I Want to be Buried at Sea (1)

I Want to be Buried at Sea 

[I attend a family reunion with my parents, Turkey Point, circa 1978]

I did not develop a strong interest in my father's 'Navy Days' until 2010. I can easily recall, however, a few specific events in the summer and fall of that year that opened the door to my search for details that continues strongly to this day. My father's interest in 'all things Navy' goes back much farther, to the early 1930s at the very least, and very likely the 1920s.

To assist with the process of going back about 90 years, I present a brief excerpt from 'Bury Me At Sea', a short story I composed and published recently:

- Early 1980s - 

As I recall, my wife Pat and I travelled from London to see my parents in Norwich, Ontario on a very lovely day, to have a Sunday visit and enjoy supper together under pleasant circumstances. Our two sons were old enough to send off to a nearby school ground to play on their own (and if they wandered downtown, less than two blocks away, that was fine too), a roast was in the oven, a store-bought pie was on the kitchen counter and cups of tea with cookies were offered and welcomed after the hour drive from our home to that of my parents, Doug and Edith.

Initially, the visit went perfectly well. It helped that, with my wife and I in our early thirties and my parents in their early sixties, an afternoon could be comfortably filled with lots of common small talk. We gabbed about the boys - we just had to look out the window to be sure that neither had fallen off the monkey bars and landed on his head - our family cars, changes to our houses. My teaching career was going well and so were the Blue Jays. Easy breezy afternoon, as some would say.

['Sailor's Statue' stands outside Maritime Museum of the Atlantic, Halifax] 

Then my father handed me a photo postcard of the 'Sailor's Statue' (Sackville St., Halifax) and said, very passionately, "I want to be buried at sea."

He could not have produced a more devastating effect on the conversation had he tossed a hand grenade under the dining room table where we sat. Pat and I didn't know what to say.

More to follow.

Link to Welcome to Faint Footsteps, WW2

Photos GH