He was a big guy. About 5-10, 250 pounds, he wore No. 55 and once played defensive tackle for the Ottawa Sooners of the Canadian Junior Football League, one of the first Jewish boys to do so.
I met Howie back in 1972 when I ran the Ottawa Jewish Community Centre Day Camp. I hired Howie to look after the kitchen, assist during overnights in Gatineau, and be the general camp shlepper. The following summer, he became the camp’s head counsellor, and from there he took his talents to the 39th Wolf Cub pack, the only Jewish Cub pack in Canada. Years later, Howie became a director of Scouts Canada.
He was determined, focused and loved kids. His goal was to help young people discover themselves, and especially their athletic talents where possible, and he became a mentor to many.
Howie was a teacher, businessman, doting father and ardent Zionist. He married his childhood sweetheart, who he met at the JCC day camp, and even after his marriage broke up, I think he still carried a torch for Ellen all his life.
Following his dream, he made aliyah in 2008. In Israel, too, he became a mentor to many kids, practically bringing Little League baseball to the Holy Land. He was an umpire and coach, and he became Jerusalem regional director for the Israel Association of Baseball.
Howie took Israel’s arduous guiding course. It’s like getting a PhD in Israeli history, archeology, Torah and geography. He loved showing friends his Israel. I recall going with him to the ancient City of David on an archeological dig. I was mesmerized by what I learned from him.
When my in-laws recently travelled to Israel, Howie helped them see the sights. He took care, knowing they were elderly, making sure they weren’t overtired and insisting they drink water and stop often to rest. He even picked them up at the airport and took them first to his small Jerusalem apartment so they could rest after their long plane trip. That was just Howie’s way.
Howie died suddenly in early November. He was umpiring a baseball game when he called time out, then collapsed. He was only 58 years old.
A day or so after his death, I was sitting in a local Starbucks grieving for my dear friend. A homeless man walked in, I was sitting beside the door and he saw me crying. He sat beside me, and we began to talk. I told him about my friend Howie. He looked at me as though I was the only person there. He then told me that life was like a train on a track. We stop from time to time at different places, some just fine, others not so much, but we can only really look behind us, then left and right. We’ll never know where the track ends, so he said to just try to enjoy the trip.
I bought him a coffee and a muffin, then he hugged me and left.
As I was about to leave, my daughter Gillian’s latest blog arrived. She’s on a trip with her husband to South America. I read it with joy. It made me laugh, and it made me cry. But in a strange way, it brought me so much peace.
Yes, I guess these two incidents are linked. You see, Howie’s train ride ended much sooner than it should have, but he definitely enjoyed his stops in life. He used to tell me that even those that stung held lessons for him. Gillian and my son-in-law, Adam, are also on a glorious train journey that will mould their lives for years to come.
Howie Osterer was my friend and my hero. His passing is, in its own way, a life lesson. As Howie would say, even the bad lessons are good lessons.
