Saving Shannon

A life without burdens is a life without regrets — and we all have regrets, no matter what Frank Sinatra said. No adult is that carefree. Granted, some people may carry their burdens as lightly as we would a bag of feathers; yet there are others who are so bowed by the weight, they can barely function.

Like most people, I would probably place myself somewhere between the two. I have come to appreciate my burdens. I am not particularly fond of them, but they are mine. Most are the result of mistakes I have made that led to failures in my life, some of them complete, ruinous failures. But my failures, perhaps even more than my successes, have shaped who I am today — and frankly, I like who I am today. I say that despite the fact my appearance seems to have aged dramatically in the past five years, and not for the better. Some people look more seasoned and mature as they age. I just look old — but that’s fodder for another essay.

I consider myself fortunate there are few things that really cause me to lose sleep, or awaken me in the grip of an anxiety attack. And by a “few,” I mean one. Truth be known, that one event in my life is so terrifying to recall that to even think about it as I write this causes me to pause, shake my head and whisper “Thank God” under my breath.

Here’s the strange thing about it: This event, this life burden that stays with me and sometimes terrifies me so, was not a mistake, nor did it lead to failure. Quite the contrary, it was probably the single most noteworthy success of my life. But I also realize that success was the result of fate more than guile. What scares me most is realizing how easily that event could have unfolded in a different way, a horribly wrong way because of a lapse in my judgment. Had that happened, I don’t know how I ever would have lived with myself.

It was the spring of 1980. My then wife Kim and I were living in southwestern Ontario and had moved into a new home only a few months before. Our oldest child, Shannon, was barely 15 months old at the time and she was a going concern. By that, I don’t mean to suggest she was difficult or a handful because she wasn’t. Quite the opposite. Shannon was, in a word, delightful — the apple of her Daddy’s eye. For that matter, she still is.

But Shannon had learned to walk and had therefore developed a keen appreciation for exploration and there was much in this house to explore. Kim and I had already discussed this development and she had identified a few troubles spots around our new home that needed to be baby-proofed.

One of the most perilous was the sump pump well in the laundry room. Sump pumps are not common in the West; so let me explain what’s involved. The well is a hole in the floor of the basement, usually half-filled with water and in which an electric pump is placed. Its job is to pump water away from the house’s foundation. If it fails — as this sump pump once did during a power blackout — and it rains, the basement floods.

Kim pointed to the open well and suggested the baby could fall in. I assured her I would do something to block it off. But I didn’t. I don’t know why. As a young man — I was 27 then — I was less focused, less diligent, less conscientious than I like to think I am now.

Days passed and we both forgot about our discussion, or at least forgot about doing something about it. And so it came to pass that one night Kim and I were in the basement rec room watching television. She was seated. I was standing — I don’t remember why — when I heard the sound of splashing water. I turned to Kim.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

“Hear what?” she replied, distracted by the TV program.

“Sounds like water,” I said, my voice trailing off. But something, somewhere, told me not to ignore that noise. “Go,” the feeling said. “Go now!”

I took the dozen or so steps down the hall, past the bathroom and the toilet that would have been the logical source of the splashing. Instead, I kept going until I reached the darkened laundry room and flicked on the light. All I saw were two little legs protruding from the hole in the floor. My little girl had fallen into the well, head first.

I don’t think my feet touched the floor as I raced across the room, grabbed her by the ankles, and yanked her out. I can still remember the look on Shannon’s face as I enveloped her in my arms: the wide eyes, the gasp for air. Thank God Almighty; she had instinctively held her breath while she was underwater and waiting to be rescued.

I don’t even remember if she cried. If she did, it may have been because she sensed how terrified her father was. But I took my daughter to her mother and she was fine after that. She needed a bath; sump-pump water is not pleasant, but she was no worse for wear; nor did she develop a fear of water. By the time she was five, Shannon was in a swim class with kids twice her age.

It’s been almost 30 years since that night. Shannon is married and has two children of her own. I am very proud of her and the life she has made for her family.

But there are nights — more nights than I care to admit — when I awaken with dread; or when I am about to fall asleep and my mind drifts back to that evening. On such occasions, I am so terrified by the prospect of what might have been that my stomach churns, my pulse races and my chest heaves.

What if I had been sitting next to Kim instead of standing near the doorway? Would I have heard the splashing then? What if I dismissed the sound as inconsequential, instead of being compelled to investigate? Even now, 30 years later, the consequences are too horrible to contemplate.

A guardian angel, either mine or Shannon’s, was on watch that night, ensured I heard that noise, and told me not to dally. Of that I am certain, and for that I am grateful.

Pit Martin

Many of us have had our encounters with celebrities doing things you don’t normally think celebrities do. Defining what constitutes a celebrity is, of course, largely subjective — but the encounter itself can be an extraordinarily powerful memory.

The moment might come in an airport coffee shop or perhaps at a magazine stand. For me, the celebrity was Pit Martin, and the extraordinarily powerful moment was in that most ordinary of settings: my house.

Pit Martin was gifted hockey player who recorded 800 points in 1,100 games during an 18-year career in the NHL. I first saw him in the flesh when I was still a kid. At the time, he played for the Boston Bruins, and came to my minor hockey banquet with Paul Henderson, who then played for the Detroit Red Wings. From that point on, I followed his career from Boston to Chicago — he went to the Black Hawks in exchange for the legendary Phil Esposito — and then to Vancouver.

When his playing days were over, Pit retired to Windsor, Ont., where he had lived when he first broke into the NHL with Detroit. He operated a prominent restaurant there for many years, but it was through one of his other business ventures that I came to meet him.

It was in the 1980s, and my then wife and I lived in Stoney Point, a small village on Lake St. Clair just east of Windsor. Like many people in that part of the country, we had a backyard pool to help cope with the extremely humid southwestern Ontario summers. Pit was in the swimming pool business then, along with a partner who also lived in Stoney Point.

One day, the pump for my pool up and died. It was not the first time this sort of thing happened, so I called Pit’s partner — I’m sorry, his name escapes me — to ask if he’d come have a look. The person who answered the phone said he wasn’t available, but they’d send somebody else out to have a look.

The next day, there was a knock on the door. I opened it, and found Pit Martin standing on my porch.

“Oh my God,” I thought, my jaw no doubt dropping. “Pit Martin is standing on my porch!”

That was nothing. Within a few minutes, he and I were in the pool shed, taking apart the offending pump, trying to figure out exactly just what the problem could be. I was absolutely giddy, an unusual reaction given that service calls — even from professional hockey players — don’t come cheaply.

“Oh my God,” I thought, “Pit Martin is on his hands and knees in my pool shed, fixing my pump! How cool is this?”

What was particularly memorable was how comfortable he was in his own skin as he went about his work. He may have played hockey with Bobby Orr and Bobby Hull, but on that day, he was focused on doing a job for me. Just me.

I would never hose down that pump again.

The problem fixed and the bill submitted, Pit took his leave from my yard and from my life. Since then, I have met many celebrities in the course of my work — people whose names carry far greater cachet than does Pit Martin’s. But it is the memory of my afternoon with Pit, working on our hands and knees, that has stayed strongest with me. Few people who gain a measure of notoriety retain the humility and decency he so easily showed.

Pit Martin died on Nov. 30, 2008, when his snowmobile crashed through the ice on Lake Kanasuta, near Rouyn-Noranda, Que. He was 64.

To a select few people, he was a cherished friend or family member. To most, he was simply a hockey player they remember from the Saturday nights of their youth. For me, however, Pit Martin was more than that. He was my introduction to the fact celebrity can come with a common touch. I won’t forget that, or him.