The Corvette Stingray: A Love Story

Posted on March 9, 2014 by ivanbenson

It’s hard to tell where my taste for certain foods originated; why grilled hamburgers are so absolutely wonderful, why ice cream cries out to be enjoyed by the bowl full, why good coffee sometimes just hits the spot. But my love for cars . . . and one car in particular . . . that can easily be tied to one specific memory.

My father’s black 1951 Plymouth will always hold a special place in my memory. And the 1963 Plymouth Fury (push button automatic) was the white chariot he used to transport us across the country to our new home in Arizona in the summer of 1963. The Fury eventually became mine in December 1974. And from that time on I have made my own additions (1976 Volkswagon Rabbit, 1983 Pontiac Bonneville, 1988 Chevy Celebrity wagon, 1995 Chevy Lumina, 2000 Chevy Metro, 2000 Dodge Caravan, 2001 Chevy Metro, and a 2004 Toyota Corolla – my father’s posthumous gift to me).

But they all pale in comparison to the Corvette Stingray.

When I was a young teen I got to ride in a Corvette Stingray. I think this is the only time I have ever had a ride in a Corvette. I sat in one just a couple of months ago; it was brand new, and the owner was kind enough to let me gawk up close. But that is it! That is the extent of my experience with Corvettes.

And yet . . . I love them. I am enthralled with them. I even collect 1/32 scale metal models of them.

The ride I took was with an older friend named Alfred (who was quite the playboy); it was a mid to late 60s Corvette (I can’t be certain of the year). I was in late junior high school, or possibly the 9th grade (the first year of high school in AZ).

That car could turn “on a dime” (as my Daddy used to say). It was a dark sparkling blue color if my memory serves me correctly. The power and acceleration were remarkable!

And that is the extent of my up-close exposure to Corvettes. Not impressive, is it? But that’s all it took.

One car. One ride. One memory. But a lifetime of effect.

And that amazes me, quite frankly! I guess it could be like so many other things I have wished for, i.e. once you have them you really aren’t that happy with them, and you find it was the longing for them that really possessed you, not the thing itself.

Naaaahhhhhhhhhh!

Not a chance! Have you SEEN a Corvette?

What is arresting to me is the thought that one exposure to something, or someone, can set a person on a course that lasts a lifetime. That . . . is profound, indeed.

And it leaves me wondering how seriously I take the effect I bring to my relationships. The words I say, the actions I engage in. I wonder what longings my two daughters will carry with them through their lives, longings that I helped create (possibly by one act, one word). I wonder what effect I will have on my wife, my grandson. And others.

People are like walking indelible ink stamps; we go about our day marking the folks with whom we interact, stamping them with our own unique badge, our logo, the ensign that represents the world inside us. And yet, sometimes we are in awe of the wreckage we leave in our wake, or by contrast – the good that results. We are clueless. Unaware that our words, our actions could matter so much.

But they do.

Matter.

When I turned 50 years old a decade ago my family surprised me with a trip to Austria. Six days (including travel) of adventure that I will never forget: Salzburg and Mozart, Vienna and Beethoven, Easter in Franz Joseph Haydn’s church, the Sound of Music tour. Amazing!

That trip also included a trip to Mauthausen, a German concentration camp near Linz. Unforgettable . . . in its own right. The “hills” were “alive” that day, but not with the sound of music; rather, the ghostly cries of the hopeless.

I have been marked forever by both the beauty I saw in Austria – and the horror.

It is not likely I will have an opportunity to return to Austria in my lifetime. So . . . one visit will have to suffice. But sometimes . . . that’s all it takes to make an indelible impression.

But we were talking about the Corvette . . . it is so easy for me to wander off topic, isn’t it?

Corvette celebrated its 60th anniversary last year in 2013, so . . . I guess we are the same age! I think it came off the production line in June 1953; I didn’t come off the production line until November that same year. Nevertheless, we come by our symbiotic relationship naturally.

(Can symbiosis be one-sided? You see, I doubt Corvette knows I even exist!).

Today promises to be an absolutely beautiful day. Plenty of sunshine. Mild temperatures with a bold hint of spring. And so far, the dog and I are the only ones out of bed (Daylight Saving began overnight). I don’t think I have made any indelible impressions yet today, but . . . who knows what the day may bring?

And there is a good chance if I am out and about today – I’ll see a Corvette. Top down, anyone?

IMG_0438
My 2004 Toyota Corolla and I being introduced to a 2014 Corvette.
Posted in Family History, Fathers, Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 12 Comments

Not Until You Say “Uncle”

Posted on February 25, 2014 by ivanbenson

It was just a phrase that children used to say in a wrestling match when one child would get the upper hand; the beaten child would have to say “uncle” in order to be released from the debilitating grasp of the superior fighter. The origin of the phrase is uncertain, but it may have come from a 19th century British joke about a talking parrot. No one knows.

Stating the word uncle indicated a spirit of acquiescence, concession, admission that one was in submission to a greater force, a higher power (at least for the moment). I never liked using expressions of this sort when I was a boy; I thought they sounded silly, made no sense to me, and so I refrained. Well . . . I refrained unless the bigger boy who had me down on the ground demanded it of me; in that case I offered it quickly, albeit reluctantly in my mind.

As an adult I have had to say “uncle” on a number of occasions. Not typically while I was in a headlock, of course; rather, in moments so oppressive and so inescapable that acquiescence was my only choice. Dashed dreams. Relationship failures. Disappointments of various kinds.

Losses.

Each situation was one from which I could not escape, a devastating loss that stared in my face and would not turn away. I could choose to try to ignore it (which was impossible), deny it, move away from it, or disregard it. Of course, these choices were a tactic doomed to failure. Ultimately, I had to face the dilemma, embrace the wreckage, and acknowledge the devastating event, before I could move on with my life.

In other words I had to say “uncle.”

