Follow The Yellow Brick Road

Posted on August 20, 2013 by ivanbenson

There’s nothing like a great story, is there?

A great story can lift your spirits when you’re feeling down; it can take you on adventures that are both enthralling and enthusing; it can transport not only your mind, but also your heart.

In short, a great story has the potential to change your life.

When my mother saw The Wizard of Oz in 1939 she was 15 years old.  She was smitten with it immediately, and would remain so for the rest of her life. Not only did the silver screen come alive with color once Dorothy opened her front door to Oz, but the characters portrayed in the movie had a literary color of their own that shone through the black and white format.

When mother finally allowed me to see the movie one Sunday night, I was five years old. I’ll never forget it! And I’ll never forget the nightmare I had that same night. It involved flying monkeys.

Stories! They can be unforgettable.

And we should not assume that the best stories are ones we hear about the most. For as much as I love the motion picture story of Dorothy in Oz, her exploits with the Scarecrow, Tin Man, Cowardly Lion, and the Wicked Witch of the West, I am equally taken with the back story of the Tin Man. A story of which I was totally unaware until just a couple of years ago (http://whitestonemp.com/film/heartless-the-story-of-the-tin-man/).

We all have a back story, don’t we? Moments of great success and/or great failure certainly mark points in our lives where innumerable factors culminate in one memorable event, and in that instant many can see the result of those innumerable factors. But there is always a back story. A history. A quiet accumulation of days and weeks percolating and simmering.

In our world of marketing strategies and constantly evolving communications technology there are many voices that call out to us. But voices have always called out to consumers, haven’t they? Criers and hawkers have forever made the populace aware of their wares, even from antiquity.

Sometimes the voices offer directions, such as Horace Greeley’s, “Go west, young man.” And the hearer is forced to make a decision about his/her life’s course. This was the case with Dorothy Gale in the movie adaptation of L. Frank Baum’s book, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.

“Follow the yellow brick road,” she was told. “Follow the yellow brick road!” And the voice which begins this advice is joined by another, then another, until . . . it is a chorus of voices without number. And it is advice that she took, too. It is on this road that she meets her new friends, and her great nemesis, too. And it is this road that leads to her dream destination.

Unlike Elton John (who evidently preferred to say “goodbye” to it), Dorothy Gale actually benefits from her walk on this road, and in the books by L. Frank Baum (I am told) she continues to make journeys on this road to and from her family’s farm until they finally decide to move permanently to The Emerald City.

Some have suggested that the “Yellow Brick Road” was a reference to a place familiar to Baum in Holland, Michigan; others maintain that he frequently traveled by a road fitting this description in Peekskill, New York. Whatever the origin, it has now become a popular expression. Does it signify growing up? Or learning the location of your true home? Or is it a symbol for the life experience that forges your character?

I have no answer, unless perhaps . . . “all of the above.” The emotion that envelops me as I write today is simply the love I have for this story, a love passed on to me by my mother. Interestingly enough, of the many blockbuster motion pictures released in 1939 (Gone With the Wind, Of Mice and Men, The Wizard of Oz, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, etc.), this one employs fantasy to make its point.

“How many hours are there in a mile?” “Is yellow square or round?” These types of questions are typical, according to C.S. Lewis, when we deal with questions in the metaphysical realm. And these are the kinds of questions one would not consider unusual in the Land of Oz.

But I digress. Fourteen months ago I began this blog, inspired by the task of caring for my aged mother. I wanted to try to preserve the story of her 88 years on this earth. I wanted to honor her memory in some way. And I wanted to explore the many ways that her life (and my father’s life) had influenced mine. There was no way I could know that mother had two months to live at that time. But I knew the end was imminent.

Earlier this summer I performed at The Yellow Brick House for “family night” (a night when the assisted living residents enjoy a meal and some entertainment with their sons, daughters, grandchildren, etc.). It had been 10 months since I was there last. On that occasion I sang for the residents, including my mother, just a week before she passed away in August 2012. My older brother was present that night, too, along with my wife and daughters.

I placed mother in The Yellow Brick House assisted living facility at the close of July 2012. It had intrigued me that the name of the facility was much like her favorite movie; it was a fitting location for her final days . . . on her journey. . . home.

And so, it may come as no surprise to you that:

  • In my own family, we named one of our Keeshond dogs, Toto, many years ago.
  • When my wife and I visited the Smithsonian in Washington, DC  years ago, I was more than excited to see the ruby slippers used in the movie.
  • Mother kept some of her rings and precious things in a heart-shaped container with the ruby slippers adorning its top.
  • My brother and I decided to play a recording of Judy Garland singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” at the close of Mom’s memorial service.

Oh yes, by the way, the name of the woman who currently resides in the apartment mother had at The Yellow Brick House . . . is, as you might have guessed, . . . Dorothy.

MomandDadwithIvanJune1985

Mother with yellow roses (her favorite), 28 years ago; with me and Dad in Tucson, AZ.

My mother’s story and mine will never be the same story. Obviously, there are intersections of life’s road that we share. But there are other places where our life roads entwine one another, and are almost indivisible. When I was an infant. And when mother was an aged woman.

