Nothing To Write Home About

Posted on January 15, 2013 by ivanbenson

In the collective memory of each and every family there are words and phrases that are so commonplace, so absolutely predictable that they become home to family members just as much as the family house or a favorite family recipe. When a person in the family hears these words or phrases they are immediately surrounded by the smells of home, or caught up in their mind’s eye with the remembered expression of a loved one’s face.

My Dad used to use the expression “that’s nothing to write home about” with such regularity that it became one of the phrases that always makes me think of him. I just used it a moment ago when talking to my wife about a recipe we just tried; it wasn’t remarkable. And so I said, “Well, it’s nothing to write home about!” Meaning, of course, that it wasn’t that good, and as a result we probably won’t repeat it.

But strong words and phrases that are in our collective family memory have a way of lingering even after the topic they were describing passes. And I am left today pondering those words . . . as well as the ones that I muttered shortly after using them.

I said, “And there’s no one at home to write to, either.”

Mom and Dad have both passed away. My brother and his family live far away, and let’s admit it . . . “writing” is not what it used to be.

Now, I am quite familiar with email, etc. I know we continue to write as a nation. Incessantly! Texting, tweeting, and status updating; linking in, blogging, etc. We are inundated with words and communication, at least of a sort. But there’s nothing like a good old fashioned letter. As the writer of Proverbs said, “As water to a thirsty soul, so is news from a distant land.”

My mother was a craftsman without parallel when it came to letter writing; she was a master. Mother could describe a trip to the grocery store and make it interesting; she could tell you about planting an Oleander bush or a Texas ranger in the backyard and her description of it would leave you spellbound, longing for a sequel. She was both informative and entertaining. My cousin is the same way; whenever he writes I start to smile even before opening the envelope – I know it’s going to be fun, and clever, and genuine.

But what grips me today is that single phrase from my father: nothing to write home about. And it has me asking, today: “What is there that is worth writing home about?” That is, assuming you have a home to write to, and persons there that you love dearly. Persons you value enough to share your life, your dreams, your successes, your failures.

As I reflect upon my day today there is nothing remarkable to tell. Or is there? My grandson is spending the day with us (he is 21 mos. old), and so we stopped by Dunkin Donuts to buy a cinnamon-raisin bagel (which we share each Tuesday), set up a toy wooden train track together, watched some Sesame Street on TV, ate some Cheerios and Chex with fruit, let the dog in and out a dozen times, talked with the lady from Orkin that came to spray for bugs, went to the grocery, sorted through some papers, washed some clothes, had some casual conversation . . . and I could elaborate even more if you’d like, of course.

What strikes me odd about the list of unremarkable things I’ve listed above is this: these are the very things my mother would write me about, making me long for more of the same. To her, these were things worth “writing home about,” I suppose. And these were the things I valued reading, as well.

Emails today are usually short and to the point. If they aren’t we often tire of them quickly, and resent the sender. I try to make my blogs short, in part because I know that people don’t tend to want to read things that are lengthy. But as a result we have become a society that wants nothing that is not absolutely necessary when we read; our time, we say, is so precious.

And so . . . we forfeit the little things. We don’t describe the planting of our garden. We don’t share the many little stories that make up our days, because they are not sensational enough. We don’t prefer old movies much, because the action is so slow. We won’t take a stroll in the park because it doesn’t provide adequate exercise. I am afraid that often in our lives there is increasingly nothing to write home about.

And so I repeat, “What is worth writing home about?” And I am not necessarily advocating a resurgence in old fashioned letter writing; I know the presence of cutting edge technology is here to stay, and we must adjust to the times in this regard.

I’m really not talking about writing at all; rather, living.

Our lives are remarkable on so many levels. So many levels. Do you see the beauty? Are you aware of the astounding richness that is truly present even in a smile?

I am convinced that if we miss these little things, if we measure the importance of our lives by what is commonly accepted as sensational, we will miss out on the beauty, value, and richness of our own lives. The truth is, we all have something worth writing home about.

So . . . what impresses you? Do you revel in the beauty of a raindrop as it splashes into a growing puddle of rainwater? Can you delight in the smell of wood burning in the winter? Does the sight of Orion or the Pleiades enthrall you on a clear night? And does it thrill you as you watch a toddler talking and traversing a living room that only months ago was like a great desert expanse to him?

