•4:09 PM
On June 19th, he would have been thirty-eight years old. He would be a man now. And on the day that he would have turned thirty-eight years old, I stood in the same lake that took him from us for the first time in the twenty-one years that he has been gone.
On June 11, 1989, at about 7:50am, there was a knock at the door. I can assure you that if you get an unexpected knock on the door early in the morning, it cannot be good news. I was faced with a police officer, who told my father and I that my brother was missing, and presumed drowned. My mother was hosting a class reunion and had spent the night at a local hotel with her nursing classmates. It would be another hour before she would know her son was gone. Which was okay because obviously, there had been some kind of mistake. Your brain is an amazing organ because its main function is to protect you from the things that you are unable to deal with; and in this case, my brain told me that there must have been some kind of mistake ... because my brother was both an outdoorsman and an excellent swimmer. I found out later that my Mom's brain was working in the same manner as mine because when they arrived at the beach, she made my Dad search through all the long weeds along the shore. She was sure that he had reached the beach but was too exhausted to call out for help. Yes, your brain works hard to protect you.
However, there had not been a mistake, and we were eventually forced to face the reality that he was gone. For each member of my family, our lives changed in that instant.
The beach that my brother had spent his last hours of life was the same beach that we had grown up on. In a previous post I mentioned that my parents owned a cottage just outside Rondeau Provincial Park on Lake Erie. We grew up in that water ... we swam at dusk in that water, we had contests to see who could hold their breath the longest in that water, my Uncle gave us 100-pounders in that water, we swam in rain storms in that water, we had races out to the sand bar in that water, and we swam when that water was so rough that we could body surf the waves, pretending we were real surfers like the ones in California. And it was fun ... in fact, perhaps it was a time when I was actually carefree. We grew up in that water. So, you see, it seems impossible to believe that same water could hurt us. Consequently, as I stood there more than twenty years later, watching that same water wash over my feet as my own children played and splashed one another, I tried not to imagine the day that same water had spit him out onto the shore for some poor young mother to happen across on a walk with her little boy, almost two weeks after he had gone missing.
His canoe capsized after they had paddled out too far in the lake. The police later told us that his friend reported they could no longer see the shore, and decided that they should turn the canoe around. This was a fatal error. His friend made it to shore; my brother did not.
And so, I have not been back there since his death ... to the same Rondeau Park that had brought me such great times as a child. In fact, while my parents visited that beach every day until he was found - waiting for news from the police search and rescue-turned-recover team - I could never make myself go, except for their last day of searching. I arrived in time for them to call the search off.
About a month ago, my parents announced they had reserved a campsite at Rondeau Provincial Park and they wanted my family to join them for Father's Day weekend. I am not an avid camper ... I am more of a "shower-every-day, avoid-the-humidity-at-all-costs" kind of girl who can appreciate a fun campfire. However, if I push all my aversion to camping aside, it was really the idea of visiting that place again. That place that had taken by little brother away. It might seem strange but consider your feelings if you had to visit the exact hospital room where a loved one had died ... how would you feel? Overwhelmed? Sad? Perhaps, relief that suffering was over? Whatever the emotion, you cannot hide ... I was no longer able to avoid thinking about that force of nature that swooped down and took away a life. A life that was very important to me.
But, a strange thing happened. I felt relaxed at Rondeau Provincial Park. I felt reassured and comfortable; everything was familiar. The big dock ... still had lots of fisherman on it. The little grocery store where you could get an ice cream cone is still there ... it's been fixed up a bit, but it is still there. The cottage my grandparents once rented is still there. The house my parents built when I was three years old is still there. The Nature Museum is still there. And yes, our old cottage ... although greatly modernized and expanded ... is still there. Some things are gone ... most notably, my Grampa's dance hall ... but everything was familiar.
And so, I found myself overcome with emotion but not overcome with sadness. Don't get me wrong, that beach will always invoke great emotion in me. But I felt more happiness from the memories that surfaced about my time spent there as a kid, with my brother, than sadness that would warrant me avoiding this place that been so important to our family. I had some unexplained flashes of things that I could not fully remember, and some things came to mind that I had not thought of in years: like the (imagination-inspired) games we used to play in the forest around our cottage, and the beach parties, and the little secret fishing hole where you could always find my brother with his fishing rod and a small container of left-over corn kernals ... that was his secret bait, but I don't think he would mind if I told you.
I wonder if it was his presence I felt out there? Maybe it was him that made me feel okay. Do you think that could happen?
