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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The Lost Story: What is it all About?

Posted on March 27, 2013 by ivanbenson

A one minute video explaining the origins of The Lost Story. It’s really your story, and mine.

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It’s Raining, It’s Pouring (Float that Boat)

Posted on March 24, 2013 by ivanbenson

The rain is pounding on the roof this morning, making that deep thudding sound followed by the much higher pitched splashing and spattering of the rainwater as it hits the concrete sidewalk and driveway. Then for a bit it will taper off, making it possible to hear the comparatively gentle (albeit fast) flowing of the water as it seeks lower ground.

It puts me in mind of childhood days on Shawnee Trail, in Chattanooga, Tennessee. I would wait for the hard rain to pass so I could go outside, down to “the ditch” at the street, and float my little boats in the water.

                             Dark brown is the river, golden is the sand
                             It flows along forever, with trees on either hand.
                             Green leaves a-floating, castles of the foam,
                             Boats of mine a-boating, where with all come home?

My parents bought me a little book of poems (Iroguois Publishing Company, 1929) when I was young, and Robert Louis Stevenson’s melodic words came to me this morning as I was reminded of those days. It’s odd how those little things stay with you, isn’t it?

Maybe they’re not so little.

I had my favorite boats, of course. But the years have seemingly wiped my memory clean, and I am left with the memory of only one boat I used to play with. It was a 4 1/2 inch long plastic grey submarine that I got from Kellogg, and you could fill its compartment with baking powder and the sub would dive and then rise to the surface again. When I took it out on the high seas of the drainage ditch in front of our house it was its floating power that I cared about, not its acrobatics. In those swift waters it was survival only, nothing fancy.

Our driveway, of course, traversed this ditch, and so there was a small culvert under the driveway through which the water passed. It couldn’t have been more than 12 inches in diameter. Consequently, when your boat passed into the culvert there were several seconds when you could not see it. Contact was suspended. Much like the situation NASA experienced with its astronauts on the far side of the moon (although I experienced this phenomenon several years before NASA experienced theirs).

And so . . . sailing under the culvert was always a risky proposition. Nevertheless, we did it. Because (to borrow a phrase from the famous Everest climber), “it was there.” I comforted myself at mission control with the knowledge that the culvert couldn’t be more than ten feet in length; it would be hard to lose a boat in that short distance.

But one rainy day the inevitable happened. I went down to the ditch to play, just like I did on so many other rainy days. I launched the sub into the fast moving waters, it entered the culvert; I waited several seconds and . . . it did not emerge on the other side. I waited longer. Then the search and rescue mode was fully employed. You see, the danger was that if you missed sighting your boat once it came through the culvert, it could flow downstream hidden by the high grass in the ditch and be pushed past my neighbor Mickey’s yard and on down the street past the people who owned the goldfish pond . . . into strange and uncharted territory.

I scanned and combed the terrain for a long time. But no submarine was found. It was gone. And I could hardly believe it. For days after that I would check the ditch, looking for a trace of my boat, hoping that it had somehow gotten caught in the grass and I had just missed sighting it. But no. It was gone.

Loss. It is a fact of life. But one we do not like to dwell upon.

The fear of loss can paralyze. But life is lived when we float the boat, not when we dock, or stay close to the shore. I think of this as I try to hold desperately to people, places, and things in my life; as I endeavor to keep situations as they are, thinking that with enough effort I can control the world around me. Avoid pain. Codify the path to security. Avoid risk.

But it can’t be done, can it?

My little boat was probably an unexpected surprise for another small boy living in the 1950s in Chattanooga, Tennessee. In fact, he may at this very minute be writing a blog, reminiscing about his discovery of a small boat found in those distant bygone days. That sub may be sitting on his shelf today; it certainly sits on my shelf of memories.

The persons I have lost in this life, the possessions that have vanished with the passing of time, the days of my life that I would like to hold onto forever . . . . As George Harrison sang over 40 years ago, “All Things Must Pass.”

I will live my life in the present. And I will relish the fact that my memories are a gift that I can, indeed, continue to hold in my hands.

                                    On goes the river, and out past the mill,
                                    Away down the valley, away down the hill.
                                    Away down the river, a hundred miles or more,
                                    Other little children shall bring my boats ashore.

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Aragorn is Dead

Posted on March 5, 2013 by ivanbenson

Aragorn is dead.  In case you hadn’t heard.

He passed away on the last day of February due to complications resulting from a recent surgery. His family was able to say their goodbyes to him in the hours before his passing. A memorial was held in his honor on March 3rd in a beautiful canyon in the Santa Catalina Mountains; an area he had traversed many, many times, often in search of lost or injured hikers.

He was not just the character in a book.  Not to me.

