Saturday, March 2, mid-morning, I check my X feed on my phone. I came across the message from Pierre Houde, the brilliant describer of the Canadian’s matches: “It is with a broken heart that I must announce the death of my beloved brother Paul…” Paul Houde has died. All other concerns of the day have just been eclipsed. The planet Paul occupies all our thoughts.
I sit down at the computer to write down what I feel inside. The words, in these moments, are tears that console: “I have always admired Paul Houde. He knew everything. People who know everything often take themselves seriously. He was the complete opposite, he took himself with humor. This learned man was graduated from the faculty of wonder. He was a big kid who never stopped doing research. He was passionate about so many subjects: from astronomy to American football, from the Olympics to Winnebago. And when he talked about all that, there were more stars in his eyes than in a planetarium…”
I continue by recounting the production meetings of The end of the world is at 7 o’clock, and I end with our last text exchange, about the Super Bowl in February. His last word to me is a good-natured smile. It was definitely him, every time I met him, the man with the big smile. Wanting to laugh and make people laugh, wanting to interest and entertain, wanting to love and be loved. I share my text on Facebook, like lighting a candle, to pay homage to him and to enlighten, a little, the darkened friends.
A few days later, Francine, his wife, his partner, his accomplice, comments on my publication: “If Paul had read this testimony, he would have been very happy, especially coming from you. Thank you Stéphane. » She signs with a broken heart.
And so, I say to myself: why didn’t I write this to Paul while he was alive? It’s crazy, because just a few days ago, reading all the flattering articles written by major political observers about former Prime Minister Brian Mulroney, I was thinking the same thing: too bad He left, not knowing all the good things people think of him. To tell the truth, this feeling inhabits me every time a personality, following their death, receives a concert of praise. It’s sad that such a beautiful concert will not be heard by the person who inspired it.
I feel guilty. When Paul Houde left BPM Sports last fall, I sent him a text telling him to rest a little, that I couldn’t wait to see him on the air again. It was nice. Friendly. But it wasn’t open-hearted, like my words a week ago.
I once told Paul how impressed I was by the well of knowledge he was, but I never told him how much I admired him for the way he shared his knowledge with the neophytes like us, without ever making us feel inferior, always with a laughing tone. The mark of a sentient being. I should have. But it’s rare in life that we reveal our feelings in depth. We stay on the surface. Well done ! You’re good! Wow! You’re the best ! I love you.
We encourage. We send flowers. Without ever giving the reasons for our affection. Out of embarrassment or modesty. We think it’s not the right time. We fear appearing heavy.
Unfortunately, the right time never arrives. And bad times always come. The moment it’s too late. Where we can no longer recover. Where the other has gone. Forever. So, we make up for it by delivering a vibrant tribute that everyone will hear, except the person concerned.
It would be nice, both personally and collectively, if we found a way to tell people that we appreciate all the good things we think about them while they are still alive.
I know, the problem is that there are a lot of living people, and there are dead people, one at a time. Sometimes two or three. This allows us to concentrate our outpourings on the deceased(ies).
With the living, the hazards of everyday life do not often lend themselves to great flights of fancy. We have to know how to seize the opportunity: a birthday, a retirement, an honor, a hard blow, a thank you, anything that makes us want to confide what we feel.
The act of dying should not be the only thing a human can do to attract spontaneous, unbridled waves of love.
We always console ourselves by telling ourselves that where they are, the deceased is a witness to our posthumous praise. That would be good, even if where he is, the citizen of heaven must be very detached from his little person. It is while it is not at peace that our soul needs it most.
Let those who love not hesitate to envelop the living with love – after all, those who hate do not wait for the death of the people they hate to drag them into their hatred. It would balance everything out. It would lighten the atmosphere. And that would make the world more livable.
In closing, thank you to Francine for taking the time to write to me. His words did me good. I think very much of her and her entire family.
This is the message of this column: always say what is in your heart.