MEMOIR
A Cake That Everyone Except The Birthday Boy Was Wishing On
Sometimes, hope is torture, and it’s the first thing you should release
I could smell the chocolate cake baking as I walked in the house. It was late afternoon on Halloween 1975, and a few preschoolers had already started their trick-or-treating. With so much candy and other treats available in the house, I wondered why Mom was baking a cake.
“Can I lick the bowl?”
“Your brother already asked, but you can have the beaters.”
I hated the beaters. They were so much more work to get all the good stuff hiding in the creases and underbelly of the tines, and there always seemed to be more of the good stuff available in the bowl. Regardless, the beaters were better than nothing, so I gladly accepted them.
“What’s the cake for?” I asked, eyeing up the bowl of icing she had already made.
“Larry’s birthday tomorrow,” she responded, “So keep your fingers out of the icing.”
Larry, my older brother by a year and a half, had flown some businessmen to Lynn Lake, Manitoba. For as long as I could remember, he had wanted to be a pilot. He earned his pilot’s licence as soon as it was legal for him to do so.
Every day he ate, slept and dreamt flying. He had put 100% of his efforts into flying, foregoing even scholarships to both Princeton and Yale, and he had progressed quickly up the ranks. At 19, he already had his instrument flight rating, his commercial rating, and his instructor rating. But flying was expensive, and some of the rungs on the ladder towards becoming an airline pilot simply required building hours.
At between $120 — $200 per hour depending on the plane, it required many hours of minimum wage jobs to earn enough for one hour of loggable flight. So very early in his career, he had made an offer to anyone who would listen that if they ever wanted an airplane ride… all they had to do was rent the airplane and he’d fly them for free just so he could log the hours.
I can remember being in grade 12 and coming to school after one particular long weekend and catching up with the people who sat beside me in Band class.
“Hey… how was your weekend?” I’d ask.
“Super,” They’d say. “I went to a party Friday night and didn’t wake up till Sunday afternoon. I must have had a good time because I don’t remember a thing. What did you do?”
I’d shake my head in wonder. That wasn’t my idea of a good time, because if I was going to have a good time, I’d certainly want to remember it.
“Oh… me and a few friends flew to Vancouver for the weekend.” I returned nonchalantly. “We had a blast.”
The cake was sitting on the counter all decorated when I walked up the stairs the next morning. Mom had been taking a class on cake decorating and was using this as an excuse to experiment. She had held nothing back, and I remember thinking that all the icing flowers might have looked a little feminine for a 20-year-old male living on his own, but I had to admit, the decorating was impressive. Dad already had the steaks marinating. We were all looking forward to celebrating my older brother’s milestone later that afternoon.
About 10:00 the phone rang. It was Bruce Pulse, the owner of the flight school that Larry had rented the plane from.
“Is Larry there?”
“No. He wouldn’t have gotten home till after 2:00 a.m., so he’s probably sleeping in. He’s due here later this afternoon though. I can have him call you when he gets here. Can I tell him what it’s about?”
“Yeah… he didn’t clear his flight plan and I need to give him shit.”
You couldn’t live with a brother like Larry without knowing there were just some things you didn’t do aviation-wise. Like any male his age, he was as full of piss and vinegar as any other 19-year-old… right up until the point he got behind the yoke of a plane; then he was all business. It was like a switch with him, and I can remember being severely chastised by him once when I was just a little more jovial in the co-pilot’s seat than he thought I should have been. For him to have forgotten to clear his flight plan… well… this was pure ammunition. Something we could tease him about, for a very long time.
By noon, when we hadn’t heard from Larry yet, Mom started calling him. No answer. My father called Bruce to see if Larry had cleared his flight plan yet. No, and the plane wasn’t back yet either.
That’s weird. Did anyone call the tower at Lynn Lake? Yes… he had taken off about 10:00 P.M. for the roughly four-hour flight back, and after watching him leave, with nothing else on the books, the tower had shut the runway lights off and gone home.
What was the weather like when he left? Slight rain and overcast with a ceiling of broken clouds at about 1500 feet. Technically too low for VFR (Visual Flight Rating) but no problem for IFR (Instrument Flight Rating). The weather at destination (Saskatoon) was clear with unlimited ceiling.
Was the plane equipped with the proper IFR instruments? (Not all of them were.) Yes. It was fully outfitted with all the latest, greatest, including the infamous “little black box.” Technically, he could have simply gone above the clouds, dialed in Saskatoon, and cruised home.
“OK… So what gives, Bruce?”
