Book Worm: a Sort of Autobiography

With All Despatch

On a bookshelf in my classroom a man's life story is told in a meter of books. It's a beautiful fiction, one that took me years to read. Mainly because it took me years to find all the stories of his life. It's a series so extensive that I read the Horatio Hornblower series while searching for the next books, and while they were excellent, Horatio was no Richard Bolitho.

From his entrance into the royal navy as a midshipman through his ascension to the rank of Admiral and ultimately his death. (Confession time - I have never been able to read that final book. I can't bring myself to kill him because then he'll always be dead and rereading the early stories would be as ghoulish as a Tupac holographic concert. Not cool.)

This book was a birthday gift from my Great Uncle Charlie when I turned twelve. Uncle Charlie was a former RCMP who served in WWII. My Grannie wrote this of him in her memoirs.

"Charlie went to Sicily with the Loyal Edmonton Regiment in the lst Div. and was with them all the way until the 2nd Front and when they wanted 'seasoned' officers from the Italian campaign, they were brought to England and he went as second in command with the Algonquin Regiment and stayed with them all the way to Berlin."

By the time I knew him, he was an elderly man and not the sort a young boy gravitated towards. We would visit and his wife would set out tea and those cookies with a jam circle. Their house was always tidy and the tables and walls were adorned with lace doilies and ceramic figurines.

At the time, I couldn't relate, or thought I couldn't. He was someone we visited so my parents could connect, but there is often a chasm between generations, not for any particular reason. On one side are the young ones busy with their own funny worlds and odd thoughts, while on the other are the aged observers, deep in story but unfavored by audience.

When he gave me this book, another uncle from the generation between myself and Charlie offered to buy it from me. He was collecting the series, and desired this story greatly. Only then did I have any notion of its value, and so I refused and kept my copy of With All Despatch.

Reading it, I found myself plunged into the middle of a great adventure, unaware of the history of the character. All the idiosyncrasies and inside jokes and easter eggs the author had long ago made standard for the reader, I was experiencing fresh.

I was captivated. (Or pressed into service.)

The story is set in the late 18th century, after the American Revolution and before all the trouble with Napoleon. It's a story of tall ships and smugglers and sea battles and camaraderie. A romantic view of a brutal age.

After reading it, I began a quest to collect and read the entire series. My Grandma was a great enabler in this, as she worked at a Bibles for Missions second hand store and kept a list of the books I had and those I needed. She uncovered the majority of my collection, while others she purchased as birthday gifts for years to come.

I adored these books of a life at sea, and like a great whirlpool this fascination drew in other stories. The movie White Squall became a favourite, and I watched a TV program about life aboard the Picton Castle called Tall Ship Chronicles, a working ship that offers long distance education voyages. (Too far out of my price range, but I did dream of it.)

I think of why these stories held my attention, and it's an understanding I've had for a long time. Our culture here in North America lacks a real coming of age ritual. Our rites of passage are too unrefined. Getting a driver's license, graduation, and being able to drink legally are just not definitive enough. It leaves young people seeking a more ceremonial and memorable transition.

Our culture needs an event that clearly marks the progression into adulthood.

I'm not so romantic that I think that should be war, as it was for my Uncle Charlie or the character Richard Bolitho. War is a horrifying thing that traumatizes society for generations, wasting precious resources, the greatest of which being those youth who are slaughtered. Charlie's mother used to admonish my Dad and uncles saying, "What you kids need is a good war."

I disagree. But we do need a ritual. Some tradition that connects us to our elders and to those generations sure to follow. One that tests us, helps us to see our weaknesses imparting humility, and reveal our strengths instilling courage. And as important a ritual that shows us just how dependent we must be upon our community. I know this flies in the face of the individualism that marks us. We seek privacy and property and don't know our neighbours as we should, especially in an urban setting.

It's wishful and romantic, I know, but it may also be a sort of poultice to the ills of our culture. The depression and anxiety and disconnect. I know I missed a chance to know my Great Uncle, and so know myself a little better.