Her story has changed my life forever. Her back story continues to influence me visibly through seemingly invisible ways. For instance, her love for writing has infected me. I carry the torch of both verbal and literary communication, and I make proclamations with words, because to refuse to do so would not be consonant with my story.

My heart has been forever affected by a great story.

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

Life in Bold Relief

Posted on August 17, 2013 by ivanbenson

It has been 65 days since I last made an entry on this blog. For a good while prior to that it was a weekly exercise to which I looked forward with great expectation. But in June, the press of life, jobs, and responsibilities took their toll . . . and my pen fell silent.

Much has transpired in those 65 days.

My good friend with cancer is now (the oncologist says) in his final weeks, not to last even a month. My 20 year old niece tragically departed this life just 10 days ago. My aunt and uncle have both been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease. My cousins are now having to face difficult and heart-breaking decisions and situations as they deal with their aging parents. And as I approach the one year anniversary of my mother’s death, others in her family are near death’s door, too.

I don’t think sobering is the term that describes the current situation adequately, although sobering it is. It is, indeed, a dose of life too large to swallow without choking. But swallow we will. For there is no other choice.

And finally . . . I have a day off to be with my thoughts, to ruminate on this life that is so fleeting. To try to put into words both the gravity and the incomparable beauty of this life we get to live.

For that is the truth of it, isn’t it? There is incomparable beauty all around us. But awareness of the eventual cessation of life reminds us of its gravity.

Embracing both views at once brings everything that matters into bold relief.

Relief is the sculptor’s way of distinguishing for the observer the objects that truly matter from the objects that do not. It projects the detail that might be lost to the viewer; it brings sharpness and definition to what is important to see. It thereby separates itself from what is inconsequential.

As I view the sculpting process around me, and in me right now, I am reminded of the simplicity in all this apparent complexity. Robert Fulghum was right in 1988 when he wrote All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten. Of course, his comments mainly had to do with learning to share with others, playing fairly, getting enough rest, and learning to accept others because, in truth, we are all very much alike.

But as we make this journey we call life there are times when the clarity escapes us, when the weight of the world seems to be resting on our shoulders, when we seem to be walking the back trails of a desert that appears on no topographic map.

It is crucial how we view those times.

I was reminded just a week ago that it is in those times our character is being formed. That sometimes in obscurity our most valuable lessons are learned. The forging of our person is done in a furnace where the heat can be intense.

And it is in these times the bold relief is visible, the outlines are unmistakeable, the dross falls away.

Love. People. Forgiveness. Joy.

These are the things I see that remain. What do you see?

Posted in Aging Parents, Assisted Living, Family History, Nursing Homes, Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 11 Comments

Night Riding (The Way Things Used to Be)

Posted on June 12, 2013 by ivanbenson

Childhood memories are almost indelible, aren’t they? I can remember lying in the floorboard of our black 1951 Plymouth, sleeping cozily on the left side of the hump that ran thru to the backseats; the hum of the engine and surrounding warmth enveloping me. Our family had, no doubt, been out late somewhere, and my youthful drowsiness had taken over.

No seatbelts back then, of course. And no air conditioning either.

During the school year, when the weather got hot, the teacher would take a long pole with a special hook on the end, and open the ceiling-high set of windows that were on the outside wall of the classroom. People still cooled themselves by sitting on porches in those days. And the slap of a slamming screen door (with a wooden frame) closing was a familiar sound. When it was really warm we employed an old box fan to move the air about (the hum of that fan still lingers in my memory).

At night we would sit out on “the green porch” (as we called it, even after Dad repainted it grey), look up at the stars, and drink in the smells of flowers, grass, and the night itself. My brother and I would watch for satellites overhead, noting their slow march across the night sky. It was a magical time.

My father was a moody individual, burdened with his 3 PM to 11 PM shift at the post office, and the many concerns that go along with providing for a family of four in the 1950s. But sometimes, on the porch at night (if he was off work) we could get him to talking; then his jovial spirit emerged and we reveled in the opportunity to enjoy his playfulness . . . until the cares of his life once more took it away.

He would often quote lines of poetry (Poe’s, The Raven, was a favorite of his), or the Bible (he helped me memorize 1 Corinthians 13 that way), or just relax with me in his lap. Temporarily, of course. Because I was a young boy, full of energy, and not likely to sit in one place for long.

But the ultimate memory of good times with Dad has to be our night rides in the car. I’m not talking about going to the grocery, or visiting a neighbor across town; rather, our long road trips. Particularly those we took after we moved to Tucson, Arizona in the summer of 1963. Dad traded in the old 51 Plymouth and bought a brand new 1963 Plymouth Fury (push button automatic). Now that was some car.

Still no air conditioning, mind you! That wouldn’t become common for some time. And so, to avoid the daytime summer heat we would travel at night into the wee hours of the morning. And it was these times that are stamped indelibly in my mind.

My mother would change places with me at night time; she and my older brother would fall asleep in the backseat. That left me and Dad up front to “man the ship” (so to speak). It was in these times that we would SING!

My father had a lovely voice. Basso profundo (low bass). He could sing a B flat below low C (a half step lower than the famous Ezio Pinza, Dad would sometimes remind me). This is where I learned to harmonize, I guess. Dad would sing “Drink To Me Only With Thine Eyes” and I would fumble around trying to find some higher notes that would sound good with his notes. Then I would launch out into a popular song (on the radio in those days) like “Cotton Fields Back Home” and off we would go.