“Ummm… It’s a little concerning, but I wouldn’t worry yet. The flight recorder didn’t ‘ping’ which would have happened if there was an incident. And as per SOP, Transport Canada has already scrambled their search and rescue. The first thing they do is take both a high-altitude and a low-level flyover following the posted flight plan. There was nothing. There could be a multitude of things that had happened from just a misfiling of paperwork to the possibility that, due to the worsening weather conditions, they simply took shelter at another rural airport along the way, one that doesn’t have a full-time tower. We’ll let you know as soon as we hear something.”
“OK…” dad relayed. “Nothing we can do but wait.” Turning to us he continued, “I guess we’ll have the barbecue tomorrow night instead.”
The cake had already been moved to the centre of the dining room table where it would have been the centrepiece before being consumed. The five of us ate our meal at that same table that evening, but it wasn’t the barbecue steak we all had our mouths prepared for. The conversation was actually quite jovial and everyone agreed that when Larry finally got here we were going to really rake him over the coals for making us all wait before tying into this fantastic-looking cake.
By Sunday, the missing plane had made the news, albeit with a “names withheld pending notification of next of kin.” The notification came that afternoon. Just like in the movies, two officers came to the door, but they had no information to offer other than what we already knew. I was expecting them, but it still seemed surreal. This was something that happens in the movies, not in real life, and certainly not in my life.
Dad decided that we should barbecue the steaks anyway. They wouldn’t keep too much longer and we could always get more later, when we needed them. Life with us went on as usual; no one at this point really thought there was anything to worry about. We’d all had our share of high-speed car accidents, and/or totalled motorcycles, or snowmobiles, and other than this little niggly feeling in the back of my mind, everyone was keeping a semblance of normalcy. In retrospect, I know I had this fear that if I stopped being normal, that in itself would make it real, and I didn’t want it to be real.
Mom decided to reach out to the families of the other people on the plane who were also missing. As it turned out, one of the wives had no other family here. With no kids and no other support, Mom didn’t want her spending this time alone, so she invited her over for the afternoon and to stay for supper.
“We can all wait for the phone call together.” She had offered. “I’m sure they’re OK.”
The invitation was gratefully accepted. So with the football game on the television, and the news on the radio, the regular activities of three teen sons, Mom working in the kitchen, Dad eventually tending the barbecue, and the guest helping out wherever she could, there was a lot of activity in the house. No one seemed worried at all, but in hindsight, I see that there was a reason we all kept busy.
For me, it was masking a growing sense of dread that I vehemently chose to ignore, and I’m sure it was the same with everyone else too. This was evident because, with every radio news broadcast, someone would inevitably crank up the radio and everyone else stopped in their tracks and listened. You could hear a pin drop every half hour. By this point, the news was mentioning the names, and our phone started to ring. Everyone wanted to know if the name on the radio was the same as who they all thought it was. It was. So sorry… I’m sure it will all be OK… we’re praying for him… keep us informed, okay?
Okay.
The steaks were super tender, and with the extra company, Mom had gone to extra effort with garlic bread, twice-baked potatoes, fried onions and mushrooms, two salads and other trimmings. And in the centre of everything sat that cake. If you weren’t careful, it would be easy to think the cake was purposefully trying to taunt us.
Someone brought up the idea that to get back at Larry, we should eat the cake anyway. “So sorry Larry… you snooze you lose. You should have been here, it was great, we waited as long as we could… It was just soooo good… we tried to save you a piece.”
We all laughed… except Mom. “We’re NOT… eating… the cake!” She had put a considerable amount of time, effort and energy into that cake; she had spent hours lovingly decorating it. It was made with a purpose. She had done this for her first-born son… the one that had, just the day before, turned 20 years old and by God he was going to at least see it before it was consumed.
Eventually, the conversation turned to the fact that we all knew now that he hadn’t taken shelter at some rural airstrip with no tower. Search and rescue had checked. It was beginning to look like they had, in fact, ditched. “OK… what did that mean?”
There were lots of stories of planes going down and people surviving the wreck. All we had to do now was wait for them to be rescued… right? It was a white plane in a green forest, it should be easy to spot. Search and Rescue was even doing nighttime flights looking for signal fires. It was just a matter of time… right? Right…?
The funny thing about time is that it doesn’t stop for anything. Just like a kidnapping, statistics said there was a good chance of survival… IF they could be found soon. No one wanted to mention that we were now well into the second day. What classifies as “soon” anyway?
But the flight recorder didn’t “ping.” Why didn’t it ping? Its purpose was to ping, to guide rescuers directly to the crash site. That’s its job. Do your damn job.
Acting as the liaison for Air, Search and Rescue, we had started getting regular briefings from Bruce Pulse. And, when we asked about the recorder not pinging, he hesitantly answered that one of the possible reasons they weren’t getting a signal was that it was underwater. BUT… it would have to be at least 20 feet underwater, so the chances of that happening were, while not zero, slim.
Underwater? Had Larry crashed into a lake?
