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.

Posted in Comedy, Family History, Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

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.

Posted in Family History, Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

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.

Posted in Aging Parents, Family History, Fathers, Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 12 Comments

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!

Posted in Family History, Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on Merry, Mary, and Marry Christmas

Hitting Hard

Posted on December 7, 2013 by ivanbenson

On Wednesday of this week the traffic on the way to work was unusually heavy, and the pouring rain made it an even greater challenge to navigate. As I crept along in the seemingly endless slow moving stream of cars I was imagining there must be a horrible accident up ahead, and so I tried to take the focus off myself and my lateness, and refocus on the unknown injured parties in the accident.

But when I passed the scene all it appeared to be was one patrol car that had pulled someone over for a traffic violation. I couldn’t believe that this tiny insignificant scene had held up traffic for so many miles.

When I arrived at work (10 minutes late), I carefully descended the outdoor wooden beam steps that lead to my office (most treacherous when rainy). Once safely inside I hurriedly put down my things, started up the computer, etc. and then noticed I did not have my cell phone with me. Assuming I had left it in the car I proceeded to walk back up the rain soaked wooden steps.

As I began my trek back up the steps I was thinking to myself, “Now be just as careful going up those steps as you were coming . . . ” and then BOOM! In an instant I had fallen, as if on ice. No time to react. No time to brace myself with my hands. BOOM!

All I knew was that my cheek had hit the corner of one of the wooden beams. And I am not referring to the cheek that sits halfway between my head and my feet. It was my face that took the brunt of the fall, with left ribcage and knees to follow. I wish I had a video of the fall. Maybe.

One moment I was upright, and the next moment I experienced a bone crushing blow to my face. As I rolled over, and moaned, I thought to myself, “Wow! You have really hurt yourself badly this time!”

I did triage on myself and decided I was worth saving. Upon inspection in the bathroom mirror I saw bleeding upper teeth and gums, and a bleeding cut on my face. I applied frozen peas to the affected area and began trying to read emails, etc. (hard to do with one hand – for me, anyway), hoping to reduce what was sure to be one heck of a swollen head.

Eventually, after running some work errands, it became apparent that I might be better off resting at home, and so my work day ended a bit early. Once home, I called the dentist, and he seemed to agree with me that any ensuing problems would make themselves known in the next few weeks (e.g. dead teeth from the traumatic blow, etc.) and that there was no urgent need for me to come in to be examined unless I wanted to do so. Nothing was cracked (apparently), and nothing loose. So, I applied ibuprofen and some more periodic icing therapy.

And there you have it!  My sob story for December 2013.

Truthfully, I am relieved that things weren’t much worse. My left eye sits in that same vicinity. And believe me, if it had been hit with the same ferocity, having no protection whatsoever, well . . . you know how that might have gone down. I suppose I could have hit my temple, or the back of my head. Just three years ago a friend my age went to haul out trash from his house, fell on ice, ended up in the hospital with bleeding on the brain, and died days later.  Several more years back another friend was golfing, lost his grip holding onto the back of a golf cart, hit his head, and has had severe, irreparable brain damage as a result.

It always amazes me when a traumatic event interrupts our lives and changes the course for us. It changes plans. It changes dreams. It changes families. It even changes us.

That same afternoon a family member called to tell me some details about a close relative’s developing condition: possibly some dementia or early Alzheimer’s disease. Hopefully, tests later this month will tell us more.

And in an instant . . . everything is refocused.

It seems that it always takes a hard hit to cause me to refocus. An accident, a death, a tragedy of some kind or other is required to get my attention off my routine. And it is in those moments that clarity comes: clarity about priorities; clarity about values; clarity about – life.

I wish I could say that I live with that kind of clarity on a daily basis. But, alas, I do not!

I must be jarred into clarity. I must be slammed to the ground sometimes before I open my eyes to the true value of the persons and things around me.

The Christmas season is upon us. A time when we are reminded (no matter our personal beliefs) of the value of family and friends. A time when we are encouraged to give of ourselves and our possessions. A time when sacrifice for others puts a smile on our face. And when assisting the needy or dropping a few dollars into a Salvation Army bucket just feels exactly right.