And will you write home about it all? Because . . . it is indeed – remarkable.

Posted in Family History, Fathers, Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 16 Comments

New Year’s Day 1969: Take Off Your Gloves

Posted on January 8, 2013 by ivanbenson

I was fifteen years old in 1969. Full of life, teenage exuberance, and boundless expectation. So, when the invitation came to climb Mount Baboquivari on New Year’s Day, I was more than excited.

Mount Baboquivari is a unique mountain peak about 50 miles from Tucson, Arizona. It rises to over 7,700 feet in elevation, and it is highly revered by the Papago (now called Tohono O’odham) Indians who live in that part of the Sonoran Desert. In the winter it is often snow covered. And it was especially so on New Year’s Day 1969.

I had neighbors who were an integral part of SARA (the Southern Arizona Rescue Association), a volunteer rescue organization that saved numerous persons lost or injured in the desert and surrounding mountainous areas of southern Arizona. They were to be the guides on our trek up the mountain on this cold, snowy, winter day.

We loaded the cars with all of our gear that cold winter morning in Tucson, and made the hour long drive to our starting point. When we arrived we were approached by a Native American man wearing only blue jeans and a denim shirt; his hands were tucked into his pants pockets to keep them warm, but his large belly was protruding under his shirt tail. I was still freezing with my goose down coat, so I couldn’t imagine how he could stand to come out and chat with us in his meager attire.

We applied snow seal to our climbing boots, put packs on our backs, and began. The first part of the journey involved passage through a snow covered desert area that led to the base of the mountain. I wasn’t far into the journey when I slipped into a snow drift and drenched my right leg almost to the hip. It was so cold. And I hadn’t even begun the climb.

One of the special features of this hike was the climb itself. The side that we had chosen to ascend involved an 80 foot vertical rock face that never saw the light of the winter sun; it was sheer ice. And we had come with some experienced rock climbers, one (Scott) who climbed the face, pick axe in hand, and created hand and foot holds for the rest of us. Bless you, Scott.

After hiking up the trail that led to this mountain face, we assembled and watched Scott pave the way for us. It was fun to see him work his magic on the icy wall. Finally, his preliminary work was done, and he positioned himself with a belay rope for those of us who would follow him. I was one of the first to attempt the ascent. But I was not prepared for the instructions I was given.

I had spent some time in preparing for this event, you understand. I was excited to finally be using the black ski gloves I had purchased, along with the wool liners I combined with them for extra warmth. Even with all of that, my fingers were cold from my fall into the snowdrift earlier. Nevertheless, I was ready for the challenge ahead. I had never climbed a wall of ice.

But I was not prepared for the words I heard next. “Take off your gloves,” I was instructed. I laughed out loud. Having been kidded and lovingly harassed by these older friends before, I was not about to be bamboozled and made fun of in this situation. But they were serious. And when they saw I was not about to comply they repeated the charge. Then they supplied an explanation: “You can’t feel the handholds with your thick gloves on. You must do this bare handed.”

Reluctantly, I complied. I can’t give you much detail about the ice climb that day, except to say that it was excruciatingly cold and challenging. But I made it to the top without incident, along with the help and encouragement of my friends. And I am here to tell you about it today. Once we had hiked a bit further to the actual summit of Mount Baboquivari we celebrated with some red wine (yes, I was given a smidgen of wine to drink that day) that my friend Thomas had carried clandestinely in his pack.

I don’t recall how long the hike and climb took, but I know it must have been a lengthy venture, since our descent (I distinctly recall) was at sunset. I recall the hike back over to the edge of that ice face, preparing for the rappel down the side of the mountain. And what I saw was astounding. There before me was a 180 degree sunset (the only time I’ve ever experienced that sight). The snow all around me was tinted a deep orange from the glow of the setting sun. It was breathtaking. And unforgettable.

As darkness enveloped the desert landscape that winter day in southern Arizona, and we came down the long trail that had led us to that memorable peak, there was one more surprise in store for me. One more once-in-a-lifetime experience, the description of which can never do justice to the majestic scene I witnessed.

There, descending the trail with carbide lights on our heads to guide us through the thick darkness, we saw above us a part of the Milky Way galaxy. And for the first time in my life I saw stars so thick they were almost a cloud. It took a word from my guides to tell me what I was seeing; it was that incomprehensible to me. Never since that night have I seen stars that thick, except in professional photographs of the night sky in Arizona (which is reputed to be seven times more dense with visible starlight than much of the rest of the country).