Invariably I would ask Dad to sing “Asleep in the Deep” because I loved to hear his low bass voice go downward and downward with the ending phrase “So – o, beware. Be – ee -ee – ee – ware.”

It was during these times that Dad would sometimes rehearse for me his “stories.”

  • The nurse in the hospital who mistakenly sent my teenage Dad a love letter directed to her fiancée, while Dad was recovering from a tonsillectomy. By the way, her fiancée got the get well card meant for Dad.
  • Or the time when he was in the war, carrying the top secret Norden Bomb Site, and had to draw his 45 caliber pistol on the guard who resisted letting Dad see the “officer of the day.” Dad told me he had orders to kill anyone who tried to defeat his mission.
  • Sometimes he would tell me about his older brother, the fights they had, and how his Swedish father would bring home razor strops to discipline them with; he would hang them beside the wood burning stove in the kitchen, but Dad’s brother would burn them in that same stove.
  • One night a man was trying to break in their front door. Dad’s mother went and got a pistol, but Dad’s brother got a baseball bat and stood beside the doorway. Then Dad opened the door real fast and his brother smacked the intruder. No gun was needed that night.
  • One day, while Dad was shouldering a 100 pound block of ice in the ice plant in Chattanooga, he struck a direct current electric cable overhead and was instantly immobilized by the electricity; another worker had to come along and knock him off of it with a 2×4.

Church hymns would make up our duet repertoire long into the night, until I fell so sleepy I could no longer continue. I’ve never thought about it before, but . . . I wonder what Dad thought of after all the rest of us were fast asleep. When he alone was left to safely traverse the open road.

These and many other memories I hold sacred now. Truthfully, I always have. Even when Dad was alive. Probably because they allowed me to see the boy and the man behind the gruff exterior, the often furrowed brow, the troubled-with-the-weight-of-the-world demeanor that so often possessed him.

My father is at peace now. No concerns are pressing on him anymore. He is free. And I hope that one day . . . we can sing together again. As he used to say, that would be a “delight.”

I can see him just now in my memory, gripping the steering wheel of our 1963 Plymouth Fury, . . . rearing back his blond head, opening his mouth, and singing:

Oh, Wing Tee Wee was a sweet Chinee, and she lived in the town of Tac.
Her eyes were blue, and her curling queue, hung dangling down her back . . . .

Posted in Aging Parents, Family History, Fathers, Stories, Uncategorized, World War II | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 18 Comments

The Birds (Hitchcock Ain’t Got Nothin’ on Us)

Posted on May 14, 2013 by ivanbenson

Alfred Hitchcock was an amazing filmmaker, wasn’t he? But I find it hard to forgive him for his 1963 horror film, “The Birds.” It scarred me for life!

That is said tongue in cheek, of course. At least . . . in part. But I was reminded just a week or so ago that my fear of birds is still alive and well on planet earth.

I went out front one evening and was admiring the pretty flowers we had planted this spring: Knockout roses, Azaleas, and Mandelvilla (to name a few). Of course, there is other new life in the springtime, too, and it wasn’t long before I noticed the unmistakeable sound of a baby bird trying to fly up from under the bushes that sit near our front windows. It was having trouble navigating evidently, or it was injured – I couldn’t tell which.

I thought the tiny baby bird was so cute. I went to the front door, opened it, and called for my wife and daughter to come out and see the adorable sight. But by the time they came out the bird was gone. “Well,” I thought, “so much for that idea.” Cuteness is rare, so you must capture it and share it when you can. Right?

After coming back inside and tending to some chores, I was in the den when my daughter said, “Dad, is that a bird down there at the end of our hallway?” I crept over for a peek. And sure enough – there it was! A tiny baby bird hiding under an oval table at the end of our hallway, just at the entrance to my daughter’s room.

I approached . . . cautiously, of course (I’m no fool when it comes to birds. I’ve seen the movie, as I already said; I know what they can do). Of course, the bird was freaked out as I approached. It darted into my daughter’s bedroom (much to her chagrin). So, we took the opportunity to close the doors to the other rooms in the house.

Thankfully, something caused the young fowl to exit my daughter’s room rather quickly, then it flew down the hallway and into the den. By the way, while this was going on our dog (a black Pitt/Lab mix) was going completely bonkers (he’s accustomed to being the only animal in the house, you see). We had to lock him in a room while we tried to corral the bird. He continued to howl like crazy, “Let me at ’em, let me at ’em” is, I think, what he was saying (I’m not good with Pitt/Lab dialect).

I quickly went for my laptop computer to google how to catch a bird in the house (I can’t imagine what people did in the old days, when you had to already know everything); the suggestion of using a towel to trap them appeared right off the bat. So, my wife grabbed a towel and we began trying to corner the wild fledgling. It escaped into the living room and went behind one of my bookcases. I quickly began to pull the books from the bottom shelf, but this merely forced the bird to duck for cover UNDER the base of the bookcase. Arrrggghh!

