. I AM ALSO EDWARD JOHN CURRIE. I MAY NOT HAVE HIS PORTRAIT, BUT HIS NAME LIVES ON.
THIS IS A STORY ABOUT A CHANGE OF HEART. MY FATHER'S AND MINE.
One of the last clear images I have of my father, was seeing him standing at the cenotaph, in Bracebridge's Memorial Park, against the intense brightness of the newly fallen snow, in the close embrace of so many colorful wreaths, flags and uniforms, and the broad shoulders of the honor guard surrounding the memorial.
Ed had decided it was time to attend the Remembrance Day ceremony in his home town. After living in Bracebridge for over 35 years, he had, for whatever reason, decided not to participate in these annual memorials, to those who lost their lives during periods of war. It was his choice and he never qualified his absence with a reason, at least to me. I was sure my mother knew.
As a kid, I always remember the portrait of my father, taken by a photographer shortly after he arrived home, after serving with the North Atlantic Squadron, during the Second World War. He crewman on the naval vessel "Coaticook," named after a community in Quebec. The portrait of Ed in his sailor's uniform, always reminded me of Popeye, and I assumed that he had some exceptional physical powers. He didn't like spinach, so it must have been the pickled eggs he loved, and of course the buttermilk he downed like it was pop.
I remember coming home from school, one afternoon, and noticing the portrait of my father was missing off the livingroom wall. It was in an obvious part of the apartment, and after only ten or so steps inside, you were greeted by the oval framed sailor, and the face of a young Canadian who had just served his country on the high seas. As my parents were chain smokers, at that time, you could even see the white oval on the wall where the portrait had once been positioned. I pondered for awhile what could have happened to it, and I did look in some obvious nooks and crannies, where Merle might have placed it for cleaning, or for any number of reasons it needed to be re-located. Then I just sat down and watched some of my favorite after-school programs, on the old wonky television, that at best, provided a ghost image and a garbled commentary.
When my mother arrived home, after work, I confronted her about my dad's portrait, which I had always assumed would be mine one day. She looked at me, sensing I wasn't going to like the answer. But she gave it a whirl, and she was right to think my reaction would be one of shock and sadness. My father had sold the navy portrait to an antique dealer for twenty bucks. Merle changed her story before she passed away, that Ed had given it away instead. What made it worse, by far, was that he had sold, or given it away, to two of our family friends, who had retired to the antique trade, and obviously liked war memorabilia. This was long before I became an antique dealer myself, and knew there was a brisk trade in military collectibles.
Seeing my father standing there, in the park that day, with the gentle flurries making it appear as if an image, from an agitated snow-globe, I couldn't help but think about that sailor's portrait, and why he had decided to sell what today, would have meant so much to his grandchildren, who used to hang off his every word, when talking about life as a naval gunner. If he would stand out here in the snow and cold, to be with his fellow veterans, to remember the sacrifices of war, what possessed him to sell-off a family heirloom, just because an antique dealer offered a few bucks in return?
One day, alone with my mother, and this memory of my father in the park, still so clear and poignant in my mind, I asked if she could please tell me why Ed had decided to rid himself of the portrait. And why he had all of a sudden decided to attend the Remembrance Day ceremony, when he had bypassed the opportunity, for all the years of my life to that point. What was it that had changed his mind? Did he ever wish to have the portrait back? Merle seemed a little cornered by the questioning, but decided I deserved an explanation after all these years.
My father entered the service of his country, in the first place, because he was hungry. He had been out of work, having to find ways to help his brothers and single mother, in Cabbagetown, survive in a tough economy. He was living hard and fighting regularly. With mates who were suffering from the same conditions, at the time, the prospect of security as enlisted men, for however long the war lasted, was a big improvement over the vicious cycle they found themselves in, holed-up in the city. There were four buddies who signed up at the same time, all for the Navy, but one of the lads he'd known all his life. The first time they had been separated, other than when the doors closed at night in their Cabbagetown abodes, was when they were assigned different ships. They were sad to part company, and didn't have much contact throughout their years of service.
Merle explained to me how difficult it had been for a kid, because Ed wasn't the adult he thought he was, to have to pull sailors out of the water, from ships destroyed by German U-Boats, and have them arrive on deck alive, but then have them die in his arms of hypothermia. Each of them thinking they had survived and would see their loved ones again. It happened over and over, as the U-boat captains were good at their mission to disrupt the convoys. The real horror, she told me, was when the ship couldn't stop, because of the U-boat proximity, forcing them to pass sailors waving from the oil-covered ocean, hoping for rescue, but knowing it was unlikely the convoy could be exposed, for the time it would take to mount a rescue. Merle explained that Ed had endured many nightmares, about seeing these floundering sailors, who actually acknowledged their own imminent deaths, by waving and cheering-on the passing battleships. "He wanted to save them all," she said. "Falling back, you see, to help those men, would have been exactly what the U-Boats preyed on. Leaving the cargo ships unprotected was against the whole purpose of the convoy, to get to England with supplies."
Is that why he sold his portrait? Merle, I think, still wanted to dodge the questioning, but knew it was time to unload some of the family secrets. Reluctantly, she explained, how when the war was over, and the ships had returned to harbor, his ship had arrived ahead of his childhood mate's vessel, so he waited on the platform to meet him disembarking. It wasn't to be. His chum, waving out to the audience on the wharf, had accidentally come in contact with a depth charge device, that disengaged, and hit him on the side of the head. A sailor who had survived the attacks of U-Boats and aircraft bombing, had perished within site of his own mother, when hit by the discharged launcher. In the midst of celebration, he was killed while waving and cheering the victory of the free world.
Thinking that this must be one of the reasons, for Ed's dislike for his own portrait, I relaxed the barrage of questions. It was at that point, Merle qualified it a little further, by pointing out, the photographic image, was taken shortly after he had heard the news about his best friend, and the tragedy on his ship just prior to docking. He was basically told, that having this photograph taken was a requirement, at a time when all he wanted to do was grieve. He tried to give it to his own mother, who knowing the circumstances, and how Ed suffered with it at the time, refused to accept it, as if it was an omen of war tragedy that would long prevail over peace-time. "He never liked that portrait," Merle explained. When the antique dealer friends had come over to the apartment, for a social event, Merle believes they were talking about the war years, and the tragedy connected. She believed that was when he turned to the portrait, and suggested he hated it, and would sell it if someone was interested. Well, they were definitely interested, and so my "Popeye The Sailor Man" portrait, of my father, was sold, instead of being handed down to me as a family heirloom. So what made my father go to the cenotaph then, I asked my mother, who was looking out the window at the chickadees clustered at the balcony feeder?
"I think he finally forgave the war for taking his friend," she said. "He forgave himself for feeling this way, for so long, and started to think about those sailors he helped pull from the ocean, and the ones who he waved at, who knew they were about to perish." "Ed definitely had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, like thousands upon thousands of others, but for those kids, they didn't have a clue why they felt like they did. They lived with it, some better than others."
I have always been proud of my father, and I would be enthralled when, on occasion, he would tell me a few of the stories of friendships on-board, and the life of a sailor. But the truth is, he told my two lads, much more about his naval service, than he ever relayed to me……and it was the sign, according to my mother, that he was softening his point of view on those years. But the portrait was never coming back
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