But it also is a time of bone jarring events. For no matter what personal decisions you have made about the man Jesus, and the meaning of Christmas, the events that ensued as a result of that man’s birth have changed history forever. Ancient history records stories about an amazing star, the journey of Magi, the murder of infants and toddlers, and a chorus in the night sky for Bedouin shepherds.

Some were tragedies. Some were amazing events, seismic in proportion to the every day life of the average person. But in each case their profundity was lived out in the lives of the persons they touched.

Those persons were never the same again.

They had to refocus.

And so do I. What we never seem to know is whether or not the trauma/amazing event we are experiencing at any given time is a life-changer, or merely a blip on the screen of life, a blip that one day we will hardly recall.

May we learn to read the events of our lives with both appreciation and appropriate pause.

And . . . watch those steps!  Slippery when wet.

Posted in Aging Parents, Assisted Living, Family History, Nursing Homes, Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on Hitting Hard

Dirty Stories (Adults Only)

Posted on November 19, 2013 by ivanbenson

I generally try to keep my blog stories clean and wholesome for readers, but from time to time I have to deal with subjects that are best termed dirty stories. I hope no one is offended, but . . . here we go!

My grandson matriculated in an intensive three day long boot camp for learning to use the potty last week. His diapers were put in the garage, and be began wearing big boy underwear exclusively. He completed the course with flying colors, although he is still perfecting the timely expulsion of fecal matter.

We are watching him at our house, today; this happens each week on Tuesday. We pick him up at his house, then drive to Dunkin Donuts, eat a cinnamon raisin bagel, chat with the workers there, then drive to our house where he spends the remainder of the day. Of course, today we did not spend any time at the doughnut shop because we wanted to make sure he didn’t have an “accident” before we could get him to safe potty haven.

So far, he has performed admirably, and even called out to us not long after his nap began, saying, “I have to potty!” And potty he did. No accidents so far today. Bravo! He is awarded a sticker and a small cookie for each successful episode where the undies stay dry.

Of course, we make a big deal over his success. We even have a children’s book about using the potty; he can push a button on the front of the book and hear the sound of a toilet flushing and children laughing and enjoying the experience. What will they think of next?

Needless to say, he is proud of himself. He no longer wears “baby diapers,” and his physique has even noticeably improved: his derriere looks so slim and trim without that bulky diaper.

I don’t remember potty training, but I do remember wetting the bed a number of times. I’m sure my grandson will experience some setbacks in the future, too. But he has now successfully tackled one of his first hurdles in life, well on his way to becoming a functioning adult, right?

We all have to learn these lessons in life, don’t we? Don’t pick your nose in public. Don’t belch; but if you do so inadvertently, please say, “excuse me.” Don’t eat with your mouth open. The list is endless. Most of us follow these rules, and we find it difficult to be around folks who do not. It’s just “common decency,” we sometimes say.

Theoretically then, I suppose that by the time a person is 30, or 40, or 50, or 60 or more years old – they should have perfected themselves in an untold number of ways: socially, hygienically, mentally, physically, spiritually, etc.

But often . . . that is not the case.

Many of us carry into adulthood any number of childish habits we have never given up; we foster attitudes which should have been discarded and replaced years before; we hold onto ways of dealing with others that seemed to work well when we were little children; we have ceased growing, maturing, and nurturing what is good, healthy, and right.

After potty training . . . we quit growing up!

You can easily see this in post offices and banks (at least that’s where I’ve seen it the most) where people are made to wait in lines. We loathe waiting, don’t we? Of course. But those who have never grown up are the ones you’ll find barking at the employees, trying to get privileges for themselves that no one else in line receives, and openly expressing their disgust at having to be detained in the course of their day.

What derails us in our growth as humans?

By the time we should be excellent human beings we are often anything but that! And sometimes this shows itself in old age the most. I am not speaking here of elderly people who have diseases which cause them to lose their emotional or mental abilities. In most cases, elderly incorrigibles were middle-aged incorrigibles, and young adult incorrigibles before that.

