Simply Sid - Capturing Memories With Pictures and Words

This story is dedicated to the memory of my mother, Eleanor Marie (Gaspers) Hurl, known as Nora by all who knew and loved her. April 10, 1925 - February 5, 2006

I'd been waiting a long time to take our adult children to the place I'd first called home. I wanted them to see firsthand the house and land Dad bought to build a life with Mom and us kids. It was a place where dreams were built, then shattered in 1963 with Dad's cancer diagnosis. They'd left it all behind, moving to BC so Dad could spend his last days surrounded not only by his devoted wife and seven kids, but also his parents and sisters.

A neighbor bought the house and moved it to his yard, intending to use it for a granary, or so he said. Somehow he just never got around to it. Or maybe it was his way of helping out a widow and her kids, knowing she wouldn't want a hand-out. It became another of his buildings, a catchall for discarded machinery parts, old bed springs and more.

The paint is long gone, its boards weathered, windows broken. It sits on the open prairie, wind blowing through its empty shell. There's an assortment of sheds and granaries in various stages of collapse and the neighbor's house, whose basement is caving in, to keep our house company.

I stood in the doorway overwhelmed with emotion, burdened by six decades of sadness, loss and pain. I could only imagine the added weight my parents carried, knowing they'd never return, at least not to live there. The rooms seemed to welcome us in, begging to remember what once was. Whether the memories I have are truly mine or those told by Mom, my grandparents and siblings really doesn't matter. They're a part of this house, my heritage.

Would our children, or anyone, ever understand why I'm drawn to this place?

We walked into the kitchen, the room Mom loved most. It was full of rusted machinery parts, an old wringer washer all covered by crumbling plaster and debris. Mom was comfortable in her kitchen, regardless of its size, cooking and baking, serving coffee for all who entered in. I could see where the cupboards once hung. We had pictures of our family there, in happy times, showing four cupboard doors on the upper portion and four, perhaps six, on the lower portion. I could almost smell the apple pie Mom baked, the one Allan snitched a sample of as it cooled on the windowsill. I remembered Saturday night baths in a galvanized tub. What a chore it must have been to haul and heat bath water for Mom, Dad and seven kids!

We entered the living room next. It, too, was cluttered with more of Cecil's stuff, a bed spring, car parts and heaven knows what else! In one corner was the plywood China cabinet with glass doors Dad had built. Mom was so proud of it. In the opposite corner, a wood shelf, now empty, which once held our first television set. My oldest brother, Allan, wasn't much for jook learning so he'd quit school and went to work. He helped Mom and Dad as much as he could and with some of his hard earned cash he bought a TV for all of us to enjoy. We felt rich! Dad and the boys hooked the TV to a gas powered generator in the shop. They loved Hockey Night in Canada!

Upstairs were two bedrooms, one for my parents and one my two sisters and I shared. The boys slept in the basement. The upstairs is empty with just an old cot, a wooden drawer and door covered in a layer of crumbled plaster, bird and animal droppings. These are reminders of a long ago time when a boisterous large family lived here. In the middle of Mom and Dad's bedroom floor lies a woman's forgotten dress shoe, looking almost out of place. It appears to have once been black but years of exposure to the elements and rodents have taken their toll. I'd seen the shoe on previous visits, but this time was different. It seemed to shout, "Look at me! See me!" It was a painful glimpse into the high cost my Mom, in particular, paid when they moved to BC. I imagined her wearing such shoes when she and Dad were young and in love, perhaps dancing as she enjoyed doing. The shoe seemed to weep at the loss of its usefulness and the pleasure it once served. I imagined Mom thinking, "I'll have no need of dancing shoes", though there'd be no time for self pity. She had a dying husband and seven kids who needed her to be strong. And strong she was.

Our old house stands straight and tall, defying the elements to break its walls and its will. It's been that way for sixty years and I expect it might be that way sixty more. It's a testament to the strength and resilience of Mom and her children and speaks to all who pass by of the love she had for her family. As long as it's there I will return from time to time. I will tell its story to our children to be passed to our grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I will tell of the woman who left behind dancing shoes, all for the love of her family.