Until I did so, I remained in a prison of denial, a fantasy land which offered no real joy, but a land where the light grew more and more dim as the time of denial persisted, until it approximated the dingy, gloomy, and cheerless atmosphere I used to see in soap operas on our small RCA black and white television in the 1950s and early 60s.

I lost two important men in my life this past week. They both died on the same day, hours apart, in adjoining states. They were the husbands of my mother’s two sisters. One was 92, the other 86.

And I said, “Uncle.”

I said uncle because they were both uncles to me. And I said uncle because the loss was such that I could hardly bear the pain, but could not turn away. I had to relinquish them to the grip of death. I had to acquiesce and submit to a higher power. I could offer my love and condolences to my cousins and their families, but . . . I had no power to alter the reality of the loss.

When I said uncle as a boy I was released from the vice grip of my adversary, and the wrestling match came to an end. But as an adult – the relief that comes is not instantaneous; the wrestling and struggling do not cease quickly; I submit, I give up, I surrender – but the pain is still there. It does not let go so easily.

Both of these men had an impact on my life. And they were true and faithful spouses to my aunts. They leave behind children with the highest ideals, and aging mates – both challenged with Alzheimer’s. But the legacy of these two men will live on; their values will outlive them in the generations to follow. Such was the influence of their character.

So . . . I will say, “uncle.”

Life (and death) will demand it of me.

In truth, I said “uncle” when I lost my father, then once again when I lost my mother. I said it when my niece suddenly passed away, and one of my friends lost his battle with cancer. I said it thirteen times last year. And I’ve already said it several times this year.

But my wrestling match with life continues. Acceptance eventually brings some relief, a brief reprieve, a welcome lull, an intermission. Then once again I will be brought to my knees, right-sized, remade, reshaped. And I will say, “uncle.”

I am learning (as the years go by) more and more to be a man of faith. And although many readers of The Lost Story do not share my faith, I would be remiss if I did not tell you that my two departed uncles were both men of faith, too.

You see, when I say uncle I am admitting pain, acknowledging loss, admitting powerlessness, and grieving; but I am not undone. I am not beside myself. Not without hope.

And so . . . when I am forced to the ground, when I have been bested, when my strength is not adequate to the task . . . you may watch as my lips form the word uncle, but rest assured . . .

I am far from vanquished.

I hold a sword at my side.

Posted in Aging Parents, Assisted Living, Family History, Fathers, Nursing Homes, Stories, Uncategorized, World War II | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

Do You Own Your Story?

Posted on February 16, 2014 by ivanbenson

When I was a little boy growing up in East Tennessee in the 1950s I never recall wanting to be someone else.

But as years went by I began to notice things about other people, e.g. their possessions, their appearance, their talents, etc. And it wasn’t long before I actually wanted to be someone other than who I was; I wanted to be the person I was awed by on the TV; I wanted to be the athlete at school who was so admired; I wanted to be the successful student in college who seemed to know exactly what he wanted to do with his life.

In adulthood there was a continuation of this fantasy, but it took a more subtle form. By this stage of life I had come to realize I could not be that other person. But the fantasy still gnawed away at me anyway, making me feel like a failure, causing me to see myself as less than others, making me demean myself and reduce my life to fit the smallness I felt.

When you listen to the story of another person’s life you can either appreciate it for what it is, or you can wish to make it your own. The trouble is, all the while you are vacillating between these two, you are also living your own life, writing your own story, filling the pages of your own book. Even when you are unaware of it.

Which leads me to ask the question, “Do you own your story?”

When I was a child my father used to tell stories about the various occupations he had had in his early years: steward on the railroad, repossession agent, sandwich deliverer, ice plant worker, etc. And I was fascinated by all those jobs. I wanted a life like that (I thought). Then as I grew older I began to see that might not have been the most successful employment history to accrue.

Nevertheless, it was Dad’s story. And I loved him, varied employment story and all!

By the way . . . I got my childhood wish. I could give you a laundry list of all the different jobs I’ve done in my lifetime.

Sometimes, that bothers me.

But as I grow older, I have come to see it all very differently.

Our life stories are like that, you know. The proverbial “grass is always greener” in the story of someone else. My story. Well . . . that’s just – MY story. You know. Nothing special.

Not so!

It is, indeed, very special. Unrepeatable. Without parallel. Unique. Not to be compared with anyone else.

I have written (but have yet to publish) a brief essay on orchestration in life; one day I may share that with you all. Whether you are a person who believes in supernatural direction in your life, or you are more comfortable with the belief that it is all random, you still must admit that factors converge in our lives and relationships are enmeshed in such a way that certain events occur and particular alliances are solidified.

Human beings tend to rank those events and alliances; we decide which ones to consider valuable. That’s one thing that makes celebrity so important to us, isn’t it? It’s why we esteem the CEO of Ford Motor Company more than the Brook Park, Ohio assembly line worker. It’s why we value the political opinion of a Hollywood actor over the employee at Chick-fil-A.

And . . . perhaps most damaging of all (and incongruous to boot) . . . we turn and judge ourselves in this same way. Our own life story is put under the fantasy microscope. And we (and it is no surprise) – come up short.

As I have stated in the video explaining the origin and intent of this blog (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8cL1pdOSyj4), your own story is more than worthy of being made into a blockbuster movie. I truly believe that.

I began to sense this about my own story not too many years ago. You see, I no longer wish I was someone else. My aim in life now is to be the best version of ME that I can be. As my friend, Landon Saunders used to say, “if you try to be someone other than yourself you can never be more than second best.”

The aspirations in my life, the successes and failures, the triumphs and disasters, the “agony and the ecstasy” (thank you, Irving Stone); these are mine. And mine alone. I own them. I do not love them all. But I embrace them. They have combined in such a way as to make me who I am. And although I would love to go back and rewrite some of my life history (lop off a bit here, shave off a bit there), I must “relinquish all hope of ever changing the past.”