There is a favorite movie of mine (Field of Dreams) where the actor, James Earl Jones, says “the memories will be so thick they’ll have to brush them away from their faces.” New Year’s Day 1969 is like that for me. It is ever before me. The majestic Mount Baboquivari stands in the foreground of my psyche, a sentinel reminding me that great obstacles are not insurmountable.

In subsequent years since 1969 I have learned that mountain climbing is not the only scenario where one must take off their gloves in order to survive. In order to feel the handholds necessary not only to survive the climb, but to enjoy the journey itself. If my chief goal in life is self protection then I will keep the gloves on; I will do nothing bare handed, exposing myself to injury or discomfort.

But the truth is, the peaks of life cannot be climbed with gloves on. There are feelings that must be felt. Pain that must be endured. Delights that cannot be experienced apart from risk.

I don’t believe The Creator lies under the base of Mount Baboquivari, as is asserted in Tohono O’odham cosmic history. Or, for that matter, that this was the site (the “navel” they call it) from whence man emerged after the Great Flood. But I can confirm that in my life this mountain serves as the reminder that life is best lived unprotected, with the gloves off; that one must take risks if relationships are to thrive.

God give me the strength to live in this way.

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

It’s Not About Me!

Posted on December 31, 2012 by ivanbenson

I sat by my Dad’s beside as the doctor reviewed his medical condition and provided him with the treatment options that were available to him. Dad only had one kidney (he had lost the other to cancer several years previously), and congestive heart failure had conspired with the failure of that one kidney to create in his body the perfect storm.

That was four years ago, January 2009.

The doctor said if he didn’t begin dialysis he would probably be in and out of the hospital for the next six to twelve months; at which time he would likely be dead. With dialysis, she said, he could live another couple of years, perhaps. It was a bleak picture. And unbeknownst to me, he and mother had previously read about the options, discussed them extensively, and made their decision. There would be no dialysis.

I watched as Dad took it all in. Then I followed the doctor into the hallway to ask further questions. When I came back into the hospital room I tried to talk with Dad some, but he seemed to be in no mood to talk.

Dad was definitely the moody type; he had always been so as far back as I could remember. I recall trying to dodge his moods, catching him in the joyful ones, and avoiding him in the others. He was a good man, as good as they come. But he struggled with his emotions, and shared them little.

As I prepared to leave that day (it was late afternoon) I reminded him that I was departing very early the next morning, and that he likely would not see me for some time. He seemed to make no response; rather, he stared at the wall just below the TV set that hung there. Finally, I said goodbye to him. For the last time.

I left angry. Angry that he seemed to be mad at me, but would not discuss it. Angry that he had to be so moody.

I flew home the next morning. And for days I struggled over how things were left: unresolved, mysterious, and gloomy. I spoke with my brother about it on the phone that next month. He assured me that I was a good son, that Dad was proud of me, and that I should not brood over this situation. I decided to call Dad and ask him about it directly. If I didn’t, I knew it would eat me alive.

I said, “Dad, are you mad at me about something?”

He responded, “No, why would I be mad at you?”

I pursued him a bit more, rehearsing our last moments together in the hospital. But he was firm. He had no anger toward me, and was not upset. I let it go.

I began to realize that I had made his moodiness that day about me. It was a foregone conclusion in my mind; I never even considered it might be something else. It’s about me, I thought. But it was not.

The man had just been told that he would die soon if he received no treatment, and he had predetermined that he would not accept any treatment. So . . . conclusion: he would die soon. And I thought his morose disposition was about me. It was not. It was about him.

I cannot count the number of times in my life when I have determined (without much thought whatsoever) that a derogatory personal situation was about me. The truth is, it’s not often about me, not nearly so much as I think.

As I reflected on my father’s final weeks and days I was grateful that I had pursued him about my feelings that day on the phone. He died peacefully after a day filled with singing (according to his hospice nurse), on Thursday, April 9, 2009. He was three weeks shy of his 88th birthday, and six weeks shy of his 61st wedding anniversary (of which he was so proud; he had bragged to all the nurses about it).