© Simply Sid - Capturing Memories With Pictures and Words

One day I was making our bed in the rv, using this well worn comforter. Back in the 90's we renovated our old farmhouse. I've never had strong decorating skills, but I know what I like and what I don't. The old Sears catalogue was a big help in those days. I was talking to a friend on the phone, telling her how hard it was to find what I wanted, even with assistance from Sears 😅. Not long after she called me back and said she'd found one she thought I'd like. I ordered it and she was right. I loved it! So here I was, decades later still using it. It's worn and thin but it worked fine for summer. She and I shared many phone calls, lunches and conversations over the years. She lived by the motto "Unto thine own self be true". Sadly, we parted ways, and for me the parting was painful and difficult. One of her favorite choruses was, "I am the Lord, that healeth thee". Her unshakeable faith was put to the test with a very unexpected cancer diagnosis. Those words and the strength of her faith sustained her. She fought valiantly, but despite her every effort, she lost an 18 year battle with cancer back in 2011. I have never forgotten the impact she had on my life. Eileen, I treasure the memories I have with you and this worn quilt is a reminder.

© Simply Sid - Capturing Memories With Pictures and Words

The Circle of Life Goes On

It was January 2023, and the anniversary of Mom's passing was approaching. It's a day which always stirs the emotional pot of my heart. My brother, Randy, and I were talking about our families, as we often do. He mentioned his youngest grandson would soon be turning one on February 5th. In the years since Mom passed, our large family had increased and the number of her descendants continued to grow. As I mulled this over in my mind, it occurred to me that this sweet child would likely be the last of his generation for our family.

Many will never meet her, at least not here on earth. It was an emotional moment, realizing it is extremely likely the last great-grandchild in my parents' family line, was born on the anniversary of Mom's passing. That realization didn't lessen the sadness of the anniversary of Mom's passing, but the sadness was mingled with a stirring of hope.

I was ill prepared for the day God called Mom home. One day I was at her bedside, convinced the worst was over, but the next morning she was unexpectedly found unresponsive. I was catapulted into a dizzying reality that my Mom, the once strong backbone of our large family, was fading away quickly. I rode an emotional roller coaster from denial to acceptance at breakneck speed. Within hours a long line of family had gathered at her bedside, lights dimmed, voices hushed as we quietly, ever so quietly, literally watched her life slip away. I was acutely aware her life on earth had ended and her new life in eternity had begun. It was a sacred moment.

Fast forward sixteen years later, in the throes of Covid pandemic lock downs, February 5, 2022 August Alexander Dixon was born. He arrived quietly (although his Mama might disagree). Covid restrictions did not allow visitors so his many great-aunties weren't able to share in the celebration of his arrival with gushes of affection and well dishes for his parents, Amy and Chris, and siblings, Lachlan and Kalli.

I didn't think of it on the day he was born, but one year later it occurred to me that Gus was born on a very special day. It was a sobering thought to realize that sixteen years after Mom left us, an entire generation of great-grandchildren had been completed. All the while, a new generation of great-great grandchildren, were being born!

Mom loved children. She devoted her life to her own children (but that's a story for another day) and as each child was born into our family, she celebrated their birth. She would be thrilled at the arrival of each child, too, born since her passing and pleased to know that although her death has left a huge and painful void in our lives, we have children to help fill that void. Gus will never meet his Great-Grandma, at least not this side of heaven. But he and his siblings, along with all the rest who have been born since her passing will carry elements of Mom and Dad's genes, characteristics, even personality traits and resemblances.

Mom was born April 10, 1925. During her lifetime there was poverty, economic failures, rampant disease, even world war. But there was always the promise of a better tomorrow. Certainly, too, our world today is filled with poverty, strife, violence, war and even rampant disease with the Covid 19 pandemic. We, too, have the promise of a brighter tomorrow. It requires hard work, determination, and facing struggles head on, but it's possible. We need only look to the example set by my parents, Fred and Nora, to meet those challenges.

With Mom's passing our family experienced deep grief and loss, but Moms words ring in my ears, "Where there's life, there's hope". My faith in God and His Son, Jesus Christ, gives me hope and reminds me the Circle of Life goes on.