The truth is, like the repeated anthem in the subject of time travel, to change these parts of my life would alter things in such a way as to make my life unrecognizable, not to mention the effect it would have on the life story of others. [I don’t mean to cheapen my point by directing you to movies and books of fiction; it’s just that I know most of us have at one time or another considered the what ifs of this scenario.]

Five years ago my father lay on his deathbed. I can tell you right now that his career path was not on my mind in his final weeks. I was proud of the man he was (imperfections and all) separate and apart from any occupation he had had, or any title he had been given. It’s not that it mattered little. It’s that it didn’t matter at all.

Your story and my story have similarities and dissimilarities, points of identification and points that would bewilder the wisest of sages. If your story contains great disappointments – you qualify. If it has moments of helium-filled elation – you qualify. If it consists of seemingly endless vistas of boredom and sameness – you qualify.

Own your story!

Embrace the unrepeatable, unique treasure that is your life. Your journey is your saga (to borrow from Old Norse); it is the stuff of legend. Triumph has no meaning unless there has been disaster or near-disaster. And love cannot exist where there is no loss, or chance of loss.

And so, let me ask the question again: Do you own your story?

You know, you carry it with you whether or not you care to recognize it. You could build on it, if you’re willing to acknowledge it. And others can benefit from it, if you’ll choose to tell it. If that brings shame, it can also bring honor. If that exposes hurts, it can also engineer healing.

Own your story! If you do . . . there is no telling where your journey may take you.

“By rights we shouldn’t even be here. But we are. It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were. And sometimes you didn’t want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t. They kept going, because they were holding on to something.”
(Samwise Gamgee, J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings)
Our Story took us out west, summer 1963. Our lives would never be the same.

Our Story took us out west, summer 1963. Our lives would never be the same.

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The Biggest Loser (Losing BIG)

Posted on February 6, 2014 by ivanbenson

My youngest daughter is to blame, of course.

She’s the one who introduced us to The Biggest Loser and the celebrity fitness gurus, i.e. Jillian, Bob, and Dolvett. We watched the 15th season on Hulu and finally caught up with the regular TV broadcasts so that we were able to see the Live Finale this past Tuesday, February 4, 2014.

You just can’t watch the life stories of individuals, their failures, triumphs, brokenness, strivings . . . without becoming emotionally involved. And, of course, the thing we all look for, the thing that enthralls us the most perhaps, is their transformation. We watch them morph before our every eyes in a matter of weeks.

We lamented the exit of several contestants (yes, this is a game, a competition isn’t it?) we had grown to love, and cringed as some others returned or remained (names will be withheld to protect the innocent – actually, to protect me).

But results are results. And television is television. So, in the end, three were left standing, each one vying for the $250,000 prize money. And then a larger group of others who had previously exited the show competed for the $100,000 prize money (the ones who had been forced to continue their training/weight loss at home, on their own).

When Tumi appeared on the stage we were so impressed; she had lost just over 54% of her original body weight, and she looked tremendous. She had become a distance runner. And when she won the $100,000 prize we were so pleased (even though we rooted for Craig as well).

But when we saw Rachel we were shocked (to put it mildly). Evidently, Jillian and Bob were shocked as well (the camera caught their surprise when she appeared on stage). We had rooted for her throughout the season, because she was relentless in her training; mentally she was a tigress in her ascent toward the goal.

And I will not in any way take that away from her. She worked hard to achieve what she achieved. The last time we saw her before the Finale she looked like a vivacious and vibrant 24 year old. But that night – she appeared old; her face was drawn, without color. And her arms hung by her side like slender sticks. She had been around 150 pounds, but on the night of the Finale she weighed in at 105 (losing 59% of her original body weight).

This thought occurred to me: I wonder if she could survive even one day of training on The Ranch in this condition?

Opinions expressed in social media have multiplied exponentially on this subject in the last two days. And I hope Rachel is able to weather this divergent attention emotionally; it would be hard for anyone. Ironically, the lovely and talented Karen Carpenter died exactly 31 years ago to the date (February 4, 1983) as the result of a heart attack brought on by rapid weight gain as she recovered from anorexia.

But what concerns me more is this: what do we lose when we catapult the appearance of our body to a status it was never meant to have?

I know this is controversial. And I must admit I go to the gym as many days per week as I can arrange; I hate to miss. Last week a friend of mine and I were discussing whether or not this was an “addiction” or “dedication.” Ken said, “All right, let’s do this! We won’t come to the gym to exercise for three weeks. If we can do that, then it’s not an addiction!”

We both declined to participate in the test.

We all want to look good. And we all want to be healthy. Extremes are what we need to avoid. We all know this. But we also sometimes consider the proverb, “if a little is good, then more is better.”

What is good . . . if taken to excess, can become bad. A beautiful story of struggle and triumph . . . can morph into a tale of corruption and unspeakable disaster. There is a reason Overeaters Anonymous says that overeating and anorexia are two faces of the same disease.

One thing I appreciate about The Biggest Loser is that the trainers focus not only on the outward shape of the contestant’s body, but on the internal struggles and failures that cause them to overeat. Not without surprise, this above all things, makes the show fun and rewarding to watch.

In my pursuit to be the biggest loser,  i.e. to conquer the demons that hold me down in my life, I do not want to Lose Big as well. That is, when all is said and done, and I stand on the scale that measures my true self: my body, my spirit, my emotional well being, my psyche, etc., I don’t want to see the body of Adonis with the spirit of Aporia.

We have become enamored with the shape of our bodies. And in large part we evaluate our relative worth by our appearance. If we look good, we are good. If we look bad, well . . . we need to get help. Soon. But inside . . . in our heart of hearts . . . we can be in an endless desert.

When that desert is depicted visibly in our bodily shape, others may encourage us to get assistance, and come to our aid. But when that desert is covered over with the mirage of physical fitness, our six pack may obfuscate the disillusionment that lies just beneath the surface.

