My cousin Lyell

As you grow older, the people you’ve known since childhood grow fewer in number. Certainly you expect to lose those dear souls who first welcomed you into this world -- your grandparents, your parents, aunts and uncles. It is, after all, the way things are supposed to be.

It’s a different sense of loss, though, when you grieve those with whom you have shared a lifetime’s experiences. That’s why it is so difficult now to say goodbye to Lyell McKinnon.

Lyell is my cousin. More importantly, he has been my friend -- my earnest, steadfast and loyal friend -- for my whole life. Knowing he is gone is hard enough. Understanding that he is gone, accepting that he is gone, is heartbreaking.

Because we are cousins, I never used to think of Lyell as my best friend -- because I always thought your cousin can’t be your best friend any more than your brother or your father can be. Now that I’m older, I understand more clearly that your best friend can be anybody. Your best friend is that person who understands you when no one else seems to, who supports you when no one else wants to, who challenges you when no one is inclined to, who accepts you when no one else is willing to and who lets you know they love you when you think no one else does.

For me, for many years, that person was Lyell McKinnon.

I can’t tell you my first memory of Lyell. He was always just there. But I remember like it was yesterday the carefree summer holidays spent at his family’s home in Lambeth, the excitement we shared on every single Christmas day from the time I was a toddler to probably the year I was first married. There are too many memories to recall here of the times we shared on our grandparents’ farm, along with my brother Michael and our cousin Ross. They rush into my mind like water through a floodgate. It’s all too much to sort out and reflect upon.

What is clearer to me, though, are the memories from our teen years. Lyell and I always had many shared interests, even into our adolescence, and that is a rare thing indeed for children to experience. We were as close to each other in our late teens sitting in Varsity Stadium, listening to performances by John Lennon and the Doors, as we were as pre-teens on a camping trip through the Maritimes and New England with his mom and dad, as we were as little kids, shooting ants in the driveway with garden hoses.

I was telling Lyell’s brother Doug the other night when we spoke on the phone about the day I drove to Hamilton to find an apartment for school. I first swung by the McKinnon home in Thornhill to see if Lyell wanted to come with me. I strolled into his bedroom unannounced and asked if he felt like going for a drive. Immediately, Lyell was good to go. He was always good to go. He helped me find an apartment, too -- and we returned to Thornhill with a sense of satisfaction in a job well done.

It was only marriage and the time-consuming responsibilities of children that ultimately meant we spent less time together. Then geography took its toll. I guess it still does -- 4,000 kilometres will do that. But our bond was never really broken. Nor will it now. Lyell and I always stayed in touch. I always admired how, whenever he sent me a note, he would sign it, “Love, from Lyell.” Love can be a loaded word for men to share. I wish it wasn’t so. But I always responded in kind and I’m glad now that I did -- for I love Lyell. I will always love Lyell. He has been, and always will be, my best friend.

Take care, Lyell. Love, from Terry.