© Simply Sid - Capturing Memories With Pictures and Words

Growing up in a large single parent family, life was lived often on hand-me-downs or stuff we acquired from auction sales or the local radio's call in show called The Trading Post. I don't recall being embarrassed. I don't even remember feeling "poor", even though in my adult years I would come to realize that indeed we were truly poor. But there was one time that I REALLY wanted something new. The bike I had was, as I recall, a boys bike and had been repaired resulting in the bike being two colors ... faded orange and the fork on the front of the bike was a rusty brown. If you've lived in a small town you'll know a bike is essential for an 10 year old kid. I wanted a new bike so very badly. One day my older brother, Ira, bought be a brand new girl's sparkly blue metallic CCM bike. I was thrilled! I felt like a million bucks riding that bike on the streets of Vanguard. I'm sure it wasn't easy for Ira to fork out money for a kid sister's dream bike, but he did. Although I don't know what happened to that bike I can still remember the feeling of exhilaration riding with Judy Woods Smid or Penny Berge or Denise Blair (Froyman). Ah, those were the days!

© Simply Sid - Capturing Memories With Pictures and Words

The Many Emotions of Purging

I've never considered myself a "pack rat" (though some may disagree) but admittedly there are things I struggle to part with. I can ditch kitchen items, towels, bedding and the like but there are two types of things I tend to hold on to. Firstly, I hate to get rid of my clothing and secondly, paper ... anything pertaining to taxes, record keeping, warranties, pictures and historical documents. (That may be more than two ....).

I've been told I have an unusual attachment to keepsakes and pictures, which may lead you to believe I am in fact a pack rat. 🤔😪 The longer I hang onto something, sometimes the harder it is to let go. "Downsize," they say. "Purge," it'll feel good! "Cindy/Mom why are you keeping that STUFF"! Easy for someone else to say. They don't have the same connection to the things I've embraced for decades. Oh, I know I can't hang onto these things forever, so I've created my own method to let go of "stuff". I've found that sorting and organizing helps me decide. I've got boxes and totes, neatly organized and over the last several years I go through them from time to time with a goal to reduce the amount that goes back in the tote. Each time it's painful, but often less so than the time before. This winter I've made progress. For example, I had a suitcase (yes, a suitcase) of notes, cards, letters, colored pages and small crafts. This project was emotionally draining. Some were from our own children. I read each and every one, just as I'd done many times before. There were some from our grandkids and great-grandchildren. Oh, how sweet they are! Some in toddler gibberish, then colorful pictures of the horses or cats. Still others as teenagers and adults. I held each one, read each one, memories flooding back. There were some from our parents. Reading their handwriting made them feel close. One in particular was from my Mom in 1999 after we'd returned from the BC where I'd learned new information about Allan's drowning. Cards from siblings and friends. Pictures from nieces who'd drawn pictures or wrote notes, some of which were delivered to me at work. As I sorted and reflected, I knew it was time. Time to empty the suitcase, not just reduce the contents, no exceptions. It was hard, very hard to do. Everything is sorted and labelled. Soon they'll be returned, in most cases, to the person who gave them to us. I've taken pictures so I'll never forget but the suitcase is empty.

Now, on to those clothes!

© Simply Sid - Capturing Memories With Pictures and Words

Oh, For the Impact of a Teacher

I happened across this poem today while mindlessly scrolling. As soon as I began to read the words I was taken back in time to Mr. Lyding's Literature class in Vanguard. I can see him standing there in a crisp white shirt and black dress pants, black framed glasses with long arms waving and the lilt of his voice rising and falling wuth great expression, as he read it to us. He gave me a love of words, written, read or spoken. He lit a spark which all these years later still touches me deeply .. that he would see me in me an ability, a gift. Words have always given me comfort, inspired me but more than anything they help me deal with life, heal from its inflictions and sorrows but also share the immense joy and blessing God has poured out into my life. J.C. Lyding is the first person who can be credited with instilling in me courage, coaching me to stand in front of people and use my voice. It wasn't always easy and still isn't. In fact there have been countless times I've been used, teased, ridiculed and even bullied for it. At times I've been silenced, my words pushed down, stuffed deep into the dark crevices of my soul, my voice stifled by the same people who once happily pushed me on the stage. Yet here I am. Somewhat timid, yet also brave, to put myself and my words out there, taking the road less travelled. Thank you, J.C. You made a difference in this girl's life.