It is important that I learn how to distinguish what is about me, and what is not about me. And I must learn to allow other persons the space they need to process things in their own lives.

The last conversation we had was on the telephone, probably about a week before he passed. My small car had been totaled, and I was telling him the sad tale. His mood was congenial, and for that I was grateful; he seemed to be at peace. He had been moved to hospice care, and was enjoying the desert view his room provided. His resignation and acceptance of the end is something I saw again several years later when Mom passed. I admire them both for that.

That day, when I left Dad’s hospital room in January 2009, I had already planned out in my mind that in the fall (September is actually what I thought) he would pass, and I would be returning to help Mom deal with all of this. But Dad surprised us all. And mother’s call came on a Thursday night in April around 10:15 PM Eastern time, announcing his death.

That too, was not about me (although I feel it in my gut as if it were); it was about him. His journey, his life, his passage. And I am left to live mine. With the strength he exemplified for me. Thank you, Dad.

Posted in Aging Parents, Family History, Fathers, Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

First Christmas

Posted on December 22, 2012 by ivanbenson

My first Christmas was in 1953. But I don’t remember it at all. I was just a few weeks out of the incubator at the hospital in Chattanooga (having been 4 to 7 weeks premature, and just over 4 lbs in weight). I trust it was a festive occasion at our house, but I can’t claim to recall any of it even though I was present.

The first Christmas I do recall was in 1957 when I was four years old. My brother and I awoke about 3:30 AM on Christmas morning and quietly called across the living room to mother and daddy’s bedroom (we lived in a 600 sq ft house so it was not a long way to call) to ask if it was OK to get up and see what Santa had brought us. Mother asked Dad, and he gave the permission we so desired. We cautiously entered the living room where our tree stood.

There was a scene I will never forget as long as I live. There stood four heavy cardboard boxes, delightfully colored and designed with teddy bears and balls on the sides. They were a nested set, stacked on top of one another, largest to smallest. And on the top box sat a small blond haired teddy bear presiding over it all. I was thrilled.

Teddy, as I called him, became a trusted friend, and retained the highest position in my pantheon of stuffed animals that accumulated through the years. The tag on the bottom of his foot said he was made in England by the Merrythought toy company (they still make handmade teddy bears to this day in Ironbridge, Shropshire). He had a metal box inside his stomach which caused him to make a growling sound if he leaned over, and he had red eyes (as I recall). Of course, years later my brother and I surgically removed this metal box as we played one day. Teddy’s eyes have long since fallen out, as has most of his beautiful blond hair.

My mother used to make clothes for Teddy. I remember he had a striped bathrobe that she made. And today, as he sits beside the computer as I write, he is wearing the green army jacket that she made for him. He wears it proudly.

There is nothing like the first Christmas in your memory.

It occurs to me today that this will be mother’s first Christmas in heaven. I wonder what that will be like. I don’t know what mother’s first Christmas was like down here on earth; those were simpler times, of course, back in the 1920s. But I’m sure it was memorable to her. But this one? This year? Whew! I’ll bet it will be fantastic!

To celebrate Christmas with the love of her life again (my Dad), to see her mother and father, to talk with her cousin who died on Omaha Beach during the invasion of Normandy, to visit with Aunt Ruth (that she used to spend summers with out in the country) and . . . to be in the presence of the King of Kings. My guess is that “first timers” get special treatment in heaven on that first Christmas. And why not?

And for my older brother and I it will also be our first Christmas without her. A lovely gold ornament with her picture inside it hangs on our respective trees this year. But along with the loss and grief I feel there is an even more pronounced sense of well-being that presides over it all.

The British teddybear that sits beside me this morning will always be a reminder of my first Christmas: the magic, the warmth, the love, the meaningfulness of family, gift-giving, and joy. Later today we will take a family picture to remember this year. My wife’s parents will be in it, along with me and my wife, my two daughters, my son-in-law, and my 20 month old grandson.

Memory. It is a gift that bring a smile, and a tear.

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

The Deepest Longing

Posted on December 13, 2012 by ivanbenson

“Follow the deepest longing in your heart.”

That’s what Dr. V said to me 34 years ago this spring. I was about to graduate with a master’s degree, and had three employers lined up waiting to see which one of them I would pick. But I had come to realize that I no longer wanted to do the job that any of them expected. I was in a quandary. And so I went to one of the persons I respected the most. Dr. V.

