A Life Well Lived
Dean’s funeral was on Tuesday. As I sit to write this, my thoughts drift back thirty-seven years ago to my first year of teaching.
I first met Dean in 1984; I was brand new both to the community and to teaching. The high school had 25 students in one room, and it was there that I met Dean. He was only 17, but already he stood out because of his confidence, sense of humour and willingness to speak up. I stumbled through my first year of teaching and somehow, during that time, we became not just a teacher and student but also friends.
Our friendship may have begun when he found out I liked to cook and, because he was a teenager, he liked to eat. When he first came over, I asked him what he liked to eat. “Pizza” he said. “Can you make pizza?” I had to tell him I had never made it, but I would try. I made pizzas with burnt crusts, pizzas with soggy crusts, pizzas with pineapple, pizza with mushrooms, peppers, and olives – he ate it all. It took a lot of tries, but with his ability to eat just about anything I cooked, the recipe was gradually perfected. It ended up being a calorie and saturated fat laden tower of salami, pepperoni, hamburger, bacon, cheese, and pizza sauce. One piece was enough for just about anybody except Dean.
We spent a lot of time, sitting at the little, kitchen table in the rectory, eating pizza, drinking Tang, and visiting. He was smart; he liked to talk, and he liked to argue. When Dean had an opinion about something, he wasn’t shy about letting me know what it was, and just because I was the teacher that didn’t mean he was going to accept whatever I said.
One of the highlights of those early years was our class trip to Europe. London, Paris, Rome, Switzerland, Germany; it was an exciting experience for all of us. He never let me forget how, when we were in London, all the students, along with Jenny Munroe and Bernice Morin, went for a night tour of London. I was tired so I stayed at the hotel. Not long after they left, there was a knock at the door, and an employee delivered what I thought was an evening snack of three buns and some tea. I was hungry so I ate it all. An hour later, Dean arrived back at the room, wanting to know where the food was. He said the tour guide told them breakfast had already been sent to our rooms. I had to admit to both of them that I had eaten everything. The next morning, I had two hungry and not very happy young men to deal with.
At some point in those years, Dean and Gwen became a couple. She was quiet; he was loud. She seemed shy; Dean was never shy. She was patient; Dean could have a temper. It was obvious, however, that Gwen brought out the best in him. She might be quiet and shy but that didn’t mean she was going to put up with any nonsense from him. Through their relationship, he grew and became an even better person and, together, they grew into a loving couple.
Children and then grandchildren started to arrive. While speaking about them, his eyes would shine, and his face become animated. He expected the best from himself, and he expected the best from his kids, pushing and supporting his sons and daughters to be the best they could be. While every grandparent loves their grandchildren, his were clearly the best looking, smartest, most talented, most athletic grandchildren ever born. “Natural talent!” he would say, “They have natural talent! They’re incredible, Brother.” He was convinced they were all going to be in the NHL. I would smile at his enthusiasm and think to myself that they must be the luckiest kids in the world to have a grandfather who believed in them so much.
Alcohol could have dominated his life, but he put it aside because he didn’t want that for his family. He took part in the 2017 Voyageur Rendezvous Canoe Quest, racing from Rocky Mountain House, AB to The Pas, MB. It was an incredible test of strength and endurance, but he didn’t do it alone; the team was a family adventure with three of his kids paddling with him and his wife providing support along the way. It was an adventure that bound the family even more closely together.
Two years ago, Dean called. What the doctor initially diagnosed as diverticulitis turned out to be cancer. An operation, followed by chemo, was in his future. We talked about some of the big questions: faith, the meaning of our lives, is there a God and, if so, why would he allow this to happen? The surgery seemed successful, and he went through chemotherapy to catch any errant cancer cells the surgeon may have missed. In the months that followed he would, on occasion, mention that something had come up and he had to see the doctor, but he never complained; inevitably, the conversation would turn to his clever, talented grandchildren.
It was only with the relaxation of Covid restrictions this summer that I was able to travel back to the community and visit with Dean. He texted to say he couldn’t come over. Would I be able to come over? In my reply, I teased him about getting old. Making your way through the village isn’t a simple affair; aside from people on the road stopping to talk, one can hardly brush aside those leaning out the window inviting you for a visit. My promise to see Dean fell further and further behind but, eventually, I made my way to the trailer, knocked and breezed in, my cheerful greeting met with somber faces. Gwen quietly said, “He’s down there.”
I walked to his room, still carrying in my mind a picture of the same healthy, vibrant, cheerfully opinionated, larger-than-life character he had always been. Dean lay in bed, a shadow of himself. For the previous two years, Dean had been trying to tell me things were not going well, but it had been an unassembled jigsaw puzzle; I couldn’t hear it at the time.
During our time together, he didn’t say much; he didn’t complain about the terrible pain he was in. He simply squeezed my hand, and said, “I’m glad you came, my brother.” Afterwards, I went home and wept.
Years ago, I came across the counsel: “When we entered this world, we cried, and others celebrated. Live your life in such a way that when you leave, you celebrate, and others cry.” Dean had lots to celebrate. He lived life well. He saw his children grow and start their own families. His grandchildren will always remember their poppa as being the best in the world. He touched the lives of people in the community and inspired the youth. Although we rejoiced that his suffering was over, we cried because we lost a son, a husband, a father, a grandfather and, for me, a wonderful friend who was there for thirty-seven years. Dean seemed as much a part of the community as the lakes and forest that surround it, but he is no longer here to keep us going with his laughter, his jokes, his strength, his caring and kindness. He may be gone, but there can be no goodbyes for us, because he will always live in our hearts.
By Harley Mapes, OMI
