Remembering Bobby from the Y

I went to YMCA day camp for a couple of summers, I’ll guess when I was 9 and 10.  I can’t remember exactly where Camp Hamilton was, though I’m reasonably sure it was north of Anniston a piece, maybe not quite all the way to Jacksonville.  I can’t confirm its continued existence with a casual web search, so it’s probably gone now.

Anyway, wherever it was, from the parking lot at the Y it was 15 or 20 minutes on the old, bumpy, loud white and green bus to get there.  I have a vivid memory of Bobby McDaniel at the wheel, singing “Before the Next Teardrop Falls” with a big smile on his face (and an occasional glance back at his charges to make sure all was well).

Bobby wasn’t a large part of my childhood, but every memory I have that includes him is a wonderful one.  You know the occasional person you meet who is just always easygoing, engaging, and happy to be there?  That’s Bobby.  He could show you a knot, or talk you through a swimming stroke, and you would think it was the most fun he’d had all year.  He’d know 200 kids’ first names by the end of the first day of camp.  He never raised his voice or berated anyone in trouble, but he’d still bring tears once in a while just because it hurt so much knowing you’d disappointed him.

He was simply exceptional with children, and it was a blessing to the world that he gave of himself in that way.

So I went to look Bobby up a month or so ago.  I wondered what he was doing now, and I thought I might drop him a couple of sentences and let him know what he’d meant to me.  Instead, I was crushed to discover he died in a kayaking accident spring before last.  He was 57.  That means he was only 27 when he was in my life.

Part of me wishes I didn’t know.  Part of me wishes I still just occasionally envisioned him out there, making a positive difference.

Wow.

You don’t have forever to tell people they matter, so do it.

RIP.

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