Shock and Memories
The Untimely Death of a Childhood Friend
I opened Facebook earlier this week and saw Peter’s picture posted above an obituary written by his sister, Lynne. It was a gut-wrenching moment filled with a landslide of memories and emotions. The message implied that he’d died peacefully while surrounded by his family while in a palliative care program.
(He’d never given me any indication that he was ill or suffering.)
Peter Pearson was my childhood friend, and through social media, we reconnected and caught up with each other’s lives after several decades of absence. As challenging as social media has become to many individuals, the simple functions of Facebook Messenger allowed us to fill in the gaps of our history from miles away, and we exchanged notes about our very different lifestyles.
(I live in Japan, while Peter lived in Canada.)
Peter lived in Winnipeg, where I was born, and since his death, I’ve realized his importance and positive influence on my life.
If you land at an airport anywhere in Canada and observe a group of people ready to converse with anyone near them, you’re likely observing Winnipegers. The city’s climate is ruthless, with frigid winters and hot summers plagued by mosquitoes and horseflies, and without the benefit of the community, life would have far less value.
When my parents passed away not long ago, the events were a catalyst for memories, but they were complex and not necessarily grounded to the city I left five decades ago. When my childhood friend, Peter Pearson, passed away last week, the shock of his untimely departure invoked emotions and memories about our times in Winnipeg, which had been long forgotten.
We met as young boys, 11 years old, on the brink of manhood, eager to test the boundaries of our world. Peter, my next-door neighbour, and I would start most days together, stepping out our backdoors and walking the short mile to school. The short commute was more than just a walk-it was a therapeutic ritual, a social event that connected us with the entire neighbourhood, and a journey that culminated at Minnetonka Elementary School.
I clearly remember Peter always offering encouragement, often laced with humor, while we conversed and walked on the gravel roads or over the ice and snow. Most of our conversations revolved around the sports we played together. (Sometimes, it was a reflection of shenanigans, such as escaping a bus driver who chased us after we hit his front window with snowballs.)
As a hockey goalkeeper, I experienced firsthand Peter’s natural athletic ability and timing, each slap shot rocking me down to the ankles in my skates. We played together in the local community center league, but Peter’s true sportsmanship shone when he was picked up late in the season to help a double-A star team win the city championship.
He wore his double A jacket with a humility uncommon for a kid, and he only debuted the team’s exclusive prize one morning. His laughter when I congratulated him masked his pride and was a testament to his modesty.
He introduced box lacrosse to me, and we spent hours playing catch. He patiently coached and demonstrated the skills necessary to play the game. I don’t remember him being judgmental or unkind, but he celebrated little successes like my first goals or a fight with the other team’s goon, an oversized kid who liked to be a bully.
(I made up for my lack of skill with aggression when necessary to protect my teammates.)
He was, indeed, a fine young athlete. He led our six-man football team in interceptions, kicked for us, and made open-field tackles. Yet, with all his success as an athlete, there was an underlying challenge to finding self-confidence. On our walks to school, he would tell me about failing tests, fears of asking a girl to dance and declining to join outings we knew he’d enjoy.
Perhaps it was due to childhood trauma, as he’d lost his youngest brother to tragedy, or because he lived in the shadow of an older brother who was even a better young athlete than Peter. (He’d sometimes talk about the cute activities of his little brother and bragged about his older brother’s achievements.)
It was a shame because Peter was easy to like and had a natural charm that was attractive to most people.
One afternoon, he informed me that he’d acquired three cigarettes, and a third friend joined us to sample the tobacco (which was the habit of most of our parents in 1972.) It wasn’t for me, as I think it caused me to throw up, but Peter informed me the next day that he needed a cigarette. It was, in retrospect, an indicator of his addictive personality, which became more apparent in the years we were out of contact.
When I first reconnected with Peter, I was impressed to see a Facebook post thanking him for traveling several hundred miles to support a young man working through the 12 steps to recovery. It demonstrated that the compassionate and supportive young man I’d joined on the football field, in the lacrosse box, and battled with on the ice hockey rink hadn’t changed.
Peter found ways to support me despite the physical distance between us. My friend read and liked every article I posted on Medium and took the time to read my novel, The Courier. He was a wonderful friend.
I looked over some of our last correspondence and found it to be an absolute microcosm of Peter Pearson. It included a picture of his family and how he’d met his lovely wife, Joanne.
Peter was the head referee for a women’s ice hockey game at Notre Dame Arena and, at the opening faceoff, looked at one of the centers and smiled before saying, “Never seen a hockey player wearing so much make-up.” They had coffee after the game and enjoyed over thirty years of marriage.
Peter appreciated my article on giving up alcohol for Lent, a practice I follow every year. When Peter passed away, I honored his memory with a different kind of toast- a cup of coffee early in the morning.
I’m grateful to Peter for his support as a young man, his positive feedback over the last few years, and the inspiration he continues to offer with his cheerful voice laced with humor, which lives in my head. His influence remains a positive nudge toward better things.
What more could anyone ask from a childhood friend?
He was also a terrific husband, father, brother, and mentor to many people searching for hope. May a brighter light shine on Peter’s family as he ventures on the next portion of his journey. I will miss him, as will many others.