As my mother approached her final months and days she remained the gentle soul she had always been. She maintained a sense of respectability, decency, and propriety right up until her final breath. That is who she was. When she finished her formal education in school her learning did not stop. She continued to read, to write, to take classes in continuing education, to improve herself. She was not a perfect human being. But she read books of various kinds until her eyes failed her, and her strength failed her in the last week of her life – a life of 88 years.

Why do so many of us quit growing up?

Do we get tired of all the hard work? Is it that we reach a point in life where people no longer prod us along? Demands are seldom foisted upon us, and we are left to live as we please because no one wants to deal with us anymore?

Is that the way you want to be thought of as you grow older? Truly? Someone who must be dealt with?

Not me.

I pray that I will not give myself license to be a pain in the butt when I am old. I hope I do not reach a time in life when I expect others to tolerate bad behavior in me just because I have given up doing the work necessary to have meaningful relationships. Even if I am forced to revert to wearing diapers again – because I have lost physical control of my bowels – I will not shirk on my responsibility to continue to engage amicably with others in this dance we call life.

I want to keep growing up . . . until I take my final breath.

Posted in Aging Parents, Assisted Living, Comedy, Family History, Nursing Homes, Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

60 Years . . . and Counting

Posted on November 12, 2013 by ivanbenson

All right, all right! Some people are impressed that today’s numerical date (not in Europe, since they do it backwards) is 11/12/13. I think that’s pretty cool. But it’s especially cool because today is also my 60th birthday!

That’s right! It is, as Dylan Thomas might say, “my” sixtieth “year to heaven.” Actually, he said “thirtieth,” but who’s counting, right? He actually died in my birth year (1953) three days before I was born.

And I was born premature, mother always said. I weighed in at just over 4 pounds, had to be put in an incubator, and stayed in the hospital for several days after mother had been released. That should have been ample warning concerning the trouble I would make in this life, I’d say. (You know, they eventually named a famous hurricane after me in 2004).

So, now I have officially begun my 61st year on this planet (having lived full lives on several others previous to this, of course). And it seems fitting that I should share six decades of accumulated wisdom with you (or three score and a day for those still using such archaic language).

As I have made by way through this day, so far, I have been inundated with little white note cards from my immediate family members; note cards that carry the sweetest, most admirable comments a man could want to read. And I have found them in the most unlikely places, scattered around the house: on mirrors, in the shower, under my laptop computer, taped on doors, etc.

The sentiments are priceless. I am told that by day’s end they will total 60 in all.

As I read each of them, I am reminded of a simple truth: the way I decide to live my life affects many people, and it affects them profoundly.

In the age of “do your own thing” and “be your own person” (actually, I was taught in high school English class that it was 14th century Chaucer who said, “let it suffice for each man to do his own thing” although I can find no reference for such a statement), it is quite clear to me that my actions have a significant and sometimes lasting effect on those closest to me.

And it is more than comforting to learn that 60 years of perfection (even if it were attainable), is not the goal. In fact, it is not even what is most helpful.

My life has been made up of many successes and many failures. Not unlike others, I am sure. But it is my birthday, today, so humor me! What I learned from my friend, Landon Saunders, in the 1980s, has stuck with me for 30 years:

“God has great tasks only for those who have demonstrated their ability to deal with great failure. The greater the failure, the greater the opportunity for service.”

Failure is a given in this life. No one is immune. What I do with my failure? Ah . . . that, my friend, is the key. Do I “shrink to fit my failure”? Or do I learn how to rise above it, and go on? Will I have the “heart of the fighter,” and will I learn to truly be “a great human being”?

One thing I have learned in my sixty years on this earth is this: your children benefit from your mistakes and how you deal with them every bit as much, if not more, than your successes.

How comforting! Then I have a wealth of wisdom to share, don’t I?

Oops! I have a wealth of mistakes. But that is not the key, is it? It is how I deal with those mistakes that makes them either a benefit or a curse.

Perfection eludes us all. Shame, the modern world tells us,  is unhealthy, and should be eradicated. And so, we are tempted to deny our shame, deny our mistakes, do what is natural for us, and do it with total abandon.

As a friend of mine used to say, “And how’s that working out for you?”

