It’s funny how a certain day can bring back so many memories. This was a good day. My father was strong enough to drive the entire way to an outreach event in Detroit. More than thirty years of Type I diabetes extracted a higher price from him each year. My siblings and I learned to recognize the signs of an insulin reaction from a young age. If caught in the early stages, he would only miss a few hours of work. A few months before, I found him grasping the kitchen counter, unable to speak. My mother and I were able to dispense glucose packets in time to prevent the next step, passing out and a trip to the hospital.
I remember that lovely drive. In the days before the modern treadmill of entertainment, we enjoyed the beautiful countryside along US-12, looking for dinosaurs in the Irish Hills. My father was speaking at the Mariners’ Church of Detroit. What made this day so memorable? Perhaps it was because we all had a job and a purpose on these road trips. My sister, Muriel, would entertain the children, where my little brother, Jacob, would join the fun. My mother shared her jovial, French-Canadian spirit, leaving a lasting first impression with those she met. I was more of a floater, wandering back to the kitchen area and helping the staff or sitting next to the unhappiest curmudgeon and striking up a conversation. I always considered the event a success if I could get the latter to laugh. My father crafted a message that brought people together, inspiring groups to put aside their differences and unite for a common cause, the right to educate without government interference.
I don’t recall which day this was, but I see from the photos that this was approaching the start of “the year of the mullet,” one of my more unfortunate fashion choices. That year was spent cheering the Detroit Pistons to their first National Championship, rooting for my favorite player, Vinnie “the microwave” Johnson. We were also in a church where history welcomed you like an old friend. Fourteen years before, the Mariners’ Church honored the crew of the Edmund Fitzgerald, ringing the church bell 29 times, a tradition carried on each November.
Few days from my youth bring back so many treasured images, glimmers from the many facets that influenced and impacted my life. If you ever find yourself traveling on Jefferson Avenue in Detroit, stop and visit this beautiful piece of Michigan history. Also remember, as the “gales” of our lives blow in with troubled times, take solace in remembering those simple, splendid days.
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