He was my hero.
He seemed larger than life, almost a legend, like Paul Bunyan: a tall, blond, curly-haired, blue-eyed teddy bear of a man, affectionately (and accurately) known as "Big John" Dwyer.
I met him when he was a counselor my first year at Vinton County camp, when I was 11. He was not my counselor, but I liked him right away. How could you not? He always seemed so full of energy and joy. Among all the wonderful people I met there, and all the counselors whom I wanted to grow up and be just like, John stood out.
One night there was a group campfire down by the shelter house, with story-telling and singing. John was sitting near me, and heard me singing harmony. He scooted over closer, complimented me on my singing and we talked about the music we learned from our families. We sang "O Danny Boy" together, his deep voice and my piping treble, and laughed.
The night was very clear, and while the fire kept my front side warm, my back was cold. John tucked me up against him to stay warm, put a strong arm around me. We looked up at the sky together. I remember wondering aloud why it was that there were so many more stars here than there were at home. He explained to me the effect cities have on your ability to see the stars.
"Sometimes you have to go away from so many people, get off by yourself, in order to be able to really see" he said and pointed out some constellations to me.
After a while I got tired and laid my head against him, listened to his voice rumble quietly through his chest as he spoke, just the way I liked to do with my grandfather. I nearly went to sleep, so warm and comfortable and safe it was there.
That's my strongest, most enduring memory of John Dwyer: strong as an oak, a gentle, loving soul who kept a scrawny little girl warm one night and showed her the stars. That's the one I hold on to.
Tonight I learned that John Dwyer died in 2009, right here in Columbus, in fact, after a long and often unsuccessful battle with bipolar disorder.
I knew he had some sort of mental illness. I was there that night at camp, a few years after i met him, when he had a breakdown, left a camp full of frightened, grief-stricken people behind.
It was the last night of camp and we were having our closing ceremony where everyone got a chance to say a personal goodbye to everyone else. But before I ever got a chance to say goodbye to John, he was gone.
There had been some talk among the campers in the last few days. The kids in John's campsite said he was occasionally… erratic, unsettled…. not the John they used to know. The counselors seemed concerned but wouldn't talk about it with us. And like typical kids, most of us assumed it couldn't be anything too serious. I mean, this was Big John Dwyer! We all looked up to him, literally and physically. Maybe he was having a rough time about something, but he'd work it out.
And then suddenly there was a commotion, and John was storming off, but taking someone with him: one of his campers (and my best friend, as it happened). He wasn't exactly dragging her, wasn't really holding her hostage, but he wouldn't let her go, and he wouldn't come back to the group. My memories of exactly what occurred are a little fuzzy. Maybe I don't want to remember. Mostly I recall the emotion: confusion, anxiety and fear. It billowed and snapped through the milling campers like a flag moves in a windstorm. Counselors tried to pull their campsites together and calm them as other staff quietly spoke to John.
I do remember very clearly the priest, Father Al, talking in quiet tones like you would use to coax a frightened, snapping dog.
"Let go of her arm and come back to the group John. Yes, you can. Take a hand John. Take a hand, if you care to".
I remember that phrase, "Take a hand, John" and that image- Al reaching out his hand, and John looking at it. The only sounds were quiet weeping from some of the girls, and all of us were mentally straining, willing him to reach out and take it, to be big John Dwyer again, not this frightening, frightened stranger.
But he couldn't. He wanted to, I"m sure. He wanted to be our friend and mentor and role model again, but that ability was stolen from him by the hideous alchemy in his brain that stole him from us, stole him from himself. He shouted. He wept. He finally let go of my friend's arm, and ran off, jumped in his car and drove away, leaving a camp full of shell-shocked teenagers behind.
We tried to resume the closing ceremony, but it was more painful than ever. I think everyone cried. After it was over, a bunch of us decided to stay up all night watch the sun rise. We built a campfire and huddled around it, talking for hours, trying to keep the darkness at bay. For the world was a much darker place that night.
More monsters. Fewer stars.
In the morning we were told that John's mother reported that he had successfully made it home that night and agreed to see a doctor. Like the kids we were, most of us breathed a sigh of relief and pretended that we thought it would be as simple as that, that prayer and a good doctor would fix what was broken.
But of course it didn't.
I never saw or heard of John again after that moment in 1974 when I watched the dust kicked up by his car as he raced out of our lives. I have thought of him with great affection from time to time and hoped he was doing well. But from what I've pieced together, mostly, he wasn't. He was hospitalized many times and was living in a group home right here in Columbus before he died. The obituary didn't mention any illness at all and I cannot help but wonder if he didn't end his own life, to escape his pain at last. But whether or not his illness caused his death, it certainly took his life. Years and years of it. It took his career, probably took from him the chance for a wife and family. It took him and never completely gave him back.
So many beautiful hearts, dancing on broken glass, leaving footprints of pain behind them.
And I can't help but wish that I had known he was so near. I would have liked to go to visit him. I'm sure it would have been very painful. I doubt he would have remembered me, and who knows- maybe not even the place I knew him from. But I still wish I had known, so I could have reached out a hand, even if he could never have taken it.
Next summer some of us are trying to arrange some sort of a camp reunion to get together with our fellow aging alumni from the deep woods of Vinton County and talk about the old days.
I know, on that day, I will raise a glass and offer a toast to big John Dwyer, and to getting away from too many people so you can see the stars.
Tracy Meisky is a poet, writer, singer, songwriter and all-around boat rocker from way back. Feel free to look around, but if you break it, you bought it.