It doesn’t work out well at all! There are things that are “right” and things that are “wrong.” Each of us crosses those boundaries on a regular basis, and ends up paying a price for our choices. But we compound the price we pay, we increase the cost geometrically, we multiply and intensify the effect of our error – when we deny it.

When we admit our wrong, and take steps to correct it, the effect on those around us is almost magical, because it proves that transformation is possible. Instead of bearing shame, we wear a badge of honor; instead of working to deny our weakness (which is quite tiring), we use our weakness as a tool to serve other human beings.

At any rate, that is what I have learned in my sixty years. And it has served to strengthen my family. If you disagree, or are simply not impressed with my words of wisdom, please bear in mind . . .

I was a preemie.

Posted in Family History, Fathers, Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 14 Comments

Thanksgiving

Posted on November 6, 2013 by ivanbenson

Three weeks from this Thursday families across this country will celebrate a day that Abraham Lincoln proclaimed a national Thanksgiving Day in 1863. Prior to that there is evidence that some form of it had been celebrated by various colonies (and later by individual states) as early as 1621; the first such autumn celebration was engaged in by the Wampanoag tribe and the Plymouth colonists.

This year my brother and his wife plan to join us; both my daughters will be present, as well as my son-in-law and my grandson. And once again, I have arranged to be off work. It promises to be a delightful time. I’m sure we will make an excursion to see my parents’ grave markers, and to put new flowers there.

I am also sure that we will overeat a bit, suffer sleepiness from the tryptophan in our turkey, and pecan pie in our bellies, etc. But overall there will be celebration of family, love, and togetherness.

It was interesting (and puzzling) to me years ago when someone close to me said that their favorite holiday was . . . no, not Christmas; rather . . . Thanksgiving Day! Since then I have begun to understand that feeling. Each holiday has its special flare, but I must admit there is something about Thanksgiving that seems foundational, substantial, seminal, the basis of everything that matters in life.

It is, indeed, the celebration of life and togetherness.

This year (in our family) we are trying to think of something each day until November 28 for which we are grateful. We will take turns thinking of a word or theme for each day of the month, share that in the morning with each family member, and remember that item throughout the day. We started two days ago, so the list is not yet long:

  • November 4 – The gift of one more day of life
  • November 5 – The blessing of our various pets throughout the years
  • November 6 – The changing of the seasons (of life, and of the weather)

I don’t know what we will come up with the rest of the month, but I am certain that each item will be full of meaning for each of us. If you have not yet planned something for your family to do as you progress toward Thanksgiving Day, I would highly recommend you try something like this!

We do so little together as families anymore, it seems. It is amazing how unified you feel when you share a little project like this. The rewards are mammoth in comparison with the effort expended.

Give it a try!

Two years ago we met at our house with this same grouping of persons for Thanksgiving Day, and we took a family picture to remember the event. Now two persons in the photograph will be missing this year: my mother, and my niece.

I am certain that in that first celebration of autumn in 1621 there were mixed feelings: gratefulness, as well as sadness; 50 of the 102 persons who made the initial voyage from England died in the first winter there in Massachusetts. Surely that was on each person’s mind as they celebrated that next autumn.

As Garrison Keillor reminisced many years ago (when singing about a family sitting around grandma’s table for Sunday dinner), “children take the places – of folks they never met.” Kermit the Frog says that “life is made up of meetings and partings; that is the way of it.” It has been so ever since the first Thanksgiving; it remains so, today.

{NOTE: If you are not impressed with my philosophical sources, I am sorry; I do not intend to apologize! I give no quarter to persons who do not respect Keillor or Kermit.}

The fall leaves change their color magnificently and with unparalleled flare, reminding us (perhaps) that the passing of life has a beauty all its own, and reminding us (as Abraham Lincoln also said that same year in November) “. . . it is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work . . . to be dedicated to the great task remaining before us . . . .”

And what was that unfinished work, that great task to which Lincoln referred as he reminisced about Gettysburg and the sacrifices made that previous summer? Was it not the work of unifying the divided country, the great task of creating a government that exists “of,” “by,” and “for” the people? And in that, achieving a “new birth of freedom.”