In August 1963 my family moved from Chattanooga, Tennessee to Tucson, Arizona to help with my father’s chronic bronchitis. Quite an adventure for a nine year old about to turn ten. I’m not sure what my older brother thought, but I was looking for Cowboys and Indians behind every rock along the way: El Paso, Las Cruces, Texas Canyon, and finally Tucson (the Old Pueblo).

I started the fifth grade that fall at Peter Howell Elementary School, and after several weeks living at the Terrace Motel (in another part of town) we moved into a duplex on Swan Road. There were thick palm trees in the front yard, and a screen porch on the back of the house. To me, it was exotic.

There were new creatures to learn about: horned toads, lizards, rattlesnakes, Gila monsters. There were new plants to see: many varieties of cactus, ironwood, mesquite, palo verde, and Texas ranger. And there were new things to watch out for in the yard: goat heads, prickly pear spines, and other enemies of the feet and skin.

It was an adventure without parallel in my life. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

Along with the extreme environmental differences there were new people who entered my life, too. Some time before I began the 6th grade we moved just a few blocks away from Swan Road to 2nd Street in order to get a better rate on the rent. The small stucco duplex to which we relocated rented for $65 per month (as I recall). And just across the street . . . as we would soon discover . . . lived a young man, with his wife and newborn child. His name was Aragorn.

No, it was not Viggo Mortensen (although Viggo did a fine job playing that role in Peter Jackson’s movie, The Lord of the Rings). This man’s name was Thomas. And he would soon become one of the most influential men in my life.

Thomas was a Texas Tech graduate, an archaeologist who branched out into dendrochronology (tree ring research), employed at the tree ring lab that was housed in the football stadium at the University of Arizona. He enjoyed a 16 ounce bottle of Coke at least three times per day, was an avid reader, and an experienced outdoorsman who volunteered his services to SARA (the Southern Arizona Rescue Association).

In my tween years and beyond, he became an important male figure in my life. He taught me how to drive his old late 40s model Chevy truck with its “granny” low gear. He gave me lessons over and over again in a game that was something like Othello. He gave me the best advice on dating that I ever received (although I didn’t realize it at the time; I thought he was being silly). He introduced me to books, music, and the great outdoors.

One thing that stood out the most about our new neighbors was this: they were adults who still knew how to play. And that was rather appealing. Their house was open to so many different types of people; it was unlike anything I had ever witnessed. From children (like my brother and me) to college age, to middle age, and beyond – the people who frequented Thomas’s house were as diverse as they could be. There was one remarkable thing most of them had in common – they all loved Tolkien’s story, and they had “Ring Parties” during the year where they enacted parts of the trilogy.

A majority of these persons were members of the rescue association I mentioned above. And so the “Ring Parties” were characterized by battles in the mountains around Tucson, or in the mountain caves, with Nazgul rappelling from railroad bridges. It was elaborate. Most striking of all, perhaps, was the fact that year round these persons would be referred to not with their given names; rather, the Tolkien character names they acted out.

And so, there was Sauron, Legolas, Treebeard, and others whose real names have since vanished from my memory. And Thomas was . . . Aragorn. Strider. Married to Arwen. I was usually a hobbit. I had not yet grown into a Tolkien name that would identify me.

Aragorn was a man of high character. So was Thomas. Aragorn was a leader; not arrogant and never cruel. This was Thomas as well. Aragorn, they say, had Elven wisdom. So did Thomas. He was a safe man to sojourn with. He was kind. He was strong (Thomas had legs like tree trunks, I thought). He was soft spoken, yet authoritative.

One night Thomas set up a telescope in his front yard and showed me the rings around Saturn. Now, it’s one thing to see beautiful photographs of Saturn’s rings, or even look at them through an enormous telescope at an observatory . . . but to actually look through a telescope in a neighbor’s yard, and see them in person (so to speak) – well, as you can see, I haven’t forgotten the moment to this day. And that was about 45 years ago.

If you were lost in the desert, or stranded somewhere in the mountains of southern Arizona, Thomas is the man you would want looking for you. They said he seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to locating lost or injured hikers in the wilderness. And when he wasn’t wearing the “cape” of rescuer he could be found in the U of A tree ring lab, dressed in his usual shorts, t-shirt and sandals, examining core samples and dating them. And yes, in case you are asking, he knew exactly where to find the oldest tree in the world, the famous bristlecone pine.

I can still hear his various laughters, and can picture him as he exhaled rather noisily through his nose just before sharing an insight, or making a humorous pronouncement that usually included a tongue-in-cheek reference to “those damn kids.”

