By Patricia Breakey
Sixteen years ago, on April 13, my phone rang in the wee hours of the morning. My mother's tearful voice told me that my Uncle Dick had fallen into the Cannonsville Reservoir.
We all rushed to Delaware Valley Hospital _ but it was too late. Uncle Dick was dead.
Uncle Dick loved life and made it a celebration for the people he loved.
The list of firsts and special occasions in my life can often be credited to my uncle.
He took me to see the Yankees play and to see the Barnum and Bailey Circus in Madison Square Garden.
We went to the World's Fair in New York and to Key West in Florida.
I have memories of him coming home in his Army uniform when I was a toddler and the doll he sent when he was stationed in Korea.
Dick loved holidays. On Halloween, he personally greeted every trick-or-treater and admired each costume. When I was young, Christmas always included a trip to his house for a wonderful gift exchange.
Richard Lambrecht's death was ruled a suicide by the coroner,
Dr. Harry Wilbur, which angered and perplexed many of those he left behind.
His daughters believed his death had been an accident, but my mother, his only sister, suspected that Dr. Wilbur may have been right. I have never decided for sure what I believe.
Dick had been ill, and as he approached his 62nd birthday, which would have been on April 23, 1993, he was dealing with the realities of not feeling well and not being able to do the things he had always done.
Almost every spring, Dick took a trip to Florida to visit friends who had either relocated or who were wintering in the South.
On the morning of his death, his children believed that he was heading south.
He stopped at the local convenience store to pick up a cup of coffee and chatted with friends while he was there.
Dick owned and operated two restaurants in Walton and also spent years as a rural mail carrier. His friends and acquaintances were numerous.
That morning, he took his coffee and headed south on state Route 10, bound for Hancock, where he would wend his way along the shortcut to Interstate 81.
For reasons that no one will ever know for sure, he stopped on the Apex bridge that spans the Cannonsville Reservoir, left his car running and the door open with his wallet on the seat _ which was typical.
A New York City Department of Environmental Protection police officer came along and stopped to check on the vehicle on the bridge. When he got out of his patrol car, he heard a voice in the water calling for help.
The officer radioed for help and then plunged into the icy water. He was able to pull my uncle to shore, but by the time they reached the hospital, it was too late.
My cousins believe that he had stopped on the bridge to urinate _ which was also typical. They think he either leaned over too far or perhaps had a dizzy spell.
No one but Dick will ever know what really happened or what he was really thinking.
Older white men are in one of the highest risk groups for suicide. When Dick stopped at the convenience store to say goodbye, it may have truly been goodbye.
I know that my mother, who
died last year, never stopped
missing him. I am grateful that
before his death, he spent many hours with her, reminiscing and talking.
If she suspected he was depressed, she assumed that was the result of his failing health, which may well have been the case.
The pain of his death was different than any other death I have dealt with because of the underlying questions that will never be answered.
One by one, I have lost most
of my relatives. I am now the oldest of my immediate family members. I am the keeper of the memories, and I will never forget Uncle Dick.