It may seem obvious, but . . . it seems to me that, difficult as it may be to attain, what Lincoln longed for – what each of us longs for – is a country that resembles a family.

Now I do not intend to wax political with you. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I am closely akin to Alan Jackson’s description of himself in his song Where Were You (When the World Stopped Turning).

It may be true that “it takes a village” to rear a child; what I am certain of is that it takes a family to rear a child, empower a young adult, energize the middle-aged, and care for the elderly.

And that is, I think, the element of attractiveness that gives Thanksgiving Day its beauty: it is the day (above all other days) that honors, commemorates, and applauds the concept of family.

Without family . . . well, I shudder to think what we would be like. Selfishness would prevail, of course, and we would have no safe haven where we could unreservedly be ourselves. There would likely be no of whom you could say, “they’ve known me since I was born.”

In the family we find acceptance, encouragement, and identity. We find our true selves.

On Thanksgiving Day we do not look for presents under a tree; rather, we look for presents in the presence of persons around us. Special persons. Parents. Grandparents. Great grandparents. Aunts, uncles, children of all ages.

For the truth is this: we all sit together at the table of life, sharing our bountiful harvest, enjoying the laughter, and clinging to one another through the tears. And as the faces around the table change, one by one, and the old are replaced by the young – we keep on telling the stories of the ones who have gone before us.

At Thanksgiving we get back in touch with our roots; as a nation, but also as individual families. And we rehearse the tales that have made us who we are.

I love Thanksgiving Day.

Posted in Aging Parents, Family History, Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 16 Comments

Waiting

Posted on October 22, 2013 by ivanbenson

I am sitting in a surgical waiting room at Piedmont Hospital in midtown Atlanta, Georgia. The room was designed for waiting. And that is what I am doing.

Waiting.

I am waiting along with a host of strangers. An adjoining waiting room is for heart surgery patients’ families; the section I am in is for general surgery.

I am waiting for my wife, today.

Her surgery has now been delayed, so the waiting time will be increased. Several hours, they think.

Waiting.

All my life I’ve heard that waiting is not a long suit for Americans; it has become axiomatic. But waiting has its values, of course; payoffs that are rewarding even though we do not seek them out. Serendipitous, I suppose.

While sitting in this waiting room the silence was broken when an elderly gentleman came in with his female companion, and started a discussion with the admissions worker who had escorted them over to general surgery. At first the worker seemed a bit perturbed, but soon it was apparent that he had her attention.

He said, “Eighty-one years ago I was born in this hospital. I spent a week here, and I have my mother’s bill for that week; it totaled $99.84.” He wanted to give this to the worker so she could hand it over to persons who handled the display of historical artifacts and papers at Piedmont Hospital. She told him she would get it into the appropriate hands.

Piedmont Hospital actually began as a 10 bed sanatorium and school for nurses in 1905. The first graduating class matriculated in 1907, around the same time my paternal grandmother and her sister (both orphans) graduated from high school in Columbia, South Carolina (at what would become the Epworth Orphanage). Grandmother would go on to attend nursing school in Augusta, Georgia.

The Piedmont Sanatorium and Training School for Nurses was originally located on Capitol Avenue where the now defunct Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium would one day stand. In 1957 Piedmont Hospital moved to its current location on Peachtree Road. The nursing school was closed in 1983, but the burgeoning hospital continues to grow and expand to the present day.

But I digress.

The 81 year old gentleman I mentioned previously broke the uncomfortable silence that typically surrounds such waiting areas. Several began a discussion of the cost of things, change, etc. One gentleman (in his early 70s) said he was born on a farm, and his doctor had charged $2.00 for the birth. A woman seated nearby shared her story of 34 cent gasoline, but was then trumped by the 81 year old who remembered 17 cents per gallon. (Factually, at 60 I can even recall 17 cent gas out in Tucson, Arizona in the early 1960s; my father said that was due to what he called “gas wars”).

Two women began a discussion of the common faith they shared (one of them was reading the Bible), then exchanged email addresses. Soon our small group had covered everything from kidney stones to the growing number of deaths of friends and loved ones, and the decreasing number of classmates still alive at class reunions.