Further examination of my google search revealed that we should be quiet (tell that to our dog), and allow the bird to feel safe in the quiet room so it would emerge on its own. What choice did we have? I didn’t want to unshelve the books, only to have the small bird fly to another place of refuge. Then, I considered that perhaps in the hubbub the bird had escaped from the bookcase without our noticing. So . . . we waited.

Then . . . we heard a fluttering sound under the bookcase. “Ah, he is still there,” I thought. There followed a short chirp. But then . . . the unexpected happened.

Another chirp was heard. But . . . not from the bookcase; rather, from down the hallway. Then, one from the bookcase. Then, one from the hallway. Then . . . . It was as if they were calling out to each other. TWO BIRDS? Yes. Two birds.

Now we had a real task on our hands. And the thought occurred to me (albeit briefly) that maybe we had a NEST in the house. Thankfully, we did not.

Two towels were now put into play, and both my wife and I were on the hunt. My daughter stood at the front door, ready to open at a moment’s notice. The first bird was finally apprehended in a towel (but only after my wife accidentally had it in her towel without knowing it, and released it once again into civilization without meaning to do so). I took the bird laden towel out the front door and shook it out; the bird flew away.

Now, on to the remaining intruder.

Geronimo (well, I would have called him that if I had had time to think of it at the time)

settled himself or herself in the den, and I went in for the kill (not literally, you understand; this is literature, after all). I took a house broom and tried to bring it down from some decorative Norman Rockwell plates we have displayed in the corner by the fireplace. It fell to the ground as if dead, and lay in a disheveled manner, fluffy wings outstretched, against the baseboard. I tried to move him with the dustpan, but he appeared expired.

This was a ruse, of course, because in another frightful moment he was in the air again, coming at me, bouncing off my chest (which sent me falling into a sitting chair – I thought I was going to lose my life).

[NOTE: for those of you who think this sounds too dramatic, give me your phone number and I’ll call you the next time this happens, so you can show me how brave men do it].

Finally, the F-22 Raptor imitator dove under the couch seeking asylum. There I applied a broom handle to encourage him outward toward the front door. This would have done little good except . . . the winged marauder got its talons caught in an Orkin roach trap. And the sticky surface held him tightly in its paper prison. I grabbed the roach trap, hoping to goodness that his feet would continue to hold, and then I carefully transported him to the front door (held open by my daughter), and shook him loose into the wild blue.

Whew! Forty-five minutes of Hitchcock-like terror. Well . . . okay, not terror, but . . . discomfort of a fowl sort.

Now . . . I watch the front door every time I come in and out. All I can assume is that the birds entered when I went to call the girls to come out for a peek. I’ll not make that mistake again!

Nothing is . . . that cute.

First bird in the house, MAY 2013

First bird in the house, MAY 2013

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

Mother’s Day 2013

Posted on May 12, 2013 by ivanbenson

“Happy Mother’s Day!” That’s what I’d like to say to My Mother, today. But she is on a journey that has taken her away.

She missed Dad’s birthday party as well as her own earlier this month, and she was not around to wish her baby brother a happy birthday on his 75th.

I thought about getting a card for her several days ago; and some yellow roses (the way we used to). But then I remembered: Mom is away right now, detained. And so, I thought better of it.

Today is the kind of day she liked best. Lots of blue skies and sunshine, as well as the warmth she so much enjoyed. If she was still living in Arizona she would have gone out on the back porch and sat in her swing there, surrounded by little rocks she had collected through the years, and Texas Ranger bushes, and the big orange tree to the west (just beside the clothes line).

Even here in Georgia, she could have enjoyed the small sitting area on the east side of her apartment, beautifully landscaped and manicured. Today, she would have worn a sweater or light coat, I’m sure, since the morning is pleasantly cool, and the temperature today will reach only 70 degrees or so.

But someone else is living in that apartment today; mother has been gone so long that we had to remove her things to make way for someone else to live there.

I am considering going to where she is later today. To visit. It is a quiet place. Good for contemplation. The kind of surroundings where you can ruminate in peace. I know Mother likes that. And I know she enjoys being close to Dad again.

She told me one time after he left that she dreamed he was standing with his big strong arms opened wide, waiting to embrace her, as if he was calling out to her to come to him. And now she has. I’m sure they enjoy being together again. Well . . . as long as Dad has learned to carry on a conversation with her, and is not distracted by the television or the newspaper. Relationships are not without their struggles, are they?

I wonder what books she is reading these days; she loved to read so much.

Oh, who am I kidding? Mother isn’t coming back. And I am still struggling through acceptance of that. I have no mother to send wishes to this year. And the same will be true next month on Father’s Day. They are both gone. And they are not on a trip somewhere.

There is a bond between parent and child that is difficult to explain. I witnessed this when I did work with dependent, neglected, and abused children in Tennessee many years ago. Almost no matter what the nature of the relationship was – be it abusive or loving; neglectful or nurturing – there was a symbiotic tie that bound the child to the parent more tightly than the most intricate knot imaginable.

And I am bound to my mother and father in that same way. They live on in my brother and me. And they do so in a way that goes far beyond what they taught us; it supersedes memory, surpasses DNA, exceeds the natural. There is a very real sense in which we will never be without them.