So . . . I am off to the gym! I have about 10 pounds to lose (yes . . . , again). I know I will never be the biggest loser.

And . . . I plan to live in a way that assures I will not lose big.

The only way to avoid losing big in this life is to integrate body and soul, flesh and spirit, sinew and psyche.

My best to you on your journey, Rachel.

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Rehearsal (Lace Up Your Dancing Shoes)

Posted on January 28, 2014 by ivanbenson

I can’t begin to tell you how many rehearsals I have attended in my six decades of life. Play rehearsals, solo vocal rehearsals, choral rehearsals, barbershop quartet rehearsals, rock band rehearsals, country/bluegrass band rehearsals, wedding rehearsals, story telling rehearsals, voice over rehearsals, etc.

I have practiced performing in a variety of settings for a variety of purposes over the years. I have rehearsed for CPR class (remember Resusci Anne?), Lamaze childbirth class, sermons I’ve preached, speeches I’ve given, classes I’ve taught, and events where I’ve presided as Master of Ceremonies.

Of course, we all know what rehearsal means, right? In farming terms it could mean something like “cutting the ground again,” or “dragging the soil over again.” Now a hearse carries a coffin, right? Well, some of the re-hearsals I have attended seem to fit the definition of “a session where we dug up something already dead and buried, and we buried it a second time.” Can you relate?

All kidding aside . . . (Perhaps! For I make no guarantees).

Rehearse. Rehearse. Rehearse. Ad nauseam.

It is inescapable, isn’t it? We must rehearse! I have friends who are professional musicians, and actors. No matter how long they’ve been in the business – they still rehearse. I just got to see an old friend of mine (country music legend, Don Williams) perform in Chattanooga recently. Don will be 75 years old this spring. He’s been in the music business for decades; he has 17 number one hits. He still has to rehearse.

No one is exempt.

Why do we need all this rehearsal? Have you ever asked yourself that question?

Human beings are relatively intelligent, right? We retain information pretty well, right? They used to say if you learned how to ride a bike as a child, for instance, you will never forget, right?

Then why all this need for rehearsal?

I have found that if I set my mind to diet (for example) I start out pretty well in the morning, faithfully keeping my ideals in mind. But by evening something odd happens. The ideals of the morning fade and go . . . somewhere.  I am almost a different person. You know the rest. So, what is the remedy?

Rehearsal.

As much as I hate to admit it – I need rehearsal.

When a performer stands before you on stage (just like the musicians I watched last night on the Grammys), they stand there after hours and hours of rehearsal. Sometimes, even after all that, you wonder if they’ve not rehearsed quite enough. [Nervousness can stop even the most talented musician from performing well.]

The fact is, we humans are magnificent forgetters. We can be up to our ears in an endeavor or discipline, step away from it, and then behave as if we never heard of it at all.

I have a morning ritual. Most mornings about 6:30 in the AM, I rise from bed, make coffee, then sit by my front window and pray.  I do this because I know that if I do not center my thoughts as the day begins, if I do not focus my mind, if I do not rehearse the foundational truths I have chosen to live by, my day is likely to go awry.

This is true for believers and nonbelievers alike. Human beings are like a loose focusing ring on a camera, a gliding stage that spins with the wind. We must be regularly focused in order to avoid distortion and blurry performance. Some do this with self talk, others use a variety of ways to frame their minds for the day ahead. And frame them, we must!

Are we fickle? Yes!

Are we changeable? Like the wind!

Organizations know this, too. If you are a part of an organized group you will usually find that your meetings are begun with a rehearsal of “who we are, what we believe, why we do what we do,” etc. If you go to an AA meeting you will hear the same twelve principles rehearsed each time. If you go to a medical convention you will hear words reminding participants of the reason for their profession and the foundational guidelines by which they practice medicine. Grocery store management requires its department heads to “huddle” in the same way sales forces do; it is imperative that they are on the same page, having the same goals, striving toward the same end.

For instance, think of what would happen to a football team that never rehearses the basic principles of the sport, but assumes having learned it once is good enough. Or a basketball team that does not regularly revisit the fundamentals of the game.

If left to chance, if left to . . . accident . . . then the result will be accidental. Hit or miss.

No. What we need is intentionality in our work, purpose in our endeavors, focus that runs deep in our hearts.

And all that comes (potentially, at least) as a result of . . . rehearsal.

We drag the harrow across the ground again. And again. And again. We turn the soil over and over again. We repeat the phrases, not mindlessly, but with as much attention as we can muster. We concentrate. We engage. We perform.

Then we do it again.

It sounds like the epitome of boredom when described with words. But the truth is, the doing of it, the actual activity itself (with a mind that is fully engaged) is more akin to the feeling one gets as they perfect a physical movement, like the joy a fisherman experiences when he perfects his fly fishing casting. Or when a pianist reaches a level of comfort and ease while doing Hanon exercises. Or when a runner’s body is honed into a finely tuned instrument, and the runner experiences the elation produced by an endorphin high as she pushes her body into a rhythm, an almost effortless plateau of performance.

Boredom? Absolutely not!

Rather skill that comes from a history of rehearsing well. A satisfaction that can hardly be explained, but must be experienced to fully understand. An absolute joy even in the midst of exhaustion.

Daily.

So, lace up your dancing shoes. It’s time to rehearse. With a smile.

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Remembering Dr. Harold Bowie

Posted on January 16, 2014 by ivanbenson

Early on Tuesday of this week a man who devoted his life to Christian education passed away in Memphis, Tennessee; he was 82 years old. His name was Harold Bowie.

Many of my former students (as well as former colleagues) at Memphis Harding Academy have been writing tributes to him on Facebook and other social media sites this week. To say that he had a profound impact on thousands upon thousands of people would be quite accurate (if not an understatement).