Dr. V was one of the professors at my graduate school. He and I had grown close over my years there. Unlike some of the other fine professors there, Dr. V was . . . approachable. He was a friend.

I found him in the downstairs part of the library, in the stacks, browsing, and I put forth my dilemma to him, knowing that I would receive a valid and wise perspective that would be logical, and incontrovertible. And what he said was, “Ivan, you must follow the deepest longing in your heart.”

I’m sure that other words were said by us both after that advice was given, but I cannot recall them now. What I do recall with clarity is the disappointment I felt; disappointment in the advice, and disappointment in the man who had given it. I held him in such high regard.

Following the deepest longing in my heart was not the most logical and defensible argument that I had envisioned giving to my potential employers and sponsors. If I chose not to pursue the career path they had all invested in, I would need to have some reasoning that went far beyond my “deepest longings” and feelings. But that is what I had been told to follow. I was so angry, and hurt, and disappointed.

I had about a mile to walk to get back to our apartment. And walk it I did. With an attitude. I rehearsed Dr. V’s words to me, over and over, unable to find in them any sort of defensible position. As I walked I brooded over my situation, and debated what I should do. I could, of course, proceed on course as if nothing had changed. Choose the best employer. Then work out the new found dilemma on my own, hoping that no issue would ensue. Or . . . I could announce to both my potential employers and my financial sponsoring organization, that I no longer wanted to pursue this course, thereby disappointing everyone.

By the time I had gotten back to the apartment I knew that Dr. V was right. My anger had worked itself into sensibility, and my disappointment into enlightened gratitude. There was no real future in me doing anything but following the deepest longing in my heart. And right then my deepest longing was to cease pursuit of that career path.

As the decision was made, the proverbial weight was lifted off my shoulders (literally, I could feel it). I did not know what I was going to do for a career, but I certainly knew what I was not going to do. All due to the wise advice of Dr. V, advice which seemed ludicrous at first, then disappointing in the follow up stage. But eventually . . . it is what brought freedom deep in my heart.

Decades have come and gone since that spring day. And more times than not I have refused to follow the sound advice I was given by my friend and teacher. Many decisions have been made since that day which can be characterized as last resort or necessary for the time being. But on occasion . . . I will “follow the deepest longing in my heart.” And when I do, I experience the same freedom, joy, fulfillment, satisfaction, and peace I felt decades ago.

Why is it so hard for us? We learn, we grow, we gain experience through struggle. And sometimes, in spite of what we’ve learned, we will repeat the same mistakes again, and ignore the wise words that brought us through the desert rested, strong, vibrant, and at peace within ourselves.

I think I am at another of those crossroads in my life right now. It is decision time. And I can either honor the deepest longing in my heart, or . . . dismiss it. What would you do?

By the way, when I informed my potential employers and sponsors of my earth shattering decision all those years ago . . . nothing happened. I mean, no one shouted, or cried, or tried to punish me for following the deepest longing in my heart. They just respected my decision. Reminding me of the words of Mark Twain when he said, “I’ve had many troubles in my life. But most of them – never happened.”

I will never forget the words of Dr. V that day. He has remained a friend through the years. And I will always love him for trying to point me to my heart.

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Unfinished Tasks

Posted on December 7, 2012 by ivanbenson

My oldest daughter was going through Christmas cards yesterday, sorting through some of her late grandmother’s unused cards to use as her own this season. We had given these cards to her as we cleaned out mother’s apartment in late summer, not knowing that just hours later my dear mother would pass from this life to the next.

My daughter picked a card to inscribe, but then she noticed there were already some words penned inside. The front of the card depicts an adult female snowman (snowperson might be more politically correct) looking down into the eyes of a male child snowman, with these words below the depiction:

The Greatest Gift

Inside the card it continues:

…is not found under the tree,
but in the warm smiles
and loving words
of the people around us.

Merry Christmas

And below those beautiful words, created by some aspiring writer paying their dues in the greeting card industry, my mother’s pen takes over in blue ink, with the impeccable penmanship for which she was known:

Joy and blessings of the
season to you

And then the rest of the card is blank. We do not know for whom it was intended. Nor shall we ever know. There were numbers of other cards with same picture and message, but no writing from mother. All blank. But then . . . this one card. Unfinished.