So . . . no, I cannot say “Happy Mother’s Day” to her, today.  Not in person. But . . . I will indeed say it. And I will continue to take her flowers. Yellow roses . . . in my mind’s eye. And in my heart.

And I will preserve her memory, and my Dad’s, not only in this blog but also in the way I live my life. I will pass their legacy on to my children, and my grandchildren. I will tell the stories. I will pass on the traits.

And on Mother’s Day . . . I will wish Mom a blessed day. One day, not so many years from now . . . it will be in person.

What a reunion that will be!

Posted in Aging Parents, Assisted Living, Family History, Fathers, Nursing Homes, Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

The Cane in the Corner

Posted on May 7, 2013 by ivanbenson

There is a walking cane that sits in the corner of one of the rooms in our house; it belonged to my mother. She used it up until her back surgery and recovery last year. After that, she was confined to her wheelchair all of the time, except when Physical Therapy would force her to use her walker. She departed this life in August 2012.

There are certain of mother’s personal items that I have kept and held sacred since even before her death; her cane is one of those items. I placed her cane in that corner in the room once it became clear that she would not be using it again. She noticed I had removed it from her room at the assisted living facility (even though she was declining rapidly), and she asked about it. As I mentioned in a previous post, “she never missed a trick.”

What does one do with all those sacred items? The things that belonged to a departed loved one. There is a tendency to preserve them, as if the loved one might return and call for them. Or, possibly for posterity. One day some ancestor might open a trunk of old things and find a treasure there. Like an old walking cane. Then they might ask, “Who did this belong to?” And the story would then be told.

I had kept my father and mother’s walkers, too. That is, until a friend of mine sent out a Facebook request recently for someone in need of a walker. I offered mother’s walker to my friend, and was informed that it was going to a very special elderly man who meant a great deal to my friend’s family. It was hard to part with, but . . . it felt good to put it to good use, too.

And so, when my in-laws came to visit a few months ago, and my father-in-law discovered he had mistakenly left his cane in Ohio, I was more than happy to offer mother’s cane to him to use while he was here. It was good to see it in use again. A gift from one special person in my life, to another special person. It felt right.

As I write this blog today I am sitting in mother’s favorite blue chair; her wooden cane is sitting beside me, leaning against the left arm of the chair. From where I am sitting I can see a piece of furniture that my father made decades ago, and I can just barely glimpse the Singer sewing machine and cabinet that used to belong to my grandmother (my mother’s mother). A giraffe figurine (that we gave to mother after she moved to Georgia) sits on an end table to my right. And the peace lily that was given to me from Stone Mountain Park when Dad passed away sits in a large pot to my right; it is four years old now. Norman Rockwell decorative plates are perched on the corner shelves in this room; gifts from my in-laws in years gone by.

I am literally surrounded by the memories of my past, by objects that tie me inextricably to former days.

Take a look at the room where you sit as you read this, today. What surrounds you? If you are sitting in a coffee shop or some other public place there may be no memories stirred. But if you are at home, I hope you are in the midst of possessions that you share with the people in your past.

As much as we like to preserve things that hold family history for us (and of course, some things are best preserved) there is great value in continuing to use those things. My father’s tools, my mother’s cooking pans, family furniture, etc. All these things beg for use. They do not want to be part of a museum; they want to continue to be a part of life.

Preserve. “To maintain in safety from injury, peril, or harm; protect.” Or in expanded definitions: “to keep in perfect or unaltered condition; maintain unchanged; keep or maintain intact; to prevent from decaying or spoiling.”

How we wish we could do this – for things, for persons, for places we have loved.

But one day . . . this favorite chair of mother’s in which I sit will simply fall apart. Long before that the blue fabric which covers it will unravel and decay. The wooden frame underneath will weaken. The cushion in the seat will have a permanent depression, and will no longer provide comfort.

The wooden cane which supported our dear mother as she grasped its Fritz design handle will one day split, lose its strength, and no longer be safe to lean upon.

But will nothing remain?

What will remain is the effect of the goodness brought about by the service these items provided; the aura of kindness that was created when someone in need received something to aid in his/her walking; the dust of goodwill that continues to slowly settle over a family when an act of compassion has blessed them; the unmistakeable scent of love itself that penetrates the deepest recesses of the human heart.

The things I am successful at preserving for antiquity will one day collapse and turn to dust. The things I am successful at using in service to others – those things will leave a legacy that defies time.

Like mother’s walking cane, that . . . sometimes sits safe and secure in the corner, but . . . on occasion . . . feels the weight of a new owner. It will, perhaps, support me one day before it is passed on to another. And perhaps another.

But when it has passed its usefulness, and can no longer serve its purpose – the spirit of love and compassion that purposed its use in the first place will live on. And on. And on.

Posted in Aging Parents, Assisted Living, Family History, Fathers, Nursing Homes, Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Borrowing Time (A Visit to the ER)

Posted on May 4, 2013 by ivanbenson

We went to the ER last night with one of our adult daughters. If visits to the ER can be categorized I suppose this would go down as a good visit.

She was complaining of sudden dizziness, nausea, chest and throat tightness, and muscle spasms (among other maladies), and she was freezing cold (her temp was 93.3 when we took it). We could not seem to make her comfortable, so we decided to drive to the nearest ER and check in.