His lengthy obituary outlines a life of true greatness and is a clear statement of his far-reaching influence. I cannot improve on it here. But what I feel compelled to do is tell two stories about this fine man, stories that you will never hear from anyone else. These episodes are particular to me. And they stand out in my private memories of this man. I thanked him (in writing) for at least one of these two instances several years ago on his birthday.

These stories demonstrate two rare but admirable qualities: fierce courage as well as exemplary humility. I will forever be inspired by them, and I share them with you now.

I was cornered one morning in the early 1980s before the start of the school day by an older fellow teacher at the high school where Dr. Bowie served as superintendent. She was the mother of one of the students who had tried out for the junior high basketball team of which I was assistant coach. She was livid (to put it mildly). Her son had been “cut” from the team, and she was trying to persuade me in vitriolic fashion to reconsider the decision.

I have never been good dealing with angry persons, and was especially taken aback by this surprising and forceful display of vehemence directed at me; she literally backed me into a corner of the front office and proceeded to read me the proverbial “riot act.”

Just as I was about to close my eyes in fear and prepare for a painful death . . . Dr. Bowie appeared as if out of nowhere. He wedged his way in between the two of us and began to unleash one of the most severe and authoritative assaults on a human being I have ever witnessed. In fact, it was the most severe. No question about it.

I watched and listened as he not only protected me (one of his young teachers), but further, as he launched into a quiet but certain undressing of the other teacher – providing a clear, unmistakable mandate regarding what would be appropriate interaction between us and what, by contrast, would not be tolerated.

By the time he finished speaking to her I was done fearing for myself, and had long since identified with the pain and embarrassment (if not abject fear) she must have been feeling; I felt so sorry for her.

One thing was unmistakable – Dr. Harold Bowie was an advocate par excellence; he had no equal. He had, no doubt, read the ancient Hebrew story of Moses, specifically the occasion when he intervened on behalf of a fellow countryman who was being mistreated (Exodus 2:11-15). There is no greater fierceness in the world than the fierceness unleashed by a mother bear protecting one of her cubs. I will remember it until the day I die.

On another occasion, several years later, Dr. Bowie called me into his office for a “chat.” I suspected I knew the reason for the encounter, and I did not expect the visit to be pleasant. In my teaching of juniors and seniors that year I had presented a particular topic in a way that did not jibe with the traditional approach taken by the school, the school board, and the administration. Some parents had complained to him in his role as superintendent.

I was out on a limb. And I knew the limb was about to be severed.

Dr. Bowie and I sat down, in private, in his small office. He proceeded to talk with me about the issue at hand in his gentle yet authoritative manner, providing the traditional point of view on the subject along with the typical proof texts to buttress his position. These, of course, were points I knew like the back of my hand.

When he was done, he locked eyes with me and waited for a response. I hesitated. For a long while, I suppose. I did not want to lose my job. But I also did not want to be intellectually dishonest. My silence did not go unnoticed. I wanted to try to hide the personal dilemma that was, no doubt, all over my face. And I knew his next words would be strong and definitive. Remember, I had seen him in action before when someone was in the wrong.

What transpired next ought to be in the history books (so to speak). For me, it was just that moving, that recordable, that unforgettable.

Dr. Bowie said, “Ivan. The fact that you are not impressed with what I’ve just said . . .” [my heart was pounding, awaiting my certain demise] “makes me want to go back and examine it again for myself.”

What? [I thought]

Had he not fired me? Had he not chastised me for my untenable position? Had he not . . . . No. He had not.

What he had done will stick with me forever. Deep in my heart. He had listened to my silence and somehow embraced the spirit with which I was teaching my students; he had exemplified for me the humble attitude of the servant-leader who, even though he possessed the power and shouldered the pressure of great financial constituents of the school, was prompted by my lack of acquiescence to reexamine his own point of view.

I left our meeting that day knowing that, once again, Dr. Harold Bowie had decided that to step in between me and my opposition was preferable to seeing me leave teaching. Even if it meant that he would have to face them now himself. The respect he showed that day was not lost on me. But I know it was more a feature of his character than it was of mine.

My venerable friend Landon Saunders once said, “Many of us want to be seen as Great, without really being Great.” How true.

Harold Bowie was truly a great man.

One day, while interacting with some of the kindergarten students that his late wife Pat taught in Memphis, Dr. Bowie encountered a young child enamored with the superintendent’s position, status, and power. He referred to Dr. Bowie, respectively, as “the biggest Cheeto in the bag.”

And I guess he was.

I know that for me . . . he was both savior and advocate, humble learner and insightful leader.

Dr. Bowie. I will miss you. But I will never be the same. Because of you.

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Weather, or Not?

Posted on January 14, 2014 by ivanbenson

It’s funny how an expression will come into your head and take up residence there, uninvited.

Words.

They are sometimes magical, having a life of their own. Although they are tools created by humans to depict a specific thing, or to convey a definite idea, they sometimes embrace an alter ego. Then they wander around from place to place with their new identity until they find a mind with its defenses down, and . . . BAM!

They move in.

There is no tenant warrant to be served for words that reside in your head; they are permanent squatters in every sense of the word. The best you can do is accept their presence. Perhaps befriend them (if that’s possible).

Today I have been invaded by the homophones “weather” and “whether.” And my deranged mind has combined the one that relates to climate (weather) with the phrase that refers to a single alternative (whether or not). The result is the seemingly nonsensical expression “weather or not.”

Arrrgghh! It cries out to me to make it the subject of my blog, today. It says, “Write about me . . . if you can!”

All right. The gauntlet has been thrown down. I will accept the challenge.

There are snow flurries in the forecast tomorrow and colder temps. Not like the near-zero temps of last week, but still cold enough. And so, in our part of the world people will begin employing the phrase, “we’re having some weather.” This is an interesting phrase to me. Is there an alternative to having weather?