Originally posted February 16, 2022

© Simply Sid - Capturing Memories With Pictures and Words

Anti-ageing creams,
pills and potions,
anti-ageing masks,
scrubs and lotions,
put them on your skin,
to smooth away the years,
pat around your eyes,
your neck up to your ears.
And don’t forget your hands,
they will give the game away,
they show the years you’ve toiled,
they must be hid away.
Keep your body trim,
and the skin must stay elastic,
if you’ve worshipped too much sun,
you can always add some plastic,
but don’t look too ‘worked on’,
because that’s not seen as right,
your youth should be all natural,
you must fight the ageing fight.

Or

You could just go get older,
with the lines this life has carved,
the years you laughed and lived,
the years you did not starve.
Ageing is not something,
that we women should avoid,
it’s a gift of time and years,
that not all of us enjoy.
And Mother Nature knows,
the beauty of the years,
she paints us all with love,
If only we could see.
There’s wisdom in these wrinkles,
there’s starlight in our hair,
there’s evidence of growth and love,
the stories we can share.
So join me in our ageing,
let’s love the skin we’re in,
protect it, feed it, help it sure,
but let the ageing win.
Because here’s a little secret,
if you want to look alive,
acceptance of your journey,
will see your body thrive.

Donna Ashworth
Follow Us 𝗢𝗹𝗶𝗩𝗶𝗿𝗮𝗹
image | Cindy Joseph

Hold On

If memory serves correctly the year was 1973 or 1974. I was living at home with my Mom, an older brother and younger sister. I also had a baby just a few months old.

Almost out of nowhere, a blizzard of all blizzards blew in, catching us unprepared. We hadn't seen such a storm in years. Stores, schools and businesses were closed. It was frightfully cold, the visibility was virtually zero and snow drifts covered everything in sight. There were no weather apps or radar available to the average person so we relied on radio and weather reports on the TV at noon and supper time. It didn't appear the storm was ending any time soon. There I was, a very young Mom with a baby, almost out of formula.

An employee at a neighborhood grocery store, Southside Co-op, was able to get to open the store for a few hours for folks like me, unprepared for the storm. By mid afternoon there was a break in the visibility. My brother and I bundled up and headed out, walking the short distance of 3 1/2 blocks to the store. Arm in arm we trudged through the blinding snow, deep hard-packed drifts crunched beneath our feet, the wind whipping frozen crystals into our faces. Suddenly I felt a different sounding crunch. I reached down to brush the snow away and found we were walking across the roof of a car that had slid into a chain link fence surrounding the Palliser Hospital, a long term care facility across the street from where we lived! The car and fence were virtually covered by the huge snow drifts. We forged ahead, eventually arriving at the store, purchasing the formula at the pharmacy. We stayed long enough to warm up before heading home. It felt like we walked for miles.

It was indeed a storm to remember, taking days for the City to get out from under the huge amount of snow, in some cases streets were blocked. I was reminded of my pioneering parents and grandparents who often faced weather like this on the open prairie, no running water or electricity. They told stories of tying a rope from the house to the barn for storms such as this. Livestock were essential to their survival, needing to be fed and watered daily. Even so some folks perished, losing their grip on the rope, left searching for the safety of the house or barn.

Sometimes life can be like that of the pioneers. I lose my way, wandering, searching for something or Someone to guide me and give me a reason to hold on.

Thankfully my brother and I made it home safe that day. Pictures like this are a good reminder that although we didn’t have a rope to guide us, we had God who protected us and brought us safely home.

Photo credit .. Internet

© Simply Sid - Capturing Memories With Pictures and Words

Like most people, I’ve had experiences and circumstances in life that have left a deep indelible mark on my soul. I call them Defining Moments. One such event took place Friday, January 17, 1964 when I was a tender aged child of seven. I grope to find words, even decades later, that will describe the pain, loss and feelings of abandonment that night has seared into my mind and onto my heart. The word "tragic" has often been used to describe it, and it truly was. It still is, even 59 years later.

I tell the story of my brother's untimely death and its aftermath to anyone who will listen. It's more than a story, it's a testimony of his life, a life that is remembered for more than just one dark day on the calendar.

This is my account of his story, including history as it unfolded leading up to the tragedy, each part woven into the fabric of my life.

It began with Mom and Dad’s marriage, Fred and Nora (Gaspers) Hurl November 3, 1944, after Dad's discharge from the armed services. They lived on Dad’s parents’ farm, George and Elsie (Burgess) Hurl, north of Vanguard. Dad worked alongside Grandad doing what they both loved. Five sons and a daughter were born in just seven and a half years. Allan Lloyd was the firstborn, arriving on January 12, 1946. Sadly one son, David, passed away at just two days old.