We arrived about 9 PM, and almost had the place to ourselves (it picked up a bit later); she was taken in quickly and the examination process got underway. Once she was given medication for nausea and blood work was done she began to feel somewhat better. Then an EKG was administered, and IV fluids started. Soon she began to joke around, and be more of herself again; the color in her face began to return, and she stopped shaking. This, of course, was very encouraging.

There were three of us there: her mother and I, and her older sister for a while. We alternated going into the exam room she was in (“two at a time” you know). The doctor (who I never spoke with, because she came in when I was out) was very nice, they said, and we began the arduous “waiting” game so familiar to ER and hospital situations.

But we noticed some commotion in the exam room next to us. Lots of attention was being directed to that room (firemen, nurses, etc.). And we also noticed that there were more visitors present than the maximum “two person” mandate allowed.

My daughter was released before 2 AM, and there was nothing clearly wrong with her. Possible dehydration, but her electrolytes were all in fairly good shape. We discussed the possibility of stress being a cause, and panic attacks were mentioned.

There is good cause for this, of course. We just learned this week of a close friend’s cancer. Then news came yesterday concerning the heart attack of a young woman (who gave birth two weeks ago) both my daughters had befriended in college. And the stresses and strains of work, diet, etc. have taken their toll as well.

Right now, as I write, she and her mother lay asleep in their bedrooms, catching up on the rest they missed because of last night’s ordeal. And I am grateful. Grateful that my daughter is home, safe, and that there are no apparent problems to deal with. Of course, it would be nice to know what specifically caused the ordeal, but . . . we may never know.

I am drawn, however, to the notion that we are all on “borrowed time.” Life is so delicate, isn’t it? One minute you are fine, and the next you can be longing for death to come. The 55 year old man in the exam room next to us did not go home with his family last night. This visit to the ER was his last.

We watched as the large assortment of family members left the ER in tears. Grief stricken. In shock and disbelief. The death of someone close does that to you. It takes you by the collar and shakes you until you break. Or it hardens you until you break. You get to choose.

I visited my parents’ graves on May 1st; it would have been Dad’s 92nd birthday. Mother would have been 89 yesterday (May 3) while we were at the ER. Now her birthdate will mark the passing of a father for the grieving family we saw there.

Time is borrowed.

As the writer of  Ecclesiastes reminds us so poignantly: “None of us can hold back our spirit from departing. None of us has the power to prevent the day of our death. There is no escaping that obligation, that dark battle. And in the face of death, wickedness will certainly not rescue the wicked” (Ecclesiastes 8:8, NLT)

And as the wise woman from Tekoa told King David, “All of us must die eventually. Our lives are like water spilled out on the ground, which cannot be gathered up again. But God does not just sweep life away; instead, he devises ways to bring us back when we have been separated from him” (2 Samuel 14:14, NLT).

Time is borrowed. Whether you believe in God or not. Whether you believe in an afterlife or not. Whether you have any beliefs at all. You are not exempt. You will participate.

That which is borrowed will one day be returned. It is the way of life. And death.

I will begin this day with that awareness. And I will celebrate life while it is in my hands to do so.

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

Time to Write (My Grandson Turned Two)

Posted on April 19, 2013 by ivanbenson

I have no idea what to write about today, but . . . I want to write. I must have something inside me that wants to come out and make itself known. Maybe I am full term with an idea and don’t even know it. Now, all of a sudden, it’s time to give birth.

Or maybe . . . it’s just gas. Right?

My grandson turned two years old yesterday, and we celebrated last night with a party that he will, no doubt, never remember in years to come. He was showered with toys (some of them were Thomas the Tank themed): trains, cars, trucks of all kinds, a swimming pool, sandbox, basketball goal, farmyard, Mickey Mouse utensils, etc. A veritable toy feast!

Of course, being the two-year-old that he is, he tended to just pick a couple trucks, or train cars, and play with them on the table. After all, how much does one little person need to keep them happy? There was conversation, lots of laughter and silliness, half-eaten ice cream cake, and even some tears (you can’t have a real party without a child at the party shedding a few tears, right?). A night to remember.

And, of course, many of us were there with our cameras and iPhones to capture it all for posterity.

It was probably similar to countless other birthday parties for two-year-olds. With one major exception: the birthday boy’s mother was in attendance.

You see, my grandson is an adopted child; he was adopted just after his birth two years ago. And my daughter and her husband have maintained a level of contact with his birth mother (and will continue to do so).

This was our first meeting with her as extended family. And it was a pleasure to meet the young woman who gave birth to such a fine little boy. He has had all of us wrapped around his tiny finger ever since he became a part of our family two years ago. Two years ago, on May 1st, I announced his entrance into the family to my departed father, standing by his grave stone, and grieving over the fact that he would never get to hold him in this life.

And I got to watch my mother gingerly hold him, and gaze at him with delight for many months before she passed from this life. In fact, it amazed me that this woman in her late 80s with so many physical trials and limitations would seem to come alive when my grandson was in the room. The woman who would not dream of bending over to pick up a glove she had dropped on the floor . . . could be seen straining to get at a plastic ball that my grandson had dropped on that same floor. And his tiny finger . . . may have been the last one she consciously reached out to touch not long before she passed from this life to the next.