If there are days when we have weather, then there must be days when we do not have weather. There would be no clear blue sky in a weatherless day (I would wager); no puffy white clouds; no scorching heat, suffocating humidity, freezing cold, or snowy landscape. In fact, nothing meteorologically outstanding could exist in a weatherless day, because if it did . . . we would not call it a weatherless day, now would we?  We would be having weather, not not having weather.

My guess is that days without having weather would be quite boring.

Can you imagine waking up, looking out the window each day to see whether or not there was weather, or not? On weatherless days you wouldn’t even notice the air when you went outdoors; there would be nothing remarkable about it. No intriguing smells, no visually stimulating vistas, no breathtaking sunsets.

No weather. Boring.

On the days when you looked outside and saw you had weather you would be so excited! No blandness today, you’d think. This day has . . . possibilities. And the brightness of the sunlight, coo of the morning dove, and fragrance of the air would almost knock you down. Talk about joyful celebration. And none of it contingent upon you or your performance; it would be a precious gift boding good things ahead of you.

My daughter has a big job related decision to make today. Very difficult. Whether to take a new job offer, or not. I have some big job decisions I might make this week, too. Leaving some security and comfortable joy for . . . the unknown.

Choice is sometimes very hard for us, isn’t it?

Sometimes choice is so hard for us we wish we had no choice! We wish we were trapped, confined, limited, bound, restricted, enslaved. What?

No, we don’t!

We might dread choosing, but we certainly do not desire the absence of choice in our lives. Not in our heart of hearts. Men fight battles for this freedom of choice all over the world, and have done so for millennia.

Choice is part and parcel of each day of our lives. If we did away with it (somehow) we would enter each day like automatrons, blandly going through the motions of each colorless, odorless, meaningless day. Boring.

But that is not our plight, is it? No. It is not.

We will have weather, today. I guarantee it! And that’s a good thing.

Whether or not you like warm sunshine, arctic blasts, blue skies or overcast skies, there will be weather, today. And there will be choices to make, too. Whether or not you think you like to make choices.

By the way, my daughter already made her decision this morning; her choice is decided. And I think she has made a good one. Without doubt she will be able to weather the consequences of her choice.

And now, you and I have a choice today, too. In fact, many of them.

We don’t get to decide whether or not to have weather, because we will, indeed have weather. But we do get to choose how we value the day. We get to decide whether or not the weather will excite us, inspire us, enliven us. We dare not take it for granted.

Weather, like our lives, is made up of balmy afternoons that change into raging blizzards that change into seaside calmness that change into stormy downpours.

There is a cool breeze today, and bright sunny skies. Absolutely lovely.

This day definitely has possibilities. I will take in the day, breathe in the fragrances, embrace the coolness of the air mixed with the warmth of the sun. It is all an omen boding good things to come. This day is anything but boring.

Days with weather never are.

So, we are, indeed, having weather. Whether you like it or not.

There! My mind is again free from demon of word-possession. At least until the next one comes along. Whew! Thanks for indulging me.

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The Frozen Man (Life Imprinting)

Posted on January 7, 2014 by ivanbenson

It is 7 degrees above zero this morning in Atlanta, Georgia (Fahrenheit, of course). And the bright sun appears to be shuddering a bit as it rises for its work, today. Maybe that’s why the days are shorter in the wintertime; the day’s work in the cold is so much more exhausting for the sun than in the warmer months. (Did I mention I am not a scientist?)

The coldest documented temperature I ever experienced was 15 degrees below zero. That was in an unusually mild winter in Billings, Montana in 1976-77. And a close second to that was in the community of Cheap Hill, just outside Ashland City, Tennessee. My thermometer read 13 degrees below zero. The high that day reached a balmy 1 degree above; I think it was the winter of 1988 or 89. We were heating with wood that winter with an Ashley stove.

Keeping a record of extremes is a favorite thing for us humans, isn’t it?

When James Taylor sings the song, Frozen Man, he begins with these words:

Last thing I remember was the freezing cold,
Water rushing up just to swallow me whole,
Ice in the rigging and a howling wind,
The shock to my body as I tumbled in.

He is the only survivor of a shipwreck; everyone else is lost at sea. And his body is “hidden in ice for a century,” he says. But he has been found, revived, and “walks the world again.” He is something of a bionic man, reconstructed by scientists, and considered to be “state of the art.” (Taylor was inspired to write this song after the 1984 exhumation of the body of sailor John Shaw Torrington).

But it is miserable for “the frozen man”. Children are frightened by his appearance. He goes to his own grave site, curious to see the kind of tombstone he was given when he died. While there, he sees the graves of his wife and daughter who died from “extreme old age”. And he asks that when he dies the next time there be nothing left for scientists to “work on.” He doesn’t want to come back; he wants to say, “goodbye” to life on earth.

We all have our own time on this earth, don’t we? I have often mused about living in another time period. But the truth is, we are best suited for the one we are in, aren’t we? And if we had the chance to have another go at it, in a distant time, we might not like it at all.

Cryonics. Low temperature preservation of humans.

We don’t preserve well . . . even in ice, not entirely, that is. Our bodies may look much the same once they are thawed out, but the part of us that makes us “alive” (in the sense of self-awareness, speech, thought, love, etc.) is absent.

The coldest recorded temperature on earth may have been 135.3 degrees below zero (measured on Dec. 10 2013) in Antarctica. Now THAT is cold with a capital C! It beats our current North American polar vortex hands down. And although I’ve heard all my life that it is more comfortable to die from severe cold than severe heat (they say you fall asleep more easily when freezing to death), I don’t know that I would choose the cold option. Brrrrrrrrr!

There is a great temptation to compare our weather plights, isn’t there?

People in the northern states scoff at the way cities in the south shut down when there is snow or unusually cold weather. People in Canada scoff at the weather amateurs to the south of them, too. I guess dwellers in the circumpolar region laugh at the balmy winters the rest of us experience. It’s just in our nature to compare. Especially when it comes to inclement weather.