Waiting.

Waiting can sometimes unite people who would otherwise never interact with one another. It creates a common bond, a shared experience, a conjoint journey (if you will). When you wait with someone, there are barriers that collapse, possibly because familiarity allays fear. We are social creatures. And so, given enough time, and a setting which either breeds emotional safety or forges inescapable dependance, we talk. We share. We accept.

I have been in lines at the grocery store where waiting was cursed. I have witnessed the same phenomenon at banks and post offices (and here the emotions tend to run very high, because people are in a hurry for a variety of reasons). Amusement parks are notorious in this regard. And I’m sure the same might be said of doctor’s offices, restaurants, and any number of other places we go. The axiom is true. We do not like to wait.

It is interesting to me that waiting comes highly recommended in certain ancient writings (Psalm 27:14; Isaiah 40:31; Acts 8:4; Romans 8:23; 1 Corinthians 11:33; 1 Thessalonians 1:10; Psalm 40:1-3). Truthfully, I suspect that waiting has never won a popularity contest among human beings. It has always been hard on us.

No matter what society.

No matter what time period.

I’ve noticed an odd phenomenon when cooking my breakfast oats in the morning. We usually buy the old fashioned kind of oats at the grocery, but this last time we got the “quick” cooking oats by mistake. They are different in appearance from the old fashioned oats; they are smaller, more compact, more uniform. And they cook differently, too. If I microwave a serving size of old fashioned oats in a quart glass measuring bowl, I have to watch to make sure it does not boil over and spill everywhere. But the quick oats . . . they do not boil over at all. Hmmmm.

I wonder how much of life we miss because of the hurry we are in? When the experiences of our lives are so controlled that they cannot boil over? Predictable. Without surprises. And quickly gratified. But how nourishing?

Much has been written in recent decades about enjoying the journey and not just the destination. So, I will not go there, today. But suffice it to say that in this waiting room today, I have connected with the humanity of strangers in a way impossible to achieve in my insulated, routine, fast-and-furious lifestyle.

With the windows of my life rolled down, I may have a first-hand encounter with heat, or cold, or inclement weather. But I will likely do so in the company of others. And that will make all the difference.

When my wife emerges from surgery later today, and I discover that she is safe and will recover, I will experience great relief. And I’m sure that – if they were aware of it – each of the persons in that small section of the waiting room this morning would be happy for me. For us. And I would feel the same for each of them and their loved ones.

Waiting has both improved my character, and informed by life.

Posted in Family History, Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

Living Life in H0 Gauge

Posted on October 15, 2013 by ivanbenson

I just couldn’t help myself today. I had taken my 2 1/2 year old grandson to “the train store” (although his pronunciation of that phrase sounds a bit different from what you just sounded out in your head), and while he was busy playing with the wooden Thomas train sets, I happened upon a couple of things to interest me, too.

You see, I have always loved trains.

When I was a boy my father pulled down an old electric train that had been stored in a box up high in the garage. I think it had belonged to his nephew, Edward (he was named after Dad). It was fantastic! A solid black locomotive engine in what must have been O scale. It was powered by an electric transformer that gave off an oily-electric odor; turning a plastic knob would increase or decrease its speed. We would set up the track, making it wind under and around the furniture, couple up the cars (there were several, as I recall, boxcars, oil tankers, caboose, etc.), then we would turn out the lights and start it up. It had a headlight on the engine, and we would watch it wind its way around the track in the dark, watching as the beam of light scanned each piece of new terrain. It was enchanting.

I have often wondered what happened to that old train.

My father told us that he was interested in the smaller H0 scale trains (named this because they are 1:87, roughly half the size of the O scale trains), and that he had wanted to have one for himself. It intrigued me (and pleased me immensely) that even as a man he still had an interest in something that was so important to me as a child. I loved that about him. The boy. In the man.

Many years later, as a married man with children, I purchased a starter H0 scale train set for Dad. I don’t know if it thrilled him or not, but to me, it was the perfect gift for him. I mean, what would YOU rather have? A tie? A pair of socks? Or . . . a life like H0 scale diesel engine?