I don’t know what you consider to be the greatest gift in this holiday season: the baby Jesus, family and friends, goodwill toward men, etc. But the sentiments of this card are certainly worth expressing. One could do much worse than warm smiles and loving words of the people around them. Those things are coveted by each of us.

But mother’s expression is just as compelling to me: joy and blessings of the season to you. Lest we glibly observe these words and let them slide by us without the import they hold, let me encourage us to chew on them a bit. Because joy, as I’m sure you know, is the word that promises the one who possesses it a true, deep, inexhaustible and indefatigable peace and satisfaction (sometimes in the midst of great pain). And blessings, especially blessings of the season; these are the all-encompassing gifts that include family, friends, health, gifts, food, and all that makes life on this earth so wonderful, and at times, even magical.

But . . . there is no recipient written. Mother may have penned this last Christmas and then not needed to use the card after all. There is an outside chance she began to pen this in the spring before back problems put her in the hospital, then rehab, then assisted living, then  . . . her eternal home. What we know for certain is this: she did not finish the card.

One day I will leave this earth; I do not know when that will be, nor do I think I want to know (well, I guess, in the back of my mind I think it would be interesting to know, but …). One thing is certain, however: I will leave many unfinished tasks when I go.

My survivors will look through my things, and they will find unfinished work, incomplete projects, etc. They might find the small basswood horse I began to carve many years ago (his legs kept breaking, so I never finished), the lyrics and chords to a song I was composing, a drawer I was always meaning to clean out, or . . . a Christmas card I had begun to write to a loved one. I hope they do not find any outstanding amends that I should have made to someone I had hurt, an expression of love that I had withheld, or the gift of my time and/or emotion that was never given to someone in need.

Mother’s unfinished task speaks to me of the blessing she was to me and so many others on this earth. Her unfinished work was admirable, memorable, and timeless. She gave us “the greatest gift” in her final years with us. She was not one to gush. But each Tuesday when we met to eat dinner together, she would issue “the warm smile and loving words” I so needed  from her.

And now, in her passing, she has left my brother and his family, and me and my family, with the joy and blessings of the season. My name is not on that Christmas card. But I am the recipient of its wish. Her wish.

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

The Final Cut

Posted on November 29, 2012 by ivanbenson

My family and I went to see Steven Spielberg’s “Lincoln” last night at the movie theater; what a marvelous performance by Daniel Day-Lewis, portraying the beloved president who was complex yet simple, powerful yet demure, jocular yet intense, cheerful yet burdened. I have always loved Abraham Lincoln. He is, without a doubt, one of the true heroes of our country.

I don’t know if your life is like mine or not. But I have often seen my life as a movie. And, as I mentioned in an earlier blog entry, it most decidedly is not. I suspect that some of my fascination with this movie thing comes from the fact that I was raised in the 1950s and 60s, and we loved watching movies. (Granted, they are produced now at such a staggering rate – there is no comparison to when I was a boy). But I also remember hearing that my father frequented the theater in his own era, paying a dime to enter the movie theater every chance he got. Maybe it runs in the family.

But my life is not a movie, of course. Not at all. (I am not Truman Burbank). There is little to no rehearsal. And although there is coaching available, there are no do overs, no mulligan. Words that are said, and actions that are taken have their result, and no amount of desire can alter the sequence. The pictures cannot be lightened or darkened, or doctored in any realistic way. They are by their very nature . . . the final cut.

There is no doubt that we all are actors in this life (metaphorically speaking), with varying degrees of skill. But there is no personal script to which one might refer when straddling a difficult decision, or traversing a painful landscape. And there is no rewrite possible. Your life’s story is written as you live it; things “go to press” immediately, and are published in the blink of an eye.

Maybe that’s why I have felt the way I have for the past three months.

Mother passed away.

I cried.

My brother and I picked up the remaining tasks of settling her life’s affairs here on this earth.

And I have been fine with it all. Oh, on occasion I have broken down, or felt a shudder of emotion rise up in me, but all in all, I’ve been fine. Going about my days.

But as time has passed I find myself burdened. Forgetful. And each day now, by the time late afternoon rolls around, I am often tired enough to go to sleep. It is hard to be motivated to do anything beyond what is absolutely necessary. And so I plod through the days, wondering when I will feel energetic again, and at peace.