His name was Joel and I still miss him every day. He would have turned thirty-eight years old this past Saturday. Wish he could have come camping with us to celebrate. Wish he could have known his nephew and nieces. I just wish so many things.
On June 11, 1989, at about 7:50am, there was a knock at the door. I can assure you that if you get an unexpected knock on the door early in the morning, it cannot be good news. I was faced with a police officer, who told my father and I that my brother was missing, and presumed drowned. My mother was hosting a class reunion and had spent the night at a local hotel with her nursing classmates. It would be another hour before she would know her son was gone. Which was okay because obviously, there had been some kind of mistake. Your brain is an amazing organ because its main function is to protect you from the things that you are unable to deal with; and in this case, my brain told me that there must have been some kind of mistake ... because my brother was both an outdoorsman and an excellent swimmer. I found out later that my Mom's brain was working in the same manner as mine because when they arrived at the beach, she made my Dad search through all the long weeds along the shore. She was sure that he had reached the beach but was too exhausted to call out for help. Yes, your brain works hard to protect you.
However, there had not been a mistake, and we were eventually forced to face the reality that he was gone. For each member of my family, our lives changed in that instant.
The beach that my brother had spent his last hours of life was the same beach that we had grown up on. In a previous post I mentioned that my parents owned a cottage just outside Rondeau Provincial Park on Lake Erie. We grew up in that water ... we swam at dusk in that water, we had contests to see who could hold their breath the longest in that water, my Uncle gave us 100-pounders in that water, we swam in rain storms in that water, we had races out to the sand bar in that water, and we swam when that water was so rough that we could body surf the waves, pretending we were real surfers like the ones in California. And it was fun ... in fact, perhaps it was a time when I was actually carefree. We grew up in that water. So, you see, it seems impossible to believe that same water could hurt us. Consequently, as I stood there more than twenty years later, watching that same water wash over my feet as my own children played and splashed one another, I tried not to imagine the day that same water had spit him out onto the shore for some poor young mother to happen across on a walk with her little boy, almost two weeks after he had gone missing.
His canoe capsized after they had paddled out too far in the lake. The police later told us that his friend reported they could no longer see the shore, and decided that they should turn the canoe around. This was a fatal error. His friend made it to shore; my brother did not.
And so, I have not been back there since his death ... to the same Rondeau Park that had brought me such great times as a child. In fact, while my parents visited that beach every day until he was found - waiting for news from the police search and rescue-turned-recover team - I could never make myself go, except for their last day of searching. I arrived in time for them to call the search off.
About a month ago, my parents announced they had reserved a campsite at Rondeau Provincial Park and they wanted my family to join them for Father's Day weekend. I am not an avid camper ... I am more of a "shower-every-day, avoid-the-humidity-at-all-costs" kind of girl who can appreciate a fun campfire. However, if I push all my aversion to camping aside, it was really the idea of visiting that place again. That place that had taken by little brother away. It might seem strange but consider your feelings if you had to visit the exact hospital room where a loved one had died ... how would you feel? Overwhelmed? Sad? Perhaps, relief that suffering was over? Whatever the emotion, you cannot hide ... I was no longer able to avoid thinking about that force of nature that swooped down and took away a life. A life that was very important to me.
But, a strange thing happened. I felt relaxed at Rondeau Provincial Park. I felt reassured and comfortable; everything was familiar. The big dock ... still had lots of fisherman on it. The little grocery store where you could get an ice cream cone is still there ... it's been fixed up a bit, but it is still there. The cottage my grandparents once rented is still there. The house my parents built when I was three years old is still there. The Nature Museum is still there. And yes, our old cottage ... although greatly modernized and expanded ... is still there. Some things are gone ... most notably, my Grampa's dance hall ... but everything was familiar.
And so, I found myself overcome with emotion but not overcome with sadness. Don't get me wrong, that beach will always invoke great emotion in me. But I felt more happiness from the memories that surfaced about my time spent there as a kid, with my brother, than sadness that would warrant me avoiding this place that been so important to our family. I had some unexplained flashes of things that I could not fully remember, and some things came to mind that I had not thought of in years: like the (imagination-inspired) games we used to play in the forest around our cottage, and the beach parties, and the little secret fishing hole where you could always find my brother with his fishing rod and a small container of left-over corn kernals ... that was his secret bait, but I don't think he would mind if I told you.
I wonder if it was his presence I felt out there? Maybe it was him that made me feel okay. Do you think that could happen?
His name was Joel and I still miss him every day. He would have turned thirty-eight years old this past Saturday. Wish he could have come camping with us to celebrate. Wish he could have known his nephew and nieces. I just wish so many things.