Dad was given an opportunity to purchase three quarters of land in the Pambrun area through the Veterans Land Act. Preparations were made to build a basement, move a house onto it and put down roots for their large family. They acquired an outhouse, chicken coop, pig pen, eight sided granary and fenced the large yard to protect the huge garden from livestock. A building was moved in from the neighbors and modified for a barn. The house was small with just a living room and kitchen on the main floor, two bedrooms upstairs, no running water or electricity. The boys slept in the basement, along with Grandad when he came to help out. There were wrestling matches and pillow fights with echoes of laughter ringing through the house. Life was good. In 1956 I was born, Cynthia Christine, but I’ve always been called Cindy. A few years later another daughter was born, making the large family complete. Abiut a year later Dad began having health issues resulting in doctor’s appointments, tests, x-rays until late summer of 1963 when he was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. This was devastating news and a turning point for our family.

Nothing could be done to change Dad's diagnosis. Once harvest was complete plans were made to move to Creston. Dad’s parents and sisters had moved west. Grandma and Grandad and two of their daughters settled in Creston, the other two daughters weren’t far away. Some thought a milder climate would either extend Dad’s life, or at least make his breathing more comfortable. No one questioned the decision to move. In mid November two cars and a truck were loaded with what meagre belongings we had. Dad couldn’t drive, Mom didn’t have a license so that left Allan and Jerry. One of the boys’ friends, Wes Wall, and Mom’s younger brother, Bob Gaspers, stepped in to help get us there.

When we got to Creston, Grandad had rented a house for us. Mom and Dad clung to each other, and the knowledge that in his last days he would be surrounded by those he loved most, his devoted wife, just 38, their children, his parents and sisters. We were lonesome for our friends, especially the older kids, and we missed Mom’s family and home. These feelings, however, were left unspoken. All that mattered was making the most of what precious time Dad had left.

Allan was, in many ways a typical boy. He played hockey, was in 4H, loved hunting with his Dad and brothers and like most teenagers, raised a little Cain. He was loyal, kind, responsible and generous. He wasn’t fond of school although I’m not sure if it was a lack of interest, or perhaps a deep sense of responsibility to help Mom and Dad financially. Even before leaving Saskatchewan, Allan had quit school and gone to work giving as much of his earnings as he could to Mom and Dad to help support us and keep the farm going.

Although it was never expected of him, ever the responsible son, Allan found work on a logging crew, working near Tye on the west side of Kootenay Lake, about 20 miles north of Creston. He knew nothing about logging, but he knew hard work and that Mom and Dad needed money to feed us. He simply did what he had to do. There were seven children from toddler to age 17. It was overwhelming.

December 16, 1963, sitting by Dad's cot in the living room, Mom and Dad held hands and together they said the Lord's Prayer as he passed away. It is heartbreaking to imagine my Mother’s grief, losing her beloved Fred. She told of strangers who brought food and the kind funeral director, Mr. Oliver, who helped her navigate funeral arrangements. There we were, hundreds of miles from home, racked with grief, facing the greatest loss we’d ever known, or so we thought.

My 15 year old brother was tasked with going to the logging camp to tell Allan. There was no available phone service and no road. An uncle drove him to the CPR station in Creston where he took the freight train to Tye, then wound his way up the strange dark road on the mountainside. He said it was the longest night of his life. We buried my Dad December 21. His coffin was draped with the Union Jack, evidence of his willingness to serve King and Country. Creston Legion members, complete strangers, served as pall bearers. Dad was laid to rest on the side of a mountain on the outskirts of Creston.

Christmas came and went. Allan returned to work, leaving Mom and us kids behind from Sunday night to Friday night before returning home for the weekend.

Allan turned 18 on January 12, 1964 but he’d been a man long before that. I’ve wondered, did we celebrate his birthday? Bake a cake? Were there candles?

Crews and supplies were often transported from Creston to Tye by CPR freight train, but on January 17, 1964 the freight train wheels stood silent. Each crew decided for themself if they would take boats to cross the lake or stay in camp until the train ran again. Leonard Goddard, Allan's foreman, and his crew made the decision to return to Twin Bays by boat, then home to Creston in their vehicles or be picked up by family members. Each man had their own reasons for wanting to brave the icy waters of Kootenay Lake. It was a calculated risk getting into the boat that night, but Leonard was an experienced operator. He and others had crossed the lake safely many times before.