I am grieving, arent I?

This is not a motion picture I am experiencing; it is my life. If I am waiting for a director’s prompt, or a revision of the script so that I know the next emotion to portray, the next action to take . . . my part will cease to be believable; it will not look or feel real, because it is not real.

Of course, it could very well be that as I write this I am only writing to myself. No one else in the world even approaches anything close to these feelings, or mistakes their life for a movie in which they are the star actor and everyone else is a supporting actor. And if that is the case, I thank you for reading this anyway, and allowing me to admit my deluded thinking to someone. If that is all that results, then I suppose that will be enough.

But there is the distinct possibility that you know exactly what I’m talking about, and that I am not the crazed lunatic I have often feared I am. Without a doubt there is something within each of us that wants to do a second, third, or even fourth take in the movie of our lives. Human feelings are not “acted” out as they are on the screen; they are felt. Deeply. And if I choose to literally be an actor in my life’s story, not metaphorically, but really . . . an actor . . .  I forfeit the depth and breadth of emotion that makes me truly human. And I will imagine a script and follow it. Even though . . . it does not exist.

Learning how to live. It’s not for the faint of heart.

As I reflect on the Daniel Day-Lewis portrayal of this historical giant-of-a-man I am struck with the realization that what moves me about “Lincoln” is not the actor; rather, the human being the actor is striving with all his theatrical acumen to portray. The real man himself. The greatness that he lived out. Not flawless, mind you. But greatness in spite of personal failures and national obstacles. His final cut.

May I live in such a way that my final cut would inspire and enthuse others toward greatness. And the postmortem script of my life . . . may it receive rave reviews.

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

The Matchbook

Posted on November 13, 2012 by ivanbenson

One of the many tasks that usually falls to the primary caretaker for a departed parent is the sorting through of clothing and possessions; what to keep and what to donate, or throw away. It is an arduous task, of course, but it also has its blessed moments. Sometimes one finds a treasure that serves as a window into the departed one’s life. It is like a portal providing a glimpse into the past, underscoring the reality of the loved one’s existence, offering a casual but profound testimony to the fact that they lived in the same world you and I live in. I found such a treasure when I found the matchbook.

There it was . . . in a small cedar box where mother kept some of her sentimental possessions: the gold locket her parents had given her when she graduated high school, special keys that unlocked some unknown locks, and other objects that obviously meant a great deal to her. And . . . the matchbook. Not a complete book of matches, mind you; rather one side of a solid black paper matchbook where there was an inscription in gold that read:

FINEST FOODS

Tomlinson’s Restaurant
McCallie at Houston
Chattanooga, TENN.

Close Cover Before Striking Match

 

On the opposite side this was penned in India ink:

Dec. 15, 1947
5:30 pm.
Aileen Carver
rembers this
day.
Edward L. Benson

Obviously, this was written by my father (he would be appalled that I shared his misspelling of the word “remembers” with you). But the occasion? There is no clue. It could be implied that they met at this downtown Chattanooga restaurant at 5:30 PM on December 15, 1947, but anything beyond that would be conjecture. Clearly, my father thought this meeting would be important to my mother, important enough to remember. But why he wrote the note on the matchbook and not her – that is quite interesting in and of itself.

Your mind can race away with all sorts of scenarios to explain the scant details, but let me state the one most likely (in my estimation). Dad decided to propose marriage to mother on this date. Of course, they did marry on May 24, 1948, five months after this restaurant rendezvous; that much we do know. But that would still not explain why he wrote the note on the matchbook and not her. It makes me wonder if his decision to propose marriage to her was made while they were at the restaurant, and so he quietly penned the note on the matchbook while she was away from the table. Of course, it could have been planned in advance of the dinner date, but . . . likely we shall never know this side of heaven.

Interesting fodder for the history detectives. As I have mentioned in a previous blog entry, real life is more than adequate for engaging the movie buff in us all; each of our lives could be a blockbuster. But what of this note? And why does the finding of this intrigue me to the point that I would write about it for others to read? Remembrances.

Remembrances. The moments of our lives are so fleeting, even the ones we value most, the ones we think we shall never forget. The formative events, the epiphanies of life-changing thoughts, the emotion laden words, the tragedies and the triumphs, the trophies (if you will) of life that we collect and put on our personal mental shelves – they all gather dust . . . and fade. And we are constantly looking for ways to preserve these all-important remembrances, to mark them in time in such a way that we never lose sight of them, but can always refer to them. For it is in these remembrances that we establish who we were, who we are, and (truth be told) who we will be tomorrow.