I am told that his memorial lasted upwards of 5 hours this past Sunday afternoon. I am not surprised. There were many stories to tell, countless memories to rehearse. My brother was on hand to participate, and to tell the tale of how Thomas lost part of his finger while he and my brother were together on an outdoors excursion. Their truck had gotten stuck in a dry streambed, so Thomas created a winch by twisting a long strand of rope (hooked on one end to the truck bumper, and the other end to a tree beside the streambed) with an iron bar. Unfortunately, when the tension grew too great, Thomas lost control of the bar, and a part of his finger was twisted off in the process.

Thomas remained calm and lucid enough to instruct my teenage brother in what to do for him from a first aid standpoint, then he sent him to look for help down the road. Ever after that day, one look at his marred hand would remind us all of the story of his courage and aplomb that fateful day.

That was decades ago.

And now, the memorial is over. Thomas has been laid to rest. And it occurs to me that I have lost my last living father figure.

If Aragorn had been lost in battle in The Lord of the Rings; if Frodo and the other hobbits had lost their valiant leader, Strider, before completing their fateful journey into Mordor – the sadness would have been unbearable. His presence, his strength, his wisdom, his courage – made the accomplishment of their life’s task possible. Yes, even probable.

I owe much to my own friend, Aragorn, too. I am glad I was spared losing him at a much younger age. I am not sure I could have made the journey. But now, with the passing of my own father, then my mother, and now – Thomas – I sense my own mortality more clearly than ever. And I pause to value the influences on my life, the persons who have marked me indelibly.

“I am concerned with a certain way of looking at life, which was created in me by the fairy tales, but has since been meekly ratified by the mere facts,” said G. K. Chesterton.

Because of Thomas and his wife, I was first introduced to Tolkien as an 11 or 12 year old. Now, almost half a century later, I am convinced more than ever that that “way of looking at life” has been “ratified by the mere facts.”

We all play Tolkien characters in this life, whether we recognize it or not. Thomas “Pippin” (his given middle name) – he was Aragorn.

And I was his friend.

I will miss you, my friend.

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

Dog Poop and Other Things That Stink

Posted on February 26, 2013 by ivanbenson

If you’ve lived long enough on this planet and have been out-of-doors for any period of time you’ve probably experienced it. One day you take an uninformed step on the ground beside you and you sense you’ve landed in a substance much softer than the surrounding terrain. Then the aroma of newly disturbed dog poop wafts its way up to your nostrils and your fears are confirmed.

Oh, what a mess! I can’t tell you how many shoe soles I have cleaned with a butter knife, kitchen fork, or even a stick from the yard.

The thing about dog poop is its pungency. No, it doesn’t compare to the odor a skunk leaves (we had to clean that off our dogs when we lived out in the country), but it has its own lethal properties. If you happen to get it on your hands – look out! The closest thing I can compare it to is gasoline. If you think you are going to go to the sink and wash it right off with soap and water . . . think again! It will most definitely linger for your olfactory pleasure.

We used to have a white shepherd/lab mix named Marshmallow. Oh, how I loved that dog; she was a beauty, striking in appearance, and commanding when she spoke. At that point in my life I was learning a great deal about myself: my temperament, my frustration points, my defects of character, etc. And I remember being tested and heated to the boiling point (back then it was much lower than 212º F for me) when Marsh would (seemingly) ask me over and over to take her outside so she could poop in the yard. Until one day . . . .

Dogs are notorious for lingering around the yard, sniffing every blade of grass (or so it seems), exploring and testing every foot of ground before deciding to squat and “do their business” as they say. They have to find just the right spot on which to deposit their poop. This, along with their need to be “let out” used to drive me crazy! I had “things to do, people to see, places to . . .” (you know what I’m talking about). Dogs just aren’t in the same fast-paced, rush to-and-fro world I’m in.

And then I’ll attend a seminar, or read a book that talks about slowing down your life, or I’ll watch an Andy Griffith show about “what’s your hurry?” and I’ll be reminded that my life probably should be more like my dog’s life, and . . . . Nevertheless, let’s get back to reality, shall we?

I was frustrated with Marsh until one day . . . I finally realized something. My dog is totally at my mercy when it comes to relieving herself; she can’t go outside unless I let her out. When she feels the urge to use the bathroom (figuratively speaking, of course) she must wait until I am ready to provide a place for her, and even then she is bound by my time schedule. Hmmmmm.

A new light was lit in my brain that day. And I remembered the times when I was a small boy, riding in the backseat of a black 1951 Plymouth, needing so badly to use the bathroom, but dependent upon my father’s timing. Dependent upon the time and place. Unable to even relieve myself at will. It was excruciating!

When I need to relieve myself I just walk down the hall to one of my two bathrooms and do so. Anytime I want. But my dog . . . has to wait. For me. These are the things I thought about. And my frustration with her began to disappear.

