Dinker

His given name was Richard, but with two Richards it became too confusing when speaking to or about them. I asked him for a nickname and from then on he was Dinker. It’s a funny name; I had to ask him about it. He told me it was the name of one of his boats which in turn was named after one of his Weimaraners, Dink.

Born in 1923, he was the younger brother of Mary and Charles. Growing up, all three children spent time split between their mother’s boarding house in Bremerton and granny’s farm in Port Orchard, aptly named the Homestead. Homesteaded by Dinker’s grandparents in 1889, this was the true home of his heart. With over 200 acres of wooded forests and wildflower-covered hills, a swamp, pond and an orchard in which they played, the children spent many happy hours at the Homestead. A typical rural farm life included activities that most young boys enjoyed: fishing in the local streams and lakes, and hunting for deer, geese, squirrels, and other small critters. Boys being boys, there were some small discipline problems along the way.

Given only a couple of choices at the time, he enlisted in the Navy at the tender age of seventeen. It was September 1941- just enough time to graduate boot camp before the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Dinker shared many horrific and humorous tales of that time. Through his stories I could tell how much he loved the Navy and his comrades, and he made lifetime friends there.

During this time, Dinker married, had a daughter, and divorced. It was a bitter divorce brought about by his long absences at sea. He didn’t meet his daughter again until she was thirty-five years old. But life goes on and so did he. He married again, had a son, Bill, and divorced again. Bill lived between his mother’s house and with his father, wherever he was stationed in the world at that time. After retiring in 1964, Bill and Dinker lived full-time at the Homestead where he was employed as the Chief of Police at the Bremerton Naval shipyard. When he retired from that position, his fishing life began. I think that was the happiest time of his life because he was free to pursue his passions: fishing, everyday if he wanted, and traveling. He enjoyed his life to its fullest.

Dinker had been diabetic for nine years and had severe neuropathy in his feet and legs, when a serious stroke had his family thinking about his long-term care. He was seventy-nine when I first met him and he resented me: he wanted to maintain his independence. But soon we developed an extremely close relationship, he treated me like a daughter and we shared many confidences and good times together for the four years I was his caregiver.

After he moved to the veteran’s home, I moved into his house at the Homestead. There are still items around here of his: the WWII CPO license plate screwed to the house; on the garden fence in front is the sign that reads “Dad’s Garden”; the canoe-shaped picture frame holding photos of him on his boat; the fishing gear that still takes up half the garage, and; a very large yellow lab, Big Dog, are just some.

Whenever I feel the desire to talk to him or be close to him, it’s only a ten minute walk across the Homestead, to the family graveyard where we interred him a year ago. After spending two years at Retsil, I’m glad he was able to come back to his home again.