Terry was my cousin. We were born a few weeks apart – he was the elder.
Reading his life reflections was a joy. You cannot read his memories without realizing he made the lives of others better – from family mates, to athletic mates, to band mates, to house mates, to pool mates, to work mates, and on. Giving to others is a splendid gift, and Terry clearly was among the great givers.
My earliest recollections of time with Terry came from the Nippissing Lake cottage. As Terry notes, our grandfather would pile us all in a boat and motor us out to Heyworth Island. Grandpa would, with his one wooden leg, spring out of the boat and quickly circumvent the island. We would then all jump ashore and find the buried treasure that mysteriously lay underneath rocks all over the island. [It took me years to realize that nickels minted in 1952 could not really be buried treasure – older brother David probably set us all straight!].
In my memory we only got in trouble once at the cottage and that came on a July morning when one of our mothers left a full loaf of white bread on the breakfast table. We used an old-fashioned toaster with doors (1920’s vintage) where you flopped out the side door, by hand, turned the bread (now half toasted), and crisped up the other side. We would slather on cinnamon (a sugar / cinnamon mixture). The trouble came when the two (or maybe three) of us ate the entire loaf – a loaf meant, apparently, for others as well! Who knew!
Terry’s life in music was apparent early. Every New Years day, for years, we would join the Repol family for dinner. Terry had an amazing collection of 45 rpm records (around 1960). A favourite game of his was to put one of these on the turntable – selected blindly and at random – and challenge me to ‘name the song.’ I was hopeless. He, however, could name the song without the record even completing one revolution of the turntable.
I also remember, not so fondly, one tragic event. Along with a friend of his, we were floating logs down a creek and then scrambling after them, throwing stones to see who could hit the log first. at one point I lagged behind, but grabbed a big stone and hurled it toward the creek. Unfortunately for Terry, my aim was also hopeless and my rock smacked him on the head. Undoubtedly because of his thin hair – that had to be the reason – my rock managed to draw blood. A lot of blood. I don’t recall how many stitches were required, but a good bit of sewing was involved.
He was damn good at crokinole, too!
Neil Guppy