I was reminded of that just this past year. In what seemed to be an unlikely place. My mother had several crushed vertebrae and went in to surgery to have them repaired. She turned 88 years old while in rehab, and her body just didn’t seem to bounce back easily. She would sit in her wheelchair, often connected to an empty oxygen tank (I will never understand why this was allowed in her condition), totally dependent on the staff at the facility for most all her needs. Yes, even to use the bathroom.

On several occasions mother told me she had called the nurse’s station asking for someone to help her go to the bathroom (she had to be lifted on and off the toilet), and she had waited 45 minutes for someone to come. Forty-five minutes? Really? I am 59 years old now. And anymore, when I need to use the bathroom, I really need to use the bathroom. Right then! I’m sure mother’s need was as at least as pressing as mine, and probably more so. But she had to wait. On someone too . . . busy? Too . . . unconcerned? I can’t judge that fairly. But the result was unacceptable. That much I know.

I would call it an anomaly except for the fact that it was consonant with the way mother was treated while being showered at that facility. I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like for someone else to shower me, clean me up, etc. But I can envision what would be unacceptable to me, demeaning.

Mother told me that while being showered the lady in charge of bathing her would spray her in the face with no warning whatsoever. How degrading! I don’t even treat my dog that way when I wash him. I guard his eyes; I try to afford him a certain level of dignity. But mother . . . was sprayed in the face like . . . (I was going to say “animal,” but . . . that is not even accurate). Worse than an animal. Much worse. And why?

It’s not wise to draw conclusions without knowing all the facts, I know. I wondered if my own mother was exaggerating things, possibly beginning to suffer some early dementia, making up tales of how badly she was being treated. And so, I asked her room mate (who was quite lucid, and a few years younger than me, in rehab for a muscle and nerve related injury resulting from a stroke). Their story was identical.

And then I felt ashamed that I had doubted my mother at all. An aging and helpless woman, with all her senses and mental faculties fully intact, being treated in a way so bizarre that I doubted its veracity. How much of this goes on in these places? And we doubt our loved ones, because it so incomprehensible?

While dressing my mother one morning the attendant knocked off her $450 pair of glasses; they fell to the floor and were left there as if nothing had even happened. Then they were stepped on, and one lens was knocked out of the frame. They never even bothered to pick them up off the floor. When I arrived, she showed me her glasses, and I borrowed a small screw driver so I could repair them, tightening the frame, and cleaning them. But I found it hard to fully believe it had happened the way mother described. Now I know. It did.

This is not a blog about elder abuse.

There are many positive things I could say about the rehab facility where she was for those three months; I became quite close with a number of those employees, and witnessed their sincere care for mother before she left for her brief stay in an excellent assisted living facility (for which I have nothing but praise).

But the others, the abusers, the infractors . . . those were people with whom I never interacted. They were like ghosts, never present on the scene to talk with. I suspected they were employed to come out in the wee hours of the morning, or at some other time when no one was around to observe. Or in the showers. Secluded and to themselves. Where one person’s word was as good as another’s. They were nothing short of real to Mom.

I am working on forgiving these persons, whoever they may be. But the poop is on my hands (so to speak). And as you know, like gasoline, it does not wash off easily. It still stinks. The smell lingers in the air.

Patience.

Consideration.

Respect.

Dignity.

My dog deserves it. My mother deserved it.

It is mine to give.

When someone is dependent on me. Me! I will choose to give it.

So help me, God!

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

A Tale of Two Settees

Posted on February 21, 2013 by ivanbenson

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . . .”

Thank you, Charles, for that awesome, albeit ominous, beginning to this blog.

How does one begin the story of two couches?

Has one ever been written before this one?

Thirty-five years ago, when my wife and I had only been married a couple of years, my in-laws gave us a matching pair of settees. Each had a maple wood frame and removable cushions for the seat and the back. They were supported on the bottom by several rubbery straps that fit nicely into slits on the front and back of the bottom of the frame.

I think the cushions were originally blue, and we dyed them red. There was a maple end table that could be used to separate the two, forming (if desired) an L-shape (or corner) to the furniture arrangement. My mother-in-law had acquired these from her long-time friend, Jenny, many years before.

Unlike a conventional style couch covered in fabric, these settees showed off a great deal of wood, a feature which I enjoyed very much. The construction was probably not the most hardy you could find, but we appreciated having them. When we moved (as we did several times) they came with us. And with each move, they got weaker and weaker.

Finally, some of the rubbery support straps began failing, the wooden legs loosened, and it wasn’t long after that we ceased sitting on them for any extended period of time. They adorned the living room, but were not really practical for daily use.