The H0 scale trains originated in Germany in the early 1920s, evidently, and by the 1950s they were gaining in popularity in the United States. I remember my cousin, John, had an electric train that must have been O scale. The H0 set Dad brought down for us to play with from time to time (it didn’t get to stay in the house year round) might have been a postwar Lionel although I don’t ever recall seeing the brand name; the engine was made of a heavy metal, and the body of each of the other cars was probably plastic.

And so . . . as I entered the train store today . . . I came with a history, you see. A love story, so to speak. With trains.

I found a small treasure in a cardboard box, a pile of  old pre-owned things, discounted in the extreme, most likely unusable in a working electric train set up. But . . . quite the prize to place in a model train yard, mothballed (so to speak), for visual pleasure only. And I bought it. It was a black locomotive with a coal car that says CHATTANOOGA on its side.

Chattanooga was where my father used to work for Southern Railway; he was a steward for a short time on the railroad.

The mystique that surrounds trains, both model and real-to-life trains, enthralls me. I will forever be captivated by the sound of train whistles, the beckoning of train tunnels, the allure of train tracks that wander into the distance, and the distinct smell of the train yard. These call out to me the instant I hear or see them.

Models. Miniatures. What is it in diminutive things that is so appealing to us?

As the scale of model trains decreased greater attention was given to detail. Depicting the real on a smaller scale. We love that, don’t we? Such is the intent in the phrase, “cute as a bug’s ear.”

I could stand in the train store’s showroom and watch the four or five electric trains they have set up there run for a very long time. There are mountain scenes with tunnels, farm scenes with animals, city scenes with cars, buses, children playing, men and women working . . . life being lived out.

And here I stand, presiding above it all. Like some kind of god.

In the 1985, the Julie Gold song, From A Distance (first recorded by Nanci Griffith in 1987) offered a commentary on perspective with the words “from a distance there is harmony.” From a distance “we all have enough” and we march “in a common band.” Julie’s intent was to say that God is beneficent and kind, and that He sees us without all the detail of our imperfections, just as if he were a man looking on from a great distance.

Whether or not the theological statement is true, what strikes a chord with me today is the parallel I find when I try to mine my fascination with models. Especially diminutive ones. I am fascinated with the visible details, to whatever extent they are possible in an object that has been reduced 87 times (as is the case with HO scale).

But I am more enthralled with the scope of what I am able to see all at once; that is, the ability to see the entirety of an object that in the real world is exceedingly large. I am not dwarfed by a locomotive that could measure 65 to 85 feet in length in the real world. I tower over it in the diminutive world, and can observe its entire circuitous route across the floor, foreseeing obstacles soon to be in its path, and anticipating the timing of its arrival at various junctures.

I am the god of the model train universe, taking satisfaction in the minute details visible to me, and overseeing the passing of events as they transpire in the tiny world that lies in my purview.

It may be that I have over-philosophized this trait or tendency in human beings. But I think not.

I think there is, in each of us, a desire to live life in HO scale; that is, a world of beauty and attractive detail where we are in charge. Where tragedies do indeed occur, but they are limited to derailments that can be easily remedied, or the occasional collapse of a miniature tree (usually caused by the finger of a god who is not being careful).

We long for order, beauty, intricate detail, and realistic scenes both pastoral and urban.

We are obsessed with the depiction of life: in movies, in literature, in art, music, and dance. We want to convey how it really is.

But then, too, we long for the idyllic.

When I look at the tiny HO locomotive engine and coal car I bought today, with the word CHATTANOOGA written across the side of the coal car, and observe the workings of the Walschaerts valve gear and connecting rods, I marvel at the intricacy of this 1970s Tyco Chattanooga Choo Choo.

And I love what I see.

Because from a distance . . . or up close and personal . . . it harks back to a depiction of a world that touched my family in many ways. It was the world of my father and mother. It was, and is, my world. And, no doubt, it will be like the world of my grandson who is enamored with trains, too.

I am in a love story. With trains. Toy trains.

But . . . it’s not trains exactly. It’s about the things we love – together. Or loved together. It’s about our lives.

We revel in the depiction of our lives.

Posted in Family History, Fathers, Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments