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Gary D.
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http://www.cdapress.com/articles/2005/12/31/news/news02.txt
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Mystery remains at Honeysuckle Beach
Posted: Saturday, Dec 31, 2005 - 12:01:33 am PST
By LYNN BERK
Staff writer
JEROME A. POLLOS/Press
Ann and Tom Mathews, left, along with friends John Ewing, Dan Culligan and Darcy Otto look over photos taken from the 13 years they knew Gary Tharp, who died Christmas day when his truck plunged into Hayden Lake.
Drowned man leaves grief-stricken friends wondering what happened
HAYDEN LAKE -- Nobody -- including sheriff's deputies -- knows exactly what happened at the Honeysuckle Beach boat ramp in the dark hours between Saturday, Dec. 24, and Christmas Day, Dec. 25.
All that's really known right is now is that Coeur d'Alene resident and carpet installer Gary Tharp swerved his white 1990 Ford Econoline van around barricades and flashing lights and drove right into the water.
His body was recovered from the driver's seat at 10 a.m. Christmas Day.
"At this time it's just a tragic traffic accident," says Kootenai County sheriff's spokesman Capt. Ben Wolfinger. "We're as frustrated as anybody."
There was a partially consumed bottle of alcohol found in the van, but a toxicology report won't be available for weeks. Suicide looms like a dark
cloud around his friends, largely unspoken and completely unknown, but Wolfinger can't answer that, either.
"How do you know?" he says. "There was no note."
For Ann Mathews, that's the hardest part -- wondering if the friend she adored, the friend who seemed so vibrantly happy and so content to be with his North Idaho "family," harbored a secret unhappiness so deep it drove him into those waters days before a new year would have granted him an inherent new beginning. In her darkest moments, she wonders why their love wasn't enough to rescue Tharp.
But those moments don't last because the image of the happy-go-lucky Tharp ... with his trademark "dartboard shuffle" dance and the expensive pot roast he bought that Saturday and the dates he had for Christmas breakfast, lunch and dinner ... doesn't mesh with the image of a man depressed enough to drive a car into a dark, cold lake during the holidays.
"He was very happy," she says, her eyes red with grief. "He was making plans for a birthday party that night. He was making plans for New Year's Eve.
"We don't know what happened. We can't understand what happened. But it rocked our world. Him drinking wasn't what it's about, either. He was there and now he's gone, and nobody knows why."
Ann's face is completely devoid of makeup, her cheeks washed with tears that rarely dry. Her husband, Tom, with his lean, ascetic face and cap pulled hard on his head, talks about his friend and business partner -- Tharp helped him install carpets -- with a catch in his voice but little else until he's asked to be photographed with pictures of his friend.
And then he breaks down.
"I don't think I can do that," he chokes out. "I don't think I can have my picture taken anywhere near Gary.
"This isn't my story.
"It's the Gary story."
"Gary time."
That's what another of Tharp's friends, Brittiany Hart, called the moments of time that she and others would steal with Tharp throughout the day. Tharp was living with her and other friends in a house in Coeur d'Alene at the time of his death. Several of the kids in the house were in their teens -- Hart is only 19, her eyes rimmed with green liner and grief, brown hair piled on top of her head.
But age made no difference to the 46-year-old Tharp, she says, a sentiment that Ann and Tom Mathews repeatedly echo.
"His bedroom was next to the living room, and he'd come down and sit on the couch and hang out with us," Hart says. "We were friends. He was like our uncle, basically. He was always there for us, and we felt safe with him. He always made sure the doors were locked, the windows were locked.
"There were certain times that he spent with all of us that we called 'Gary time' when we'd have a cup of coffee with him," she says. "My time was between 3 and 4 p.m. We'd talk about whatever happened that day, about music, because that's what I'm interested in, or he'd be watching a football game, and he'd explain it to me because I didn't understand it.
"Or I'd yell at him for cooking bacon. I hate bacon, and he'd stink up the whole house with it. The woman we live with, the only adult in the house beside, every morning was her time with Gary, and every morning he set her up for the rest of her day. She'd have a good day because she started it with Gary.
"It's just weird now," she adds, her voice clogging, "to look at the clock at 3 to 4 p.m. and he's not there. I keep looking for that big white van."
Gary Tharp has family out of state. But according to the people who knew him, he had "family" here, too, an enormous circle of them.
"He had a 'family' here," says Hart. "A family that loved him to death." She picks at a business card, flicking it with her fingernails as she starts to cry.