He has breathed new life into us all.

As has his birth mother.

Without her, and her decision to put him up for adoption . . . none of this joy would have been passed to us. And I can’t think of anything with the power to animate my aging mother – than her love for that little boy. She would have passed from this life without knowing him at all. Now that – would have made me very sad.

But my grandson’s young mother looked at her life situation, and evaluated it with divine wisdom and fortitude. Then she decided that it would be best for her little boy to be raised in a situation other than the one she was in. I can’t imagine the weight of that choice. But I thank God that she made it. I can’t imagine our lives without him.

Decisions, decisions. We literally make thousands of them every day, don’t we? Many of them may not seem to matter very much. But some – are monumental, life-changing, and have enormous ramifications. One single decision has the power to set in motion a chain of events the impact of which can be as far reaching as the next generation. Or the one after that. Or . . . ad infinitum.

Yes. Endless.

How about that for a measurement of impact? Is something like that even chartable in marketing? I understand that we have come to eat apples the way we do because of an ad campaign at the turn of the 19th century. Now, to “keep the doctor away” we consume apples in a variety of ways, clinging to whatever health miracles pectin promises.

What if you could offer a product that would change things in a positive way . . . forever? As in “the world will never be the same” – forever. As in “the positive effect on your life and the lives of your family members” will last – forever.

Forever results are what we get when people come into existence. The dominoes start to fall, the chain reaction commences, and the effect is permanent. For all time. That’s what you get with the introduction of a life into this world.

That little boy is with us because his mother made a decision to give him up; she knew she could not provide the home he needed. Now, my daughter and her husband make decisions on his behalf every day. Thousands of decisions. Some matter more than others. As time goes on he will make more and more of his own decisions. And the dominoes will continue their path, first touching one, then another, then another, then another, ad infinitum.

Where will it all end?

Well . . . it won’t!

I can only be grateful that for a time I was in the path of his smile, in the view of his infectious grin, in the wake of his laughter, and able to hold him in my arms. He calls to me in his uniquely sotto voce way – “Papa.” And I am one blessed in this life.

Who can measure how far this blessing will reach?

Thanks . . . to this invaluable gift from . . . his birth mother.

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

Unfolding a Life Story

Posted on April 11, 2013 by ivanbenson

I was raised in the movie generation. And as a result, I prefer lifetimes that last about two hours, or possibly three, if they are really good. Four is too much . . . even for a classic like Gone With the Wind (Exodus and Ben-Hur were pushing their luck, too, of course).

I don’t know about you, but if a motion picture director can’t make me fall in love with a character within the first quarter-hour, and then portray his or her life’s tragedies and triumphs in an action packed or dramatically scintillating way within the remaining time allotted, I will not be impressed. That’s life!

Or is it?

My own life’s experience, of course, does not support this view of things. For although the triumphs and tragedies of my life have often been marked by specific moments in time, the build up to those moments and the aftermath of those moments span a much longer period of time.

And we all know this, don’t we?

We often rehearse the fact that when an accomplished performer stands before an audience and entertains them in a way that seems almost effortless, he or she appears that way because of countless hours of grueling practice and arduous preparation. I’ll never forget a banjo playing friend of mine (Dave) who told me he used to do 1,000 Earl Scruggs style finger rolls each day so that he could play bluegrass banjo. There simply are no shortcuts to excellence.

Often, however, it seems we want to reduce the story of our own lives to something that approximates the length of a feature film. We get bored with ourselves, I suppose. Much ink has been spilled over the illustration of our fast food mentality. I sit and write this blog today in a McDonald’s, surrounded by the loud voices of playing children scurrying about, too excited to eat their Big Mac or finish their orange drink. The sticky table top I had to wash off before placing my own brand of Mac on the surface is testimony to the speed we have come to expect when we eat.

“Time waits for no man,” we often quote. And now, man has returned the favor; he no longer has time to wait for anything.

I have recently been made acutely aware of this because of a diet that my wife and daughter are on; they have to watch their sodium intake. As a result, virtually no canned goods can be eaten; fruits and vegetables must be fresh. And guess what? My sodium intake has decreased as well (which makes my blood pressure happier, I am sure). Preparation time, however, has increased dramatically. There is virtually no “eating out” on this plan. And there is absolutely NO FAST FOOD at all.

The result? Weight loss. Improved health. No impulse purchasing of food. And I am sure that ensuing blood work will show even more beneficial results.

Our lives. Yours and mine. Take time to develop. They can be condensed in a short story, or briefly portrayed in a movie, but they cannot be lived that way.

Two days ago was the fourth anniversary since my father’s death. I visited the cemetery where his and mother’s ashes are interred. Another man and his wife were present, on the other side of the shrub from my parents’ markers. They were visiting their daughter Amanda’s grave. She passed on the same day as my father, just one year after him. She was seventeen. Her parents stood there together, then they kneeled . . . then they left fresh yellow roses by her grave.

We spoke briefly. Cancer had taken their daughter. “She was our whole world,” they said. Then her mother added, “she still is.”

Our lives are culminations of countless individual moments. We long to find marking points, so we collect them in categories like birth, school age, graduation, marriage, retirement, etc. But the time in between these markers, the building blocks that go together to fashion tiny events into points of culmination, these we tend to want to speed up, or pass over, or altogether dismiss.