Oklahoma has its tornadoes, Montana its blizzards, Florida its hurricanes, Arizona its extreme heat. Tales of adventure are often made up of one of the stereotypical extremes that go along with each portion of the country. Perhaps this is universal. Native dwellers in each region identify personally with their most dangerous and extreme weather malady.

Survival.

Deep within the human psyche is the desire to survive. We are wired to want to find a way though whatever disaster befalls us. At times we may want to simply give in, resign ourselves to our plight, and wait for the end. But more often than not we rise to the occasion, we “buck up” (as my mother used to say), we persevere, especially when we are in a group of persons all in the same situation.

Part of the fun in comparing weather with one another is telling our story of survival, declaring how we overcame the elements, beat the odds, were valiant and brave. There is a Rocky Balboa in each of us. And the last thing we want is to die, be immediately preserved, then resurrected at some future date in order to enter a world we no longer recognize and in which we have no history of battles won.

We are survivors. Not cryonic, bionic time travelers.

So, I will put on our home calendar the word COLD covering the early part of this week. Just so that next January when we review the year 2014 we will remember this cold snap. And I will wear socks to bed, even if I have to kick them off part way through the night (like I did last night). I will put faucet covers on my outside faucets, and run a slow stream of water in the sink inside the house overnight to help stave off the bursting of water pipes. And I will do what Garrison Keillor calls “the Minnesota hunch” when I have to be outdoors.

Life offers a plethora of extremes to each person. And we would do well to note them. Each one.

The truth is, we learn from the extremes we endure; they stretch our hearts and minds in ways nothing else can. Whether cold, or heat. Whether failure, or lavish success. Be it divorce, great personal loss, tremendous inspiration, freedom from an addiction, or an arduous journey toward a goal. We might never choose some of these things if left to our own devices. But they can shape us. Mold us. Cause us to be reborn.

So, live your life. Gather up your stories. Rehearse them with one another. Let great obstacles in your life be met with great personal response. Endure the cold. Take the heat.

Leave an imprint on this world that is larger than life.

Others are following behind you. They won’t be breaking you out of the permafrost in order to revive you. Your influence is something they will inherit.

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Saving Mr. Banks (Authentic Identification)

Posted on December 30, 2013 by ivanbenson

In the late afternoon of March 28, 2009 I was traveling down a rainy street in my 2000 Chevy Metro when a young girl armed with a learner’s permit turned in front of me, causing me to hit her just behind the passenger side of her car (where her mother was seated). I barely had time to apply any brakes at all.

Thankfully, no one was seriously injured, just bruised. As a matter of fact, I was on the way to the local fire station to have my blood pressure checked when the accident occurred. And since the fire truck happened to be leaving a retirement facility at the same intersection when the crash occurred, first responders were at my side in mere moments (by the way, my systolic pressure was 190 when they took it immediately after the crash – not the kind of number I was going for, but . . .).

Since the air bag had deployed the car was totaled (small, older vehicles like that are not worth the cost of air bag installation). I talked with my father about it all on the telephone not many days after the crash; of course, I had no idea that within a few days he would be gone from this earth. This was the last conversation we ever had.

Needless to say, the Five Forks Trickum Road and Tom Smith Road intersection is memorable to me.

I never pass through that intersection without remembering that day. Never! And I am there often. It is in “my neck of the woods,” as they say.

There are a great many things that jog my memory, fading as it is. When I saw the movie, Platoon, with my cousin in 1986, I was immediately transported back to the year I was drafted, not just because the movie concerned the Vietnam War, but more precisely because Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings was woven throughout the film from beginning to end. And this had been a favorite piece of music to me the year before I was drafted, when I attended music school at the University of Arizona.

I had not heard the piece for many years at that time. But when I did, I was emotionally transported back in time. It was involuntary. And immediate.

There was no way I could have stopped it. It was, quite literally, a force majeure.

Whether we are talking about music, special places, smells, pictures, phrases, etc., they all have the power to put us in an emotional time machine and carry us back to an event(s) that marked our lives for either good or ill. Instantaneously.

That is why Mrs. P. L. Travers cannot abide pears (in the recent movie, Saving Mr. Banks). It is why her driver, Ralph, prefers sunny days to rainy days. It is why Mr. Disney himself strove to provide a happy, joyful, carefree life for his children. And it is, of course, why you and I function in our own lives as we do.

Our experiences serve as a schema, a framework, a platform, a model from which we evaluate and interpret the rest of the world. They are portals of understanding, almost like a life rubric, an exhaustive category which purports to contain everything we will ever encounter.

Helen Goff (aka Mrs. Travers) enters her adult life laden with a broken model of what life should be, one she is constantly longing to improve upon, even if it requires imagination to create it. And when her broken viewpoints collide with the viewpoints of others, she is forced into an almost impossible dilemma (as are they).

If we could but look into each others’ lives and observe those formative building blocks of life experience. If we could see with another man’s eyes, walk in another man’s moccasins. Our interactions would be so different.

We are, each one of us, the product of countless experiences, various formative influences, multitudes of emotion-charged life events. That, of course, does not give us carte blanche; our notions about life are not right just because they seem natural to us. As I heard someone recently say, your experiences may “explain” you, but they do not “excuse” you.

One of the beauties of an excellent movie like Saving Mr. Banks is that it reminds us that no matter who we are we are products born of life experience, whether the CEO of the largest media and entertainment company in the world, or the man who drives stretch limos for a living. True identification with another person demands that we acknowledge and embrace those life experiences.

When Jean Sibelius wrote Finlandia in 1899 it aroused Finnish patriotism so much that Russian authorities banned its public performance. When terrorists attacked the United States on September 11, 2001, our country rallied on the steps of the Capitol, where congressmen gathered and sang Irving Berlin’s God Bless America. Such is the power of music for individuals, and for groups of individuals.