"He was there for us, even us kids. Age didn't matter to Gary. He was a friend to our friends. He meant a lot to us, and he had a family to come home to. We weren't all blood related, but we were his family anyway. And we all kept waiting, that night, for him to come back. We waited, and waited."
The Mathewses met Tharp 13 years ago on a softball field.
"He was funny," Ann remembers. "He was easy to love, easy to like."
"He had this unconditional acceptance of everybody," Tom says. "He had this ability to make everybody laugh, from a 6-year-old kid to a 90-year-old man. He transcended all age categories. He was a singular man with all these circles of friends. Some overlapped. Some didn't, but I don't think you can even put a number on his friends.
"He was always laughing and always making us laugh."
Tharp lived with the Mathews for two and a half years, and until his death, he worked with Tom as a carpet installer. Because of his handyman expertise, he helped the couple with a lot of projects in their Hayden house -- and that's making the loss even more difficult to handle.
"Every time we look around now," Ann says, "we see him in our house. He was just part of our everyday life. I expect to see him in the morning, on our boat, in the house.
"I just expect him to be there."
It's an ongoing agony for the Mathewses, and Hart, and other friends of Tharp, in part because they have no answers, and in part because they want people to know there was more to Gary Tharp than a police report.
More than the suspicions of alcohol.
More than the dark rumors of suicide.
"All of the news reports stressed that he didn't have any immediate family in North Idaho," says Tom Mathews. "But he was on a softball team, the dart league, he was the taxi driver for people who drank too much. He was the life of everybody's party."
"He took our grandkids fishing," adds Ann.
"He didn't have a biological family here," says Tom. "But he sure did have a huge family nonetheless. When Gary would dance, he'd do this little shuffle, we called it 'the dartboard shuffle,' and the last time anybody saw him that's what he was doing, the dartboard shuffle."
Tom shoots a sidelong glance at Ann.
"If we were doing something my wife wouldn't approve of, he'd just do the dartboard shuffle, and Ann would sigh and say, 'Don't do it again, Gary.'
"And that's what we want to remember about Gary. Not what happened. I can't fathom someone doing the dartboard shuffle and then driving his car into the lake. And he liked his beer, but a lot of people like beer.
"He left a piece of him behind with a lot of people. There are still presents under the tree for Gary. This was a mistake. A real tragic, horrible mistake."
Continued on next page.
Gary D.
_____________________________________________________________________
http://www.cdapress.com/articles/2005/12/31/news/news02.txt
_____________________________________________________________________
Mystery remains at Honeysuckle Beach
Posted: Saturday, Dec 31, 2005 - 12:01:33 am PST
By LYNN BERK
Staff writer
JEROME A. POLLOS/Press
Ann and Tom Mathews, left, along with friends John Ewing, Dan Culligan and Darcy Otto look over photos taken from the 13 years they knew Gary Tharp, who died Christmas day when his truck plunged into Hayden Lake.
Drowned man leaves grief-stricken friends wondering what happened
HAYDEN LAKE -- Nobody -- including sheriff's deputies -- knows exactly what happened at the Honeysuckle Beach boat ramp in the dark hours between Saturday, Dec. 24, and Christmas Day, Dec. 25.
All that's really known right is now is that Coeur d'Alene resident and carpet installer Gary Tharp swerved his white 1990 Ford Econoline van around barricades and flashing lights and drove right into the water.
His body was recovered from the driver's seat at 10 a.m. Christmas Day.
"At this time it's just a tragic traffic accident," says Kootenai County sheriff's spokesman Capt. Ben Wolfinger. "We're as frustrated as anybody."
There was a partially consumed bottle of alcohol found in the van, but a toxicology report won't be available for weeks. Suicide looms like a dark
cloud around his friends, largely unspoken and completely unknown, but Wolfinger can't answer that, either.
"How do you know?" he says. "There was no note."
For Ann Mathews, that's the hardest part -- wondering if the friend she adored, the friend who seemed so vibrantly happy and so content to be with his North Idaho "family," harbored a secret unhappiness so deep it drove him into those waters days before a new year would have granted him an inherent new beginning. In her darkest moments, she wonders why their love wasn't enough to rescue Tharp.
But those moments don't last because the image of the happy-go-lucky Tharp ... with his trademark "dartboard shuffle" dance and the expensive pot roast he bought that Saturday and the dates he had for Christmas breakfast, lunch and dinner ... doesn't mesh with the image of a man depressed enough to drive a car into a dark, cold lake during the holidays.
"He was very happy," she says, her eyes red with grief. "He was making plans for a birthday party that night. He was making plans for New Year's Eve.
