John

Beth Porter has been a member of the L'Arche Daybreak community in Richmond Hill, Ontario for the best part of four decades. In her new book, Accidental Friends, she shares her experiences of the people she has lived with over the years and reflects on how they have influenced her own spiritual journey ... 

John was in the habit of dropping in to the Green House some evenings after the New House finished dinner. He usually arrived just in time for dessert. He had the gift of an entertainer and would take over the room for a few minutes. If there were guests, he would ask their names and where they were from, and then, while everyone was still at the table, he would launch into a short speech that was difficult to follow but during which he would announce clearly the name of each person present and elicit applause for that person. If he remembered the person’s hometown, he might identify them in this way—Mr. Halifax! Miss Ottawa! His “speech” would end in a crescendo as he called the name of one more person and awarded that person the quarter or the chocolate bar that he had been holding up, thereby riveting our attention throughout his oration. He was truly a community builder. I think his sensitivity guided him, as often the prize went to the guest, if there was one, or to someone who needed lifting up at that moment. Later, when Clara or Chris gave student retreats, John would often drop in to greet the retreatants and animate the gathering for a few minutes, calling the young people out of their shyness to tell him their names.

John had grown up on farms—on the family farm until his parents died, and then on his uncle’s farm—and he brought his farming skills and aptitude to Daybreak. He had learned to drive a tractor skillfully. When Len came as the farm manager, in the mid-seventies, he adopted John as his right-hand man. More than that, John was like a son to Len and Jean, and a brother to their five daughters.

John differed from others I knew who had Down syndrome in that he had a lean build, but he did have the usual outgoing, kind nature and sensitivity. He had a few standard questions and phrases. He would greet people with a cheery wave, calling out, “How are ya?” or “How’s your mom?” even though some people had told him repeatedly that their mothers had passed on. “Oh, that’s right,” he would say unapologetically. Every Saturday and some weekday summer evenings, John walked the three kilometres into the heart of Richmond Hill, dropping in to visit in each business along the way. He had friends among the employees in all the car dealerships, coffee shops, hardware and appliance stores, and even the local bank, and he had quite a collection of business cards, hats, badges, and other memorabilia from these establishments.

Besides being a farmer, John was a musician. As a boy he had often attended country square dances with his family. Later he would accompany his uncle and guardian, who called the dances or played the drum with house bands that performed in the neighbouring area. John would take a pair of kitchen spoons and play along with these groups. He had a fine sense of rhythm and timing and a touch of showmanship. Daybreak assistants would regularly take John to play at local pubs where a country band or an Irish group was performing. The bands recognized John’s skill and welcomed him. After a couple of numbers, he would stand, bow to the loud applause, and then urge applause for the lead player and other band members, pointing out each one. After Henri Nouwen came to Daybreak, he brought back a fine pair of joined, highly polished wooden spoons from one of his speaking trips—a gift for John. John was delighted. He played those spoons for many years and would always mention Henri as having given him his spoons. Much later, some assistants contributed to buy him a new pair.

Not surprisingly, with his experience on farms, John had a way with animals. Late one evening, after Clara, one of John’s assistant friends, and John had gone downtown so he could play his spoons with a group at a popular pub, they discovered their car had been towed because they had accidentally parked illegally. After managing to flag a cab, they arrived in a desolate area down near the harbour, where the barbed-wire enclosure that was the car pound was located. A large, chained German shepherd was guarding the entrance and barked furiously at them. In spite of Clara’s cautions, John stooped down to the level of the dog and, in his quiet voice, began coaxing it: “Here, puppy, puppy, puppy…” Gradually, the dog stopped barking and came closer. John allowed it to sniff him, and then he was able to pet the dog. Inside the small trailer that served as the car pound office, John chatted up the two burly guards while Clara paid the fine.

Beginning in the 1990s and until today, once a year everything in the upper level of the Daybreak barn is pushed back to the walls, the floor is swept, lights and decorations are hung, and the community holds a barn dance to raise funds for our sister L’Arche communities in Honduras. For John’s fiftieth birthday, his assistant friends decided to hold a barn dance party for him. They invited friends of John who were professional musicians. One played the fiddle, another the Irish bodhran drum and keyboard. John’s uncle called some of the dances, teaching the essentials so everyone could join in. John played with the band through the evening, giving out his well-honed western hoot every so often. It was a regular country hoedown with people dosey-doeing and weaving in a very large circle. As usual at Daybreak dances, it included members whose partners twirled them in their wheelchairs.

 

This is an edited extract from Accidental Friends: Stories from my life in community by Beth Porter, herself a member of the L'Arche community at Daybreak since 1981. The book is available now in paperback.