We dare not do so. For if we do . . . we may find ourselves immersed in the tiring and endless search for the significant moments of our lives, the sound bite approach to summing up our existence; our attempt to condense our own lives simultaneously while living them.

You cannot successfully edit your life. It’s not a movie. Amanda’s parents would gladly repeat any of the most boring and mundane moments of her life; reruns that would easily have been cut and left on the studio floor. For you see, each piece, each moment no matter how ordinary, is an indispensable part of the whole. And without it . . . the markers would simply not exist. Culmination demands a long series of less than scintillating events. That is, indeed, the way life is.

And learning that, seeing that, truly knowing that (accepting it deep in one’s heart) is one of the keys to a life of satisfaction and meaningfulness. Drama? Not so much. And action packed? Well . . . on occasion, let’s say.

Can you live with that? Because that’s how life unfolds.

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George Harrison (April 1968)

Posted on April 4, 2013 by ivanbenson

My envelope from Beatle, George Harrison, April 1968.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about that Saturday in April, forty-five years ago. Tucson was as it always is in the spring – absolutely gorgeous. And the work at the Villa Venice Apartments that my brother and I did that day does not stand out in my mind at all; we were either cutting grass, or painting – I can’t remember which.

What was truly remarkable was the letter waiting for me in our mailbox when we came home. It was in a long brown envelope, with stamps of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi; it was addressed to me. Everything was written in black India ink, much different from the ball point pen markings that have become common for many years now.

My letter from Beatle, George Harrison, April 1968.

The letter included a return address: it read Rishikesh, Himalayas, India. I didn’t know what to think. I don’t recall now, but I suspect I thought it might be from Terry, a friend (about 15 years older than me) who had gone to India to study transcendental meditation with the Maharishi. I had sent a letter to George Harrison through my friend, Terry (who was in the TM class with him), telling him how much I loved Lady Madonna (they had just come out with that song not long before), and also responding to an offer that George had made to me via my friend, Terry.

You see, while Terry was in India he and George had gotten into a conversation one day, and Terry had mentioned some young friends he had in the states who played in a rock band. George had graciously offered to pick out a sitar while he was in India (he was popularizing the native Indian instrument at the time) and have it sent to me if I would send him $100. I had just bought an Fender amplifier and had no money to send, so I wrote George through Terry, telling him that if he wanted to send one anyway, that would be all right (I thought he might find this funny, and do it, of course). But he did one better than even my dream – he wrote me a personal letter.

I was beyond elated, of course. I was fourteen years old at the time, and totally enamored with the Beatles. I carried his letter around in my wallet for years so I could show it to folks (I also practiced signing his autograph so much that I could probably write it better than George himself). Eventually, it began to turn brown like the leather of my wallet, and the folded creases became somewhat brittle. It was time to put it away somewhere.

So, it went into a photo album so I could flatten it out again, and protect it with a plastic sheet. Years went by until one day it occurred to me that I might ought to put it into the safe deposit box at the bank. After all, it was probably valuable, and fire damage or theft (though unlikely) were real possibilities. So, that is where it went.

It was a sad day as I was driving to work early on the morning of December 1, 2001. NPR started playing his exquisitely written song, Something, and I knew instantly that George had left this life for the next.

As the weeks passed after his death I began to think of that old letter again, and how much it might mean to folks to be able to see it. So, I contacted the Atlanta History Center to ask if they might be interested in displaying it. They suggested I talk with the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, Ohio.

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame was quite interested, indeed. The man I spoke with there said there was not that much George Harrison memorabilia (compared with John Lennon and Paul McCartney, particularly), and the fact that he had drawn a picture in my letter made it even more unique. He suggested I send it to them immediately; they would display it for two or three years and then return it. No forms to sign, no special mailing arrangements, etc.

Something about the casual arrangement seemed a bit unprofessional to me, and in my suspicion I contacted the Atlanta History Center again for comment. I am glad I did. They said it was, indeed, suspicious and atypical, and advised me not to proceed.

Instead, I decided to take the pictures that you see above, cherish the memories from my teen years, and then make arrangements for the letter and envelope to be sold at auction at Christie’s in London, England that next April. That mailing process is a story all its own. But the long and the short of it is that I finally decided to risk sending it in a Fed Ex international letter envelope; it arrived safely, was auctioned that spring, and now sits in someone else’s home exuding the prestige and dramatic intrigue that something valuable like that tends to exude.

The story, of course . . . is mine to keep; it cannot be sold. And no matter who possesses the real objects, they will forever be addressed to me. From Beatle, George Harrison, himself.

I have always been impressed with celebrity. Possibly, you have, too.

I was named after Metropolitan Opera singer, Robert Merrill (Merrill is my middle name). And my father always spoke with glowing admiration of his favorite singer, John Charles Thomas (whom he got to meet and sing for in a private train car in Chattanooga, Tennessee). My friendship with a famous country music star (that I will not name, to protect his privacy) of the past is one that I will always prize.

I know they are people, just like the rest of us. But something magical happens when celebrities dip into our little worlds, doesn’t it? And when they do . . . it reminds us once again  . . . this life we are living is, indeed, remarkable.

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