When I hear the two beginning notes of The Beatles’ Hey Jude I am a junior in high school again, in love with Roxanne Price. Danny Boy will immediately remind me of my father, and Clair de Lune, my mother.

If my wife smells newly mown grass she is transported back to Argonne Road in Portsmouth, Ohio, and it is the 1950s once again. The sound of morning doves takes me back to cool mornings in Tucson, Arizona in the 1960s. When I see daisies I am reminded of our wedding day in 1976.

Each of us carries with us at all times the dormant seeds of our past. And no matter the medium, whether sound or sight or feeling or smell, those seeds can spring into full bloom instantly. All they need is a prompt.

A nudge. A touch.

When I hear the songs of Mary Poppins from 1964 I am an eleven year old boy again, having recently moved across the country, from a moist lush green environment to a dry and thorny desert surrounded by four mountain ranges. If you are a baby boomer you, no doubt, engage in your own time travel when you hear Julie Andrews’ voice.

As Walt Disney humbly sits in Mrs. Travers’ sitting room with a cup of tea in his hand, and makes one final appeal for the rights to her story, he does so by rehearsing for her one of the most formative and influential events of his life, made by one of the most influential persons in his life. That is because he knew (as we all do, I think) that when a person shares his or her story with another person an intimate communion is made possible.

And that communion, more often than not, is irresistible.

We are made for community, aren’t we? Ready-made from the Creator’s hands.

So, whether you (like Mrs. Travers) are prone to building pretend homes out of weeds and flowers whenever you sit in the grass; or (like me) you sketch a cabin with smoke coming out of a chimney whenever your grandson asks you to “draw” with him – you are going to continue to reconstruct the dreams of your childhood (involuntarily) your whole life.

Formula: talking about your story = the way to pull a human being’s heartstrings.

And where our stories touch one another . . . where they intersect through shared life experiences . . . where they merge into one seemingly unified channel, whether positive or negative – there . . . in that sacred spot . . . our minds and hearts are at full attention.

The movie is excellent, by the way; I highly recommend it. But it is the story of your life and mine that is truly enrapturing and exhilarating.

Tell . . . your story.

And listen . . . with your heart.

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Merry, Mary, and Marry Christmas

Posted on December 11, 2013 by ivanbenson

I remember being instructed many years ago in the subtle but distinguishable difference in the pronunciation of the words merry, Mary, and marry. I’m sure that on that same day I probably learned the difference between pin and pen.

But I can’t say that I have altered my cacoepy in any significant way; I guess I am just a bit rebellious that way.

I love words. And I respect the subtle differences in pronunciation that occur in language (I am no Archie Bunker, thank you). But old habits are hard to break, aren’t they?

So when I say “Merry Christmas” at this time of year it is apt to sound a whole lot like “Mary” the mother of Jesus, or “marry” in the nuptial sense. I just can’t help myself. Or won’t.

But my recalcitrance is not the point of this blog, so . . . leave it!

What does interest me is the relationship between these three words; words that seemingly have no connection whatsoever except their similar sound.

Merry, of course, carries the meaning of cheerful, jolly, happy, and lively. It is rooted in an early Germanic word that carried with it the idea of short lasting or brief, i.e. making time fly by quickly. It may have seen its highest usage around the year 1900.

Mary was the mother of Jesus, as is widely known. The name comes originally from the Hebrew name Miryam or Aramaic Maryam, which in Greek was made into Mariam, Miriam, and Maria. The meaning may carry the notion of something bitter. The name was held too sacred for common use until the end of the 12th century, but has become common from the 17th century to the present.

Marry has been used of the state of matrimony, the intimate union of two life partners, at least since the 13th century. Oddly, in the middle of the 14th century it was also used euphemistically as a variant of the name of the Virgin Mary, to express surprise or indignation.

When Jesus was conceived Mary had no reason to be merry since she had not yet married, she was only engaged to be married. And so at first, she was “greatly troubled” (Luke 1:29) by the news. But once she realized the significance of the role she had been chosen to play, she became merry, even beyond merry, she was elated.

Mary said, “From now on all generations will call me blessed, for the Mighty One has done great things for me . . . .” (Luke 1:48b-49a).

Indeed they have. And indeed He did.

Although the shame of Mary’s pregnancy before marriage has been depicted in movies, e.g. Jesus of Nazareth (1977), and The Nativity (2006), and current society would not even bat an eye at her plight, it is still worth noting that her delight overcame the monumental sense of shame and guilt that many must have tried to place upon her.

Mary was indeed . . . merry.

Eventually she and Joseph did marry, of course, but prior to the wedding the child was born in a Bethlehem stable, “because there was no room for them in the inn” (Luke 2:7). His birth was heralded by a sonorous angelic army (Luke 2:13-14). And the Gospel of Matthew records the presence of an ominous star in the sky guiding wise men to the young child (Matthew 2:1-12) to whom they presented precious gifts.

But glorious as this was, the child was destined for difficult times in the years ahead. And his mother, Mary . . . she was destined to feel the bitter pain of a “sword” that would “pierce” her soul (Luke 2:35). Mary would feel the bitterness of her name.

What strikes me about Christmas is that its glitz, its brightness, its twinkling lights and shiny ribbons overshadow and obfuscate the baser reality that is the true back story to the birth of this famous baby.

And in blurring the true picture we also forfeit the powerful redeeming value of this fantastic event.

For the story is that from an obscure village a King emerged; out of the disrepute of an illegitimate birth true legitimacy was achieved; through one man’s capital punishment for crimes against the state was birthed the payment for the crimes of all mankind.

The beauty of Christmas is . . . not seen in its beauty; rather, in its ugliness. Its underbelly. Its shadow. True light cannot be seen in the midst of all the brightness; it longs for darkness in which to do its work of illumination.

The unmarried pregnant teenager gives birth to the saint.

Merry.

Mary.

Marry.

Christmas!

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