It’s OK… that could mean a softer and more controlled landing… so they’re probably all on shore waiting for rescue.
But it also means that there would be no plane to look for… so a much smaller target to spot, and in early November, the nights were getting cold. Were they able to get dry? To get a fire started? What gear could they have taken with them before the plane sank? How easy would it have been to exit the plane? All four people trying to get out that same door — the door on the co-pilot’s side of the airplane, not, the pilot’s side. Would there be panic? I knew not from Larry, but I had no idea about everyone else.
Everyone was running scenarios and playing “what if…” in their heads, and meal time, with everyone sitting around that cake, became the time we all “brainstormed” each other’s scenarios.
Over the next few days, it went from “just a matter of time,” to “a race against time.” The nights were getting colder, cold to the point that last night a light skiff of snow fell. It didn’t last the day, but snow would make the white plane harder to spot. There was, after all, no guarantee that the plane was, in fact, underwater, it was just one of the many possible scenarios.
It’s funny, but over the next few days, we all became experts in bushcraft and statistics. The stats were not pretty. Chances of survival were good at the beginning but fell precipitately with time. Everyone was consciously ignoring that stat, and pulling hope from wherever we could find it.
I brought up the fact that just two years earlier, a pilot by the name of Marten Hartwell had survived for 31 days in the high Arctic. That plane also had four people on board, had crashed in November, and the pilot had sustained two broken legs. So… it was possible. And if it were possible, I had faith in my big brother.
The once “Why so serious man? We’re all just trying to have a good time,” at his chastisement of my kidding around in the cockpit became the lifeline I grasped onto. He was all business with anything to do with flying… He was not prone to panic or excitability. He was a thinker. And if Marten could do it… Larry could do it. I just knew he could.
The five of us all carried on as usual. No one missed a single day of work or a single day of school. The cake didn’t change either. Other foods would have started to spoil by now, but not that damn cake. It didn’t change a bit. It sat there, mocking us with “Happy Birthday Larry” written across the top.
After the second week, while no one said it out loud, we were all starting to acknowledge that the chances of him coming home were getting slim. Ironically, our suppertime conversations remained uplifting. We joked at all his foibles. We shared our good memories. We laughed. I know others who were appalled by our constant joking. “How can you laugh at a time like this? Your brother is missing and probably dead? This is serious!” but that’s just how our family dealt with the situation. Akin to sticking your fingers in your ears, closing your eyes, and singing, it was a way of denying the grief we felt was all too close.
I do remember that over the next few weeks, I never missed a single news report, desperate for any new information, but it was always the same. Over time, it wasn’t even news anymore, and they stopped reporting on it. Our debriefs from Bruce became fewer and fewer too. With nothing to report, there was nothing that could be said. There were only so many times one could say they were sorry.
Funny… I know that over the years, as we were growing up, there were times we had fought… there MUST have been, what siblings don’t fight? But even when I sat and tried to think of those times, I couldn’t remember a single one.
After the third week, Mom wanted to have a funeral. I resisted. How can we have a funeral when there is no body, and no proof he’s dead? I still had a semblance of hope. If Marten Hartwell could survive 31 days with two broken legs, Larry could survive 21 days.
“Well… if he does come home, we’ll have another service of thanksgiving,” Mom said.
Logically, it became worse to think he hadn’t been killed on impact. Could he still be alive, maybe with broken body parts… starving… cold… dehydrated… suffering… praying for the rescue that was desperately trying to find him? The ground was now covered with snow and if the plane was underwater, that too had started to freeze over.
Even Search and Rescue was cutting back its resources, and after three months, they stopped searching altogether. That “was” covered by the news, including the millions of dollars they had spent looking, and the two other old plane wrecks they had found in the meantime. That news had been a real knife to the gut.
We had heard a report that Search and Rescue found a plane. “Finally…” we all gasped… “When is he coming home?” only to learn a few hours later that it wasn’t Larry’s plane, it was a plane that had gone missing years earlier. The second time it happened we all just rolled our eyes… “Oh, of course…”
What people rarely talk about when recalling stories like this, is the other human cost, the cost not associated with the loss-of-life. My mother was prepared to drain their savings account chartering a plane to go look herself. She was convinced she would succeed where trained experts with years of experience and unlimited resources had failed. I don’t think she ever truly forgave my father for stopping her.
The funeral itself became a flash-point where my eventual decades-long battle with the church, organized religion, God, and my own inner-self started. For some reason, the bishop himself had offered to participate in the service. I didn’t know it was such a big deal, but apparently it was.
During the service, there was one line that stuck with me… one sentence… one casual utterance that absolutely infuriated me. It was a “let us pray” moment, where, holding his hands skyward, he spoke;
“Oh Lord… we give to you what thou hast given to us.”