Eventually, they were given away. We replaced them with a more modern looking couch and loveseat. It’s hard to part with furniture that has been around a long time, but . . . sometimes it is necessary.

Possibly you’ve considered my next idea before, possibly not. But no doubt you have heard the expression “I wish I had been a fly on the wall.” We usually use this when referring to a private event where we wish we could have an eye witness account. And so . . . I’ve begun to wonder, what if these settees could talk? What tales would they tell?

Or as we sometimes say, “what if walls could talk.”

I don’t know too much about the original family that owned these couches, but if they are anything like my family I can tell you those settees witnessed a good bit of arguing and discontent from time to time; two daughters and a son grew up in that household. As perfect as my in-laws are (I know they might read this), I know that in their home there was family strife, too. When these settees came to our house in Memphis, Tennessee, we were no exception.

Just so you know, I don’t plan to give you the sordid details of our early family life (now some of you may stop reading). Let it suffice to say that “it was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” For that is the truth of the matter. Just ask the settees.

What concerns me more right now is whether or not I am conscious of the repercussions of my words and actions in my own home. And I would encourage you to examine the same. My friend, Marsha, witnessed the murder-suicide of her father and mother within those sacred walls. And by contrast, my grandson has seen an honest love and genuine commitment to marriage and family within those sacred walls.

And it does make a difference.

What kind of witnesses would the furniture in your house make?

Good furniture is resilient. It can be abused for a long time before it finally wears out and must go away. People are like that, too. For a time. But there is another important similarity. And lest we focus on the negative, let me hasten to mention it.

Furniture, and people . . . can be repaired.

I’m not saying that it is an easy proposition, because it most decidedly is not. And here, persons have the edge. As painful and deeply debilitating as the damage sometimes is, there is always hope. Where wood and fabric can finally reach a point where they are unforgiving, irreparable, damaged beyond salvage, with people – there is always hope.

Settees are totally “and in all other ways” (to borrow a phrase from the Princess Bride) completely passive, much like a human infant. They can be acted upon, but they are not apt to engage in much assertive action themselves. But as human beings grow older, and mature, they can choose to actively participate in their own environment. They can choose to forgive. They can strive to understand. They can decide to accept.

My parents had to reconcile unsettled affairs with their parents. I had to reconcile unsettled affairs with them. My children will have to reconcile unsettled affairs with my wife and me; in fact, we try to do this all the time. If the settees could talk, they would tell you this, but it is no secret.

But I cannot focus solely on the struggles those settees witnessed; there was good as well. Those were some of “the best of times” in our lives. The voices of our newborns were heard within the walls of that home. And there were other countless, meaningful, joyous times as well. Our current furniture enjoys much more peace than the furniture of the past. That goes for our pets, too. And our grown children, and friends.

What would your furniture have to say about your home?

It seems to me that what matters most is not whether you’ve lived perfectly (that is a losing proposition from the get-go), or been flawless in your familial duties (that, too, is a fantasy); rather, that you do indeed learn from your misjudgments (your sins, if you will). That you make amends when they are needed (and they will be), and that change becomes a welcome guest, not an obnoxious intruder.

A settee is never repaired by accident. Nor is a person. But once repaired (as Hemingway said) they may be “stronger in the broken places.”

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way . . . .”

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

First Guitar

Posted on February 12, 2013 by ivanbenson

It’s hard to estimate the value of an investment, isn’t it?

The stock market changes with the times, the value of our currency fluctuates, and commodities like gold and silver vary with regularity. There is no certainty that what you invest in will pay off in the future.

The same is true of other investments we make. Some people invest in their children’s future by giving them piano lessons, or enrolling them in sporting teams, or sending them to art school. No one knows what will come of these investments, but we take the risk because we know for certain that if we do not there will most definitely be no return. As they said in the long ago, “nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

My parents bought me my first guitar when I was about 10 or 11 years old. A year of trombone playing in the 5th grade had failed to produce an accomplished musician, so I’m surprised they even bothered. Nevertheless, they did. My friend, William, had just purchased a fancy electric guitar, so he was happy to part with the small folk guitar he had purchased when he lived in Louisiana. We bought it for $10.00.

The label on the headstock says it was made by Campus Brothers Music Company, New Orleans. But in spite of all my Google efforts I can find no record of that company ever existing.

My parents gave me guitar lessons. Back in those days they cost $2.00 or $3.00 per lesson, as I recall. But a good teaching salary back then was $6,000 per year, and gas cost us 17 cents per gallon out west, too (just to give you some perspective). We listened to the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Dave Clark Five, the Kinks, and the Byrds. They all inspired us to become rock’n’roll stars. So, I . . . needed a guitar.

I was enrolled in a group guitar class led by an elderly gentleman and his wife; they did a fine job. As I continued to learn I was taught by three different teachers at Music Land (which used to be on Speedway Blvd., Tucson, AZ). I practiced and practiced.

Then there was our band: Danny (on electric guitar – a beautiful red Fender Mustang), my brother Ron (on drums – a flashy green sparkle Ludwig set), and me (with my little folk guitar – until I upgraded a while later to a May 1962 Fender Stratocaster, sunburst finish). At various times we had a bass player (temporarily), and a lead singer (also, temporary). But we were the core of the group. I wonder how our parents survived the loud practices!

Oh, I could tell you tales . . . our various group names (The Henchmen, The Bad Bunch, etc.), our musical venues (the Big Beat Band Bonanza – where we wore our signature white jeans with bright orange T-shirts), and our fascination with all things Fender. But I digress.

That first guitar – the little folk guitar – still resides with me in our house. Obviously, it is over 50 years old now, and I’m sure it is of little value in and of itself. The wood is not high quality, and the workmanship never made it possible to play the instrument in tune. It failed to fulfill my dreams of fame and fortune, but it did something even better for me. It introduced me to the joy of playing guitar, the thrill of standing before an audience (sometimes so frightened that my hands shook) and singing a song that touches hearts.

There is no comparison between that old folk guitar and the higher quality instruments I have played since that time. It has been demoted to my “story telling” guitar, the one I use when I entertain children with stories at Stone Mountain Park. My supervisor at the park commented one day that my guitar had a lovely patina, referring to the appearance of something grown beautiful with age, use, and established character.

Not much of an investment, was it? That $10.00 guitar my parents purchased may today be worth as much as . . . $12.00? Ha! I have no idea. But, not much more than that!

But do not make the mistake of assaying an investment by its monetary value alone.

That little no-name guitar, poor in quality, tarnished with age, provided me with an opportunity to fall in love with the world of music. And, in a contributing way, helps to support our family and encourage me in my pursuit of the arts to this very day.

My father and mother saw this investment opportunity, took the risk, and said, “Yes.” That $10.00 has earned thousands of dollars more. And more importantly, it has enriched my life and the lives of persons moved by the music I have produced. I will always be grateful that my parents were willing to encourage me on this path. There was no guarantee of success, or return.

You can never tell about an investment.

I think of this, too, as I get older. And I consider my parents and the lives they lived. Each of us is just a small instrument, imperfect, flawed, and aging daily. We long to grow beautiful with age, we hope to possess the aura that comes from established character.

What will our value be?

A great deal has been invested in each of us, hasn’t it?

If the market soars, if the currency rises in value, if the price of gold increases, we expect a good return on investment.

If we put stock in our lives and the lives of those around us, there will be a return as well.

Our own personal patina. Like my first guitar.

Priceless.

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My Father’s Tools

Posted on February 8, 2013 by ivanbenson

My father was a crafstman with wood.

He could build furniture, build a house, take some pieces of wood and shape them into a 3-inch tall replica of a rockingchair with splayed legs pegged into the seat (just like the full-size ones we sit in) with a matching magazine rack 1-inch in height. He could bend wood and shape it into a guitar or ukelele (he actually did this on a dare from his father-in-law when he was a newlywed).

I have many pieces of his work sitting in my house today.

He never owned power tools, everything was done with hand tools. Maybe that’s why I tend to avoid power tools myself.

Many of his tools had previously belonged to his father, Peter Birger Bengtsson, who immigrated (some say he was a stowaway with his cousin, Louis Pearsson, but . . . that is another story) to the states from his native Sweden in April 1911. Dad took great pride in his tools, cleaning them after each use and keeping them spotless.

One night, a number of years ago, some thieves broke into Mom and Dad’s house in Tucson, Arizona, taking (among many other things) most of Dad’s tools, including some very old ones that had belonged to my grandfather. I am thankful that Mom and Dad were not there when the thieves came; I would hate to entertain what would have happened if there had been an altercation. Nevertheless, when I heard of it I was incensed.

Those tools almost defined my father.

His identity was so intertwined with tools and woodworking that it is hard to imagine the two separately.

I was thinking of this yesterday as I labored to refurbish my own master bathroom. I was cutting new baseboard with Dad’s old wooden miter box and one of his saws. And I did a horrible job, by the way. Cutting mitered baseboard is an art form I have yet to master!

But as I handled his tools . . . I felt a sense of his presence.

And I recalled watching him when I was a young boy as he used to ponder his projects, considering the next cut to make, or a perhaps a new way to secure one piece to another. He would stand with his mouth closed, noisily breathing through his nose, pursing his lips, and holding the piece of wood, turning it in his strong hands, looking at it as if . . . as if he and that piece of wood were discussing their mutual future.

Then the lips of his closed mouth would part, and I could see him taking a breath as his final rumination blossomed into a choice, a decision, a verdict (if you will).

My father was a craftsman with wood.

And I sensed something else yesterday as I struggled repeatedly to cut the baseboard corners so that they would match perfectly together, failing over and over again. I sensed that my failure to perfect this craft in an afternoon – was alright. It was as if my efforts were enough; almost as if the experience itself was the goal, not the finished product.

And it made me feel close to him. It made me feel approved by him. At first, I longed for him to be present, or at least a phone call away, so that I could present my woodworking challenge to him and ask for a solution.

But then I realized . . . I had his tools.

And I had his example. And so I held that piece of wood in my hands. And I turned it over and over as I considered how best to achieve my goal. And it felt good. It felt right. Imperfect as those baseboards look – they are my work. And I made them with my father’s tools.

I wonder what tools I am leaving behind for my children, and my grandchildren. I sincerely hope they will be tools worth keeping. If I am as good with words as my father was with wood, then that will be one tool worth its space on the page.

Better yet, maybe I can leave behind the tools necessary to mend broken relationships: owning up to a wrong done, a pliable heart, a willingness to forgive, and the courage to persevere. I have certainly had experience in that arena.

A true craftsman  perfects his craft by doggedly repeating the basic principles of his respective skill until they become so much a part of his identity that his name and that skill seem inseparable.

Maybe one day . . . one of my children will find herself in a challenging situation. And suddently, she will remember: I have my father’s tools.

That would be a great legacy, I think. To pass on to my heirs the tools necessary to live a resilient and joyful life. And if I am able to do this . . . the day may come when they will say

“My father was a craftsman.”

Posted in Aging Parents, Family History, Fathers, Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Trains, Planes, and Tricycles

Posted on January 29, 2013 by ivanbenson

I lay awake in bed today in the early morning hours somewhere between 4:30 AM and 5:00 AM. That’s when I heard it. That lonesome whistle; the distant sound of a freight train. And it called to me . . . as it has ever since I was a young boy.

I don’t know what it is about trains, but boys everywhere I’ve lived seem to be enthralled with them. And it happens at such a young age. My grandson, not yet two years old, loves trains. He’ll watch videos of trains, he’ll play with toy trains (right now Thomas is his favorite), he’ll squeal with delight as we set up his wooden train track, and he’s even seen a real train at nearby Stone Mountain Park. What is the source of this seemingly ubiquitous fascination with trains?

I’ll never forget the day (I was 9 years old or younger) when Mickey’s father (he was my next door neighbor) said we could come down to the train yard in Chattanooga and he would give us a short ride in the engine. How exciting! It was brief. And slow. But it was so cool!

My father worked for Southern Railway as a young man; he served as a steward for a time (both Mom and Dad worked at one time for Railway Express, as I recall). This is also where he got to meet (and sing for) his musical hero, John Charles Thomas. This was also the train yard where a man approached my father one night asking for a match to light a cigarette, then pulled a knife on him and tried to rob him. My Dad said when he saw that knife he ran so fast there was no way in the world that man could catch him!

Arlo Guthrie wrote about “the train they call the City of New Orleans.” Johnny Cash sang about that ominous “whistle blowing” in Folsom Prison Blues, and Josh Turner warned us about “that Long Black Train.” In fact, the list of train songs is so long there is no way I could begin to list them all; they go on for pages and pages.

Every day as I drive home from work I pass over a train track that calls out to me. The rails look rusty (which just adds to the mystique), and they curve out of sight within a hundred yards or so. Those tracks beckon me to follow. One day when I was in college in Arkansas I followed some train tracks which called out to me over and over again. I ended up walking the 10 miles roundtrip from Searcy to Kensett on those tracks. I just wanted to see how the town would look from the vantage point of a passenger on a train.

I know. I am a hobo at heart. I’d love to hop a train.

When I was a junior in high school my family took a vacation trip to Colorado. My parents had reserved seats for us on a 45 mile narrow gauge train ride from Durango to Silverton. It was unforgettable! The train was an old-time locomotive, and it would blow hurtful cinders in your eyes if you weren’t careful (and I wasn’t). We crossed over rushing streams far below us, and passed snow covered peaks close to 14,000 feet in elevation.

But what is it about trains that is so compelling?

Working at Stone Mountain Park for the last decade has provided me with ample opportunity to explore trains and train tracks. The train shop and the train yard are filled with old train parts and long sections of track no longer in use. Train parts are enormously heavy (they are made of steel mostly); track can weigh up to 45 lbs. per foot. But there is mystique even surrounding train parts. It’s as if stories lie hidden in the steel; tales yearning to be told, yet muzzled by time.