Allan, a prairie boy grieving the loss of his beloved Dad, just wanted to be home with his Mom and siblings. We will never truly know exactly what happened that fateful night, but we do know one boat of workers driven by Ed Moberg, made it safely across the Lake, landing at Twin Bays. While he returned to Tye for his second load, Leonard and his crew of six men, including Allan, got in Leonard’s boat and headed east toward Twin Bays. In my mind, I can hear the men talking back and forth about the weather, the icy water, the time it would take to cross, passing time just waiting to be home. The route was just a short four mile distance but as you can imagine, with several boats, workers and supplies, not everyone arrived at the same time. Later that evening one of the wives of Leonard’s crew called Creston Sawmills, the company crews were contracted to log for, asking the whereabouts of her husband. Moberg’s boat had arrived safely on the eastern shore a second time, and his men were already home in Creston.

Moberg, Creston Sawmills foreman, headed back to Twin Bays and confirmed the awful suspicions. Leonard’s boat had not arrived. Alarms were raised. RCMP, Forestry Service and Civil Defense were called. Families were notified. Prayers were sent heavenward. Boy Scouts, Red Cross and volunteers were called upon to assist in the search and support the searchers with hot coffee and sandwiches. It was windy, cold, snowing and the dark waters were turbulent. I remember the feeling of fear that night, fear that blanketed our home. There were hushed conversations and crying that already seeped into every corner of an already sad and grieving household. The long, long night dragged on. Where, oh where, was Allan? Surely he wouldn't leave us! That horrible night began a long and arduous journey with grief.

The next day Goddard's boat was found washed ashore and a short distance away the body of his brother-in-law, one of the crew, Reg Bennett was seen floating, wearing a life jacket. Other items were washed ashore or found floating including a thermos, shoes, suit cases, lunch bucket and gas can. Life jackets were found swirling in the Lake, but the men were nowhere to be found. Divers were called in and areas of the Lake were dragged. During daytime hours a limited number of boats were permitted at one time on the Lake to search for bodies or evidence. They searched long and hard in the frigid temperatures and rough waters but in vain. Mom and Leonard's wife, Joy, would do their own searching in the days ahead, along the shoreline, in bushes and crevices, behind rocks. They imagined finding one or more of the men perhaps disoriented, suffering memory loss. Their shared loss and unimaginable grief cemented a lifelong bond of friendship. I read that based on weather and lake temperatures that night, one could only survive 7 minutes in the water. It was estimated that waves five feet high rocked the Lake that night. For the men it must have seemed an eternity and for Allan terrifying to die alone, among strangers, no one to hold his hand. I try not to think about the anguish, pain and terror of those last minutes of his life.

Eventually the search was called off. Creston and surrounding communities rallied, organizing a memorial service January 22, 1964. Nine hundred were in attendance. I remember the ocean of palpable grief that filled the auditorium.

February 21, 1964 an inquest was held. Mom attended writing notes feverishly as testimony was given, exhibits described, details about the boat, its condition, fuel and weather were given under oath. One of Mom's entries said black shoes had been found washed ashore. She was called to testify they were Allan's. It was excruciatingly painful for Mom. Her heart was broken, still reeling from Dad's death, navigating grief, guiding her children in a strange town, yet she had the clarity of mind and foresight to record the events. Her handwritten notes and every newspaper clipping were put into "Allan's scrapbook". She vowed to keep his memory alive and she did it well.

Perhaps the most chilling of all entries she made was this, “The court then recesses and the jury men went into a room by themselves, being peeked in on by the police who called each one to the stand. They then came out with a decision that the accident was purely accidental. The police took the Bible, placed it in his right hand and we all bowed our heads before the Queen’s picture. Each man’s name was called and pronounced no longer missing, but dead.” I can’t imagine how painful that must have been for her. Those words rang of finality. Their bodies were never found, they are held in Kootenay Lake. Leonard Goddard, Lyle Overholt, Marvin Brown, Sid Garland, Robert Rafnson and her beloved son, Allan Lloyd Hurl were dead.