WHAT??? No we didn’t! Did he just say what I think he said? We didn’t “give” nothing to nobody. If Larry is truly gone (which hasn’t been proven yet…) he had been “taken” from us, not willingly given! And now I’m mad. And I don’t think that even assuming there is a god, I’ve never forgiven him for TAKING Larry.
Our once tight-knit cadre of four boys all within five years was shattered. Being railway children growing up in a multitude of small towns across Saskatchewan, we were the only friends we could ever count on having. Everything we did was together. Street hockey was always the oldest and the youngest against the two middle, and it was always fair. No one team ever had an advantage.
It was the same for pillow fights, snowball fights, Team Monopoly, and any of the multitude of games kids play. Four was a workable number. Three? Not so much.
There was also the fact that while I didn’t realize the implications for years, I was now the oldest, and on some subconscious level, my younger siblings resented me for even thinking I could take Larry’s place. I wasn’t… I didn’t even want to be the oldest, and I have no idea where they got that thought. I didn’t know they HAD that thought till over a decade later it came out during one of the many conversations (arguments) we were having as adults.
There was no denying it. Our once-tight family was broken, and it has never been the same since.
I think that one of the things that made it harder was simply the not knowing. In most other deaths like a car accident, for example, families can deal with the tragedy and then move on. There is a recognized process to follow, and a recognized grieving. There are official accident reports, meetings with the coroner, the funeral home, the church, banks, insurance agents, and lots of government offices etc. but eventually, there is an end to it, and people move on. There is a finality of things.
We were never allowed that luxury. There was never closure, no death certificate issued, no “stop payments” to organize, accounts to close, nothing. And there was no official “authority” for any of us to do any of the multitude of things that needed to be handled. He had an apartment with a lease for crying out loud. Again, time became the enemy, but with no death certificate and no “incident report,” we couldn’t get a key to get into his bank, his apartment, his credit cards or anything that needed to be handled. All these things that needed some kind of action and there was… nothing. There was no grieving, there was simply… a void… a hole in everyone’s lives with absolutely nothing to fill it, and certainly nothing to give it meaning.
There was also the fact that deciding to handle all these things would mean you’ve accepted his death, and no one wanted to be the first to do that, to give up hope. That cake was hope. As long as it sat in the middle of the table waiting for his return, there was hope.
The wreckage would eventually be found about a year later by a trapper walking through the woods about a mile and a half past the end of the runway where they had taken off. It was determined that yes, everyone had been killed on impact.
It looked like the plane was banking to return to the runway, and a wing had caught a tree. That wing had been torn right off at that point, and the passenger who had been sitting in the back seat fell through the hole in the fuselage at tree-top level while travelling a minimum of 55 miles per hour — the stall speed of that particular aircraft.
With only one wing, the rest of the plane had spiralled in under the canopy. Investigators did locate the flight recorder, and standing at the crash site had banged the side of it against a tree. Nothing. He then turned it 90 degrees and banged it again, this time head-on, and it immediately “pinged.” They surmised that because the plane had spiralled in, the fuselage had been travelling sideways during the brunt of the impact and the mechanism hadn’t tripped. A side note is the fact that now, all flight recorders are designed to ping no matter which direction they are impacted.
When I was informed they had found the plane, I remember thinking that at least he hadn’t suffered. I was thankful for that, but after so much time, it was little more than an ironic footnote. There was no joyous outcry, no welcome barbecue, nothing to be thankful for. It certainly didn’t fill the void that his absence had left. Just like the entire past year, there was still… nothing.
One by one we had reached that point where you simply couldn’t hope anymore. Hope, as it turns out, is a double-edged sword. There are many cases of people grasping onto hope when it’s the only thing left, and, against all odds, finally overcoming those odds and eventually winning.
Yes, we all like a good underdog story, but I think that offering hope to people when there simply is none, is cruel. Schrödinger’s cat be-damned. He hadn’t been both alive and dead until someone checked, he had been dead the entire time, and all our weeks of hope was nothing more than torture… and it sucked.
The worst part, though, was having to watch that hope slowly drain away from loved ones around you, and of you forcing a smile for another’s benefit when the last thing you wanted to do was smile. We all became actors to an audience of the other four, pretending not to have been caught crying while also pretending not to have noticed someone else crying.
At the time, for males on the brink of manhood, that seemed to be an important thing. But maybe our biggest audience was internal. Were we really just trying to convince ourselves that it would eventually be okay?
One of the most indelible moments I had through the whole ordeal was coming home from work about mid-December and seeing my mother standing at the sink just staring out into the backyard. When she turned, I could see her puffy eyes. She had smiled and tried to hide it, but it was obvious she had been crying. It was then that I noticed that the cake was no longer the centrepiece of the table.
She had thrown the cake away.