Engineers, conductors, brakemen, stewards, porters, firemen, etc. As a boy, train jobs enticed me. But I was taught at an early age that trains were a thing of the past, that with modern times they would soon disappear. That made me sad as a 9 year old, and I rued the day. But now, 50 years later, I see that trains are still with us. Not many passenger trains, granted. But trains that carry cargo across our country in the same way they have for 150 years. Trucking and air travel have still not eradicated the train. I wonder if they ever will.

I think not. Trains, I suspect, are here to stay.

But why this intrigue with trains? I wonder if it has to do with power?

There is a reason why we are glued to our seats as we watch Denzel Washington pursue a runaway diesel engine in the 2010 movie, Unstoppable. And there is a reason why we recognize and automatically relate when we hear the HVAC slogan, “You can’t stop a Trane.”

Trains have power. Enormous power. The engine itself weighs anywhere between 240 to 480 thousand lbs., and the cars it pulls weigh in at 60 thousand pounds each (unloaded). No wonder it takes such a long distance (sometimes a whole mile) for a fully loaded freight train to stop once the brakes are applied.

A good friend of mine sent a train video recently for me to show my grandson. It showed a train engine in New Zealand plowing through deep snow drifts on the railroad tracks. Amazing power! It seemed to clear the tracks with no effort whatsoever, easily pushing the snowdrifts as if they were being blown by the wind.

And my grandson watched it. Over, and over, and over again.

I know there is adventure that calls to me in the train tracks, almost like a Greek siren, only . . . different. Not connoting foreboding so much; rather, escape to new lands, unconquered terrain, unexplored wilderness. The John Muir in us all. Or as Tim McGraw might put it, “the cowboy in us all.”

But then, the train itself? For me, at least, it must have to do with power.

The indestructible, the unstoppable, the relentless . . . . That which never quits. It is the John Henry gene. That quality of unsinkableness. That buoyant spirit. That indefatigable and unyielding attitude of persistence.

It is what makes countries. It is what builds bridges over impassable expanses. It is what still achieves when all hope has been lost.

I want this gene.

I love trains.

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Inauguration Days

Posted on January 22, 2013 by ivanbenson

Yesterday our 44th President was inaugurated for a second term in the White House with all the pomp and circumstance that accompanies such momentous occasions. Millions viewed the proceedings as they celebrated Martin Luther King Day, and there was ample reference to the subjects of change, vision, mission, and renewed purpose.

I am sitting at my front window this morning, watching another inauguration take place. Light is beginning to invade the eastern sky, and shadows will soon give way to the sun’s brilliant spotlight. And . . . the day will begin.

A new day. Fresh, pristine, and full of possibilities. It is an inauguration day par excellence. The initiation of a new page of life, a clean slate upon which to write the stories about to emerge today. And it, too, is full of change, vision, mission, and purpose.

I have always been fascinated with the beginning of the day.

Each morning has a special attraction to me. It is always announced by birds singing and busily flying to and fro; they often land on the shrub that sits in front of my window. More often than not they remind me of myself; not peacefully entering the day, mind you, but frantically flitting about in an attempt to get as much done as possible. To quote comedian, Brian Regan, they need to “get some Montana brochures,” or something.

But the freshness of the morning air, and the glow of the dawn have an appeal that is nothing short of astounding. It is as if the earth is being reborn each day like a child emerging from the womb. Darkness gives way to full light; eyes closed in a deathlike sleep open with countless expectations; stillness struggles to its feet and is magically transformed into animated movement. Maybe that is why the birds are so excited.

It is a “renewal of the face of the earth” (Psalm 104:30).

Today is Inauguration Day! And it stretches out before you like a vast ocean of seemingly endless possibilities. How will you use this day? With vision? Mission? Purpose? Change?

I can see that a slight breeze has entered center stage this morning. I wonder if this an omen of some kind.

The word “inauguration” carries with it the ancient Roman notion that there were signs to be read, omens to interpret, important events to portend. The ushering in of each new day is concomitant with the signals that birds would provide, favorable signs that gave approval to the initiation of the new day. An authorized commencement, if you will. A sanctioned beginning.

This day is a gift, packaged in light, laden with the feel of the air, orchestrated with the surround sound of birds, and filled with the sights and smells of life. It is an inaugural celebration followed by an inaugural ball without parallel.

And you can do with it what you will.

I don’t know if the 44th President of the United States will have the vision, embrace the mission, or provide the purpose for the changes that our country needs to make in the next four years.

I am more concerned with what I will do with the gift of this day I have been given. The inauguration is complete. The birds have made their announcement. The sun has risen in the sky. All is in readiness. History is prepared to be written in your life.

Shall we begin?

 

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