At the end of the school year we returned to Saskatchewan, settling in Vanguard. There was simply too much pain in Creston.

My life has been much like the mysterious waters of Kootenay Lake. There have been periods of turmoil, relative calm, undercurrents of pain and grief and breathtaking moments of joy as I've searched for elusive closure. The pain is personal, at times defying words. And sometimes it is words alone that have brought understanding, acceptance and unexpected peace.

Over time, I developed a deep sense of responsibility to learn, accept and educate others about this life changing event. I have spent decades searching, digging for information, details, talking to people, putting together pieces of this puzzle. I have sought answers to my questions. Sometimes I was given answers to questions I didn't even know I had. My quest wasn’t intentional, not at first. I can only describe it as a yearning, being drawn back to Creston and Kootenay Lake time and again.

In 1999 my husband and I visited Creston and Kootenay Lake. I'd been back a few times before but this time was different. I went seeking. I wasn't sure what I was seeking, but I was drawn there. Through a series of people I met, I was put in touch with Jack Harringa, who lived at a lakefront home at Twin Bays. He invited my husband and I to his home, where we stood looking out across the Lake toward Tye. He remembered that tragic night and described how the waves crashed against the rocks. He was among the first to volunteer to search. I remember how, for the first time in my life, I felt connected to Allan and the Lake. It was the beginning of an arduous journey of healing. Each time we return it's like the deep wound on my soul is tenderly cleansed, gradually causing my heart to heal and scar, but it's becoming a beautiful scar.

I also met with Mr. Oliver and his son-in-law, Dennis, from the funeral home. They were gracious and kind. Mr. Oliver remembered Mom and her circumstances. Through our conversation I learned they had a death certificate for Allan and gave me a copy. Mom had no recollection of having one. I also learned that Mr. Vogel, a lawyer in Creston that had presided at the inquest and later assisted Mom, was now Attorney General for BC in Victoria. When we got home I contacted him, asking how I could obtain an official transcript of the inquest. He sent me a handwritten letter, telling me how to get one.

For the first time in over ten years, this past fall my husband and I returned to Creston to visit my Dad's grave and Kootenay Lake. The Lake once held me in its fearful grip, but time and faith have brought me to a place of serenity. I feel content there. I knew Mr. Harringa had passed away but on a whim, before heading home, we thought we'd look for his home. We remembered the street name ... thank goodness for Google Maps! I walked to the area where I thought his house was, and there on the beach were some of his family members, almost as if they were waiting for me. Mr. Harringa's son now lives there and invited us to his deck. It was a beautiful evening, calm, the sun dipping behind tge mountains. It was incredibly peaceful as I looked across the Lake toward Tye. I kept inhaling, breathing deeply, savoring the moment there. It's been remarkable that God has placed people in my path at just the right time, giving me healing bit by bit, piece by piece. I feel a deep connection to my Dad and my brother when I'm there, one I can't even explain.

On our visit I learned I still have a cousin in Creston. I hadn't seen her in 59 years. I was able to meet her and her daughter, another link in the family chain.

Each of the people I've met, the information I've learned is like being given a gift by strangers, wrapped in grace and empathy. It's surreal to stand on the shores of the Lake, unafraid, the Lake that holds Allan's body, is nothing short of miraculous.

In 2000 a Millenium Project was completed and stands at the entrance to Kuskanook Bay, right next door to Twin Bays. A very large rock with a granite tablet stands as a testament to those whose lives have been lost in the 17 southern most miles of the Lake. Allan Lloyd Hurl's name is inscribed there, a reminder to all who pass by that he mattered, his life is remembered.

Mom, till her dying day, held onto a tiny sliver of hope that “someday” Allan would find his way to her door. "Without a body," she'd say as her voice trailed off, a voice mixed with both hope and grief. How she longed to see her firstborn son.

Few, if any, understand my need to return to Kootenay Lake and tell Allan's story. Fewer still understand my need to write it down, choosing each word carefully, etching it into history. Some say, "Let it go", but I can't. I know some things aren't meant to be understood, simply accepted and I accept that this is my purpose.

Allan Lloyd Hurl was my brother. He is gone from this earth but lives on through his siblings, our children, and grandchildren. He was, and is, a shining example of a brother. He builds into our lives through that fateful Defining Moment that took his life away and forever changed us. He is gone, but as long as I have breath he will not be forgotten.

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