"We don't know what happened. We can't understand what happened. But it rocked our world. Him drinking wasn't what it's about, either. He was there and now he's gone, and nobody knows why."
Ann's face is completely devoid of makeup, her cheeks washed with tears that rarely dry. Her husband, Tom, with his lean, ascetic face and cap pulled hard on his head, talks about his friend and business partner -- Tharp helped him install carpets -- with a catch in his voice but little else until he's asked to be photographed with pictures of his friend.
And then he breaks down.
"I don't think I can do that," he chokes out. "I don't think I can have my picture taken anywhere near Gary.
"This isn't my story.
"It's the Gary story."
"Gary time."
That's what another of Tharp's friends, Brittiany Hart, called the moments of time that she and others would steal with Tharp throughout the day. Tharp was living with her and other friends in a house in Coeur d'Alene at the time of his death. Several of the kids in the house were in their teens -- Hart is only 19, her eyes rimmed with green liner and grief, brown hair piled on top of her head.
But age made no difference to the 46-year-old Tharp, she says, a sentiment that Ann and Tom Mathews repeatedly echo.
"His bedroom was next to the living room, and he'd come down and sit on the couch and hang out with us," Hart says. "We were friends. He was like our uncle, basically. He was always there for us, and we felt safe with him. He always made sure the doors were locked, the windows were locked.
"There were certain times that he spent with all of us that we called 'Gary time' when we'd have a cup of coffee with him," she says. "My time was between 3 and 4 p.m. We'd talk about whatever happened that day, about music, because that's what I'm interested in, or he'd be watching a football game, and he'd explain it to me because I didn't understand it.
"Or I'd yell at him for cooking bacon. I hate bacon, and he'd stink up the whole house with it. The woman we live with, the only adult in the house beside, every morning was her time with Gary, and every morning he set her up for the rest of her day. She'd have a good day because she started it with Gary.
"It's just weird now," she adds, her voice clogging, "to look at the clock at 3 to 4 p.m. and he's not there. I keep looking for that big white van."
Gary Tharp has family out of state. But according to the people who knew him, he had "family" here, too, an enormous circle of them.
"He had a 'family' here," says Hart. "A family that loved him to death." She picks at a business card, flicking it with her fingernails as she starts to cry.
"He was there for us, even us kids. Age didn't matter to Gary. He was a friend to our friends. He meant a lot to us, and he had a family to come home to. We weren't all blood related, but we were his family anyway. And we all kept waiting, that night, for him to come back. We waited, and waited."
The Mathewses met Tharp 13 years ago on a softball field.
"He was funny," Ann remembers. "He was easy to love, easy to like."
"He had this unconditional acceptance of everybody," Tom says. "He had this ability to make everybody laugh, from a 6-year-old kid to a 90-year-old man. He transcended all age categories. He was a singular man with all these circles of friends. Some overlapped. Some didn't, but I don't think you can even put a number on his friends.
"He was always laughing and always making us laugh."
Tharp lived with the Mathews for two and a half years, and until his death, he worked with Tom as a carpet installer. Because of his handyman expertise, he helped the couple with a lot of projects in their Hayden house -- and that's making the loss even more difficult to handle.
"Every time we look around now," Ann says, "we see him in our house. He was just part of our everyday life. I expect to see him in the morning, on our boat, in the house.
"I just expect him to be there."
It's an ongoing agony for the Mathewses, and Hart, and other friends of Tharp, in part because they have no answers, and in part because they want people to know there was more to Gary Tharp than a police report.
More than the suspicions of alcohol.
More than the dark rumors of suicide.
"All of the news reports stressed that he didn't have any immediate family in North Idaho," says Tom Mathews. "But he was on a softball team, the dart league, he was the taxi driver for people who drank too much. He was the life of everybody's party."
"He took our grandkids fishing," adds Ann.
"He didn't have a biological family here," says Tom. "But he sure did have a huge family nonetheless. When Gary would dance, he'd do this little shuffle, we called it 'the dartboard shuffle,' and the last time anybody saw him that's what he was doing, the dartboard shuffle."
Tom shoots a sidelong glance at Ann.
"If we were doing something my wife wouldn't approve of, he'd just do the dartboard shuffle, and Ann would sigh and say, 'Don't do it again, Gary.'
"And that's what we want to remember about Gary. Not what happened. I can't fathom someone doing the dartboard shuffle and then driving his car into the lake. And he liked his beer, but a lot of people like beer.
"He left a piece of him behind with a lot of people. There are still presents under the tree for Gary. This was a mistake. A real tragic, horrible mistake."
Continued on next page.
