Last weekend’s drowning tragedy on Slocan Lake was beyond sad.
Parents outliving children is heartbreaking.
We let our children make their way, without trying to control every moment of the day, but it isn’t easy.
I cannot imagine waiting on the shores of the lake, day after day, hoping my child’s body will be located.
Grief goes so deep.
When we lose people we learn how far reaching love is.
I keep holding those strangers in my heart hoping they will feel comforted.
When we lived in Prince Rupert, three teenaged boys drowned in the harbour late one Friday night in September 2000 after a boat travelling home from a party capsized.
Some passengers were found alive, clinging to a buoy, but three of the boys perished.
One of the truths to emerge afterwards was that some of the parents didn’t even know their kids were at the party.
Our eldest was only 13 at the time so we didn’t know the young people involved, but I learned through the grapevine some of the moms got together.
They made a pact to be nothing but honest with each other going forward.
If one person heard something about another person’s child, they’d tell them, no matter what.
Instead of being worried about hurting feelings, it was more important to be truthful in case it could prevent a tragedy.
My husband and I are raising teenagers number five and six. Our older four children are all in their 20s.
We’ve had our share of incidents.
I’m a worry wart and have learned to phone my kids if I wake up with a fright.
On a lighter note, however, having six kids means people often take it upon themselves to inform you of your child’s antics.
Perhaps they view me as the old woman who lived in a shoe who had so many children she didn’t know what to do.
One of my all time favourite family stories is the time when one of our children was in kindergarten.
A parent phoned to tell me he’d written the “f” word on a piece of paper at school.
Somehow I wasn’t surprised, but I decided if he and I wanted to survive the next 12 years of his schooling, I’d better have a little chat.
When he arrived home I asked if it was true about the “f” word and he looked at me perplexed.
“I wrote f c c k,” he said.
Then holding up his arms, he motioned from a “C” shape to a “U” shape and told me his “C” got twisted.
Without cracking a smile, I asked what “f c c k” meant.
Quickly he responded that it was the name of his warrior club.
“Well, if you don’t want to get in trouble at school, I suggest all warrior club names veer far from resembling swear words,” I told him.
When I related the story to a friend, she said life would be interesting going forward.
“He’s a quick thinker,” she warned.
Monica Lamb-Yorski is a staff writer with the Williams Lake Tribune/Weekend Advisor.
