Letter to Editor: 50 Years Later: Still Remembering

"To this day, I think of Louise often, with fond memories of our time together."

Yesterday, I paused to remember and honor the lives lost in the Barry Building Explosion—nine lives taken, 23 others injured, and countless friends, coworkers, and neighbors whose lives were forever changed by this tragic event. Family members were left to navigate the overwhelming grief, comfort one another, and attempt to restore some semblance of normalcy in their lives.
Hope and dreams were extinguished that day. For many families, their futures were suddenly redefined, as they grappled to make sense of the chaos. This is my story.

I had just turned 18, attending École Secondaire Algonquin, still uncertain about what path my post-secondary education might take. I was leaving school one cold afternoon and as I walked along Front Street, Jean-Marc, a neighbor, pulled up and offered me a ride. He was driving his dad’s truck that day, and I thought it was my lucky break—out of the cold at last.

As we drove, we saw smoke rising from the downtown area. Jean-Marc turned on the radio, and that’s when we heard the news: the Barry Building had exploded. My heart sank. "Louise works there," I said. "I need to go home." Without another word, we rushed to my house, and I immediately told my mom.

Louise had been my brother’s girlfriend for several years before they married in May 1973. At the time of the explosion, she was temporarily employed at Dr. Barry's practice, covering a maternity leave. As the eldest daughter of my family, with four older brothers, Louise had easily become the big sister I had always wished for. We formed a close bond. At 16, I attended a evening sewing class at Canadore College, where we would make a different garment each week. With no money to buy the materials, Louise and I would go shopping together. She’d buy the fabric, and I’d sew a garment for her.
Louise came from a long line of City of North Bay firefighters—her dad, uncle, and cousin all served.

On the evening of January 8th, my brother, along with a family member, made repeated visits to St. Joseph's Hospital emergency room, asking about Louise. At one point, Dr. Rochefort, who knew both of them as patients, told my brother, “Leave your number at the desk, and I’ll call you when I have news.”

The not knowing was the hardest part.

It wasn’t until January 11th that a rookie police officer who lived a few houses away from us—was sent to inform my family that Louise’s remains had been found. A closed casket only fueled my hope, however irrational, that maybe the professionals had made a mistake. Perhaps Louise had been thrown clear of the building and, with a loss of memory, would one day return to us.

Two weeks after the explosion, my mother announced, “Tomorrow, everyone is going back to school.” She wanted us to begin moving forward, to reclaim our lives. It was hard. I wish there had been grief counseling and more sensitivity training for students. Often, I’d retreat to the girls' washroom, hiding in a stall to process my grief. Words spoken by classmates, or even memories, would trigger tears.
But we did move on. That September, I left for post-secondary studies in Ottawa.

Over the years, I’ve learned not to take life for granted. I’ve learned to cherish every moment.

To this day, I think of Louise often, with fond memories of our time together.

Johanne Brousseau( She/Her/Elle)