In ancient Israel they erected a pile of stones as a reminder . . . in modern times we erect a statue, or hang a plaque. These, of course, are for more public remembrances, community memories. In private, we might use the back of a matchbook to mark a date that changes us forever.

And so, as I handle this small scrap of paper that was once a book of matches advertising a restaurant in post-war downtown Chattanooga, I am aware of the fact that I am holding a priceless token, a prized possession defining the lives of two people who are now both departed. Not only am I a recipient of the remnant of paper, but I am also a recipient of the love those two people shared. And so, this portal helps me glimpse my past, my present, and my future.

Tomlinson’s Restaurant (first opened in 1935) was sold in 1972 to Holiday Inn. Its matchbooks can be found for sale on eBay. But the matchbook scrap in my hand is not for sale. It is priceless.

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

30 Years Ago

Posted on October 24, 2012 by ivanbenson

It was thirty years ago next month that my friends and I ran in the Marine Corps Marathon is Washington, DC. It was a beautiful, cool morning, with crystal clear skies as we embarked on the 26.2 mile treck around our country’s monuments; the beginning was punctuated by the blast of an 80mm howitzer, and the ending was adorned with the sonorous Marine Corps marching band playing my favorite childhood military song, The Caissons Go Rolling Along.

Thirty years ago. I turned the age of 29 a week after that race in Washington, beginning the last year of “my first thirty years to heaven” (to borrow an altered phrase from Dylan Thomas) “whoever he was” (to borrow a phrase from Paul Simon). And in a few days I will turn 59, beginning my sixtieth year on this earth. The time is flying by. And I can’t seem to stop it. Or even slow it down.

If you are a country music fan you are probably familiar with Tim McGraw’s song, My Next Thirty Years, where he takes “a moment to celebrate his age” (30 years at that time) and to refocus on the next thirty years, vowing changes in behavior, etc. “The ending of an era, and the turning of a page,” as he calls it.

My mother, Edith Aileen Benson, passed away two months ago today, having come close to completing her third set of 30 years (at age 88). Thirty years ago she was about where I am today in life, in terms of age. Am I two-thirds of the way through my walk on this earth, or . . . even more? One wonders.

Thirty years ago I ventured with some of my best friends into the most taxing run of my life. One of our number fell by the wayside at mile 16, near the Lincoln Memorial. I had my own pains to contend with, beginning at mile 5 as we went around the Pentagon, and intensifying at mile 12 as we rounded the Capitol Building. You see I had injured myself while training the week before the race, and I was sporting a new pair of running shoes and taking butazoladin as an anti-inflammatory for my ailing tendon.

At mile 20 they sent us around a large field, and I could see runners coming back toward me from where I was headed – the pain, the fatigue, the monotony, the discouragement . . . it was all just too much for me. And so I stopped, and started to walk. Six miles from my destination. I had failed.

Then coming from behind me, one of my friends (I hadn’t seen any of my friends the whole race so far), Karen, stopped to encourage me to run again. And so I did. With the arduous and indescribable pain that sets in when you have completely fatigued your legs, stopped your activity, then tried to begin again. It was excruciating. But I did it. And there is nothing I would give in trade for the experience of running across that finish line (it took me over four hours), listening to that military music, and glowing with satisfaction at the feat I had accomplished that day.

Thirty years ago. And now . . . at the close of my second thirty years I am running the marathon of caring for an aging parent. Her passing has slowed me to a walk. Feelings of failure try to taunt me. It is excruciating packing up her things, deciding what to keep and what to discard. Trying to refocus now, since my focus has been so well-defined over the past few years with her. Now it feels nebulous.

But I have a wife that loves and encourages me, children who are as supportive and kind as humanly possible, friends and family that are there for me, giving me space in this time of grief and uncertainty. And so, I will slowly begin to run again. And I already know that I would not trade the experience of running this race for anything in the world.

We held Mom’s memorial on Saturday, September 29, 2012. My brother and I got to pay tribute to Mom along with 40 family members and close friends. It was a beautiful and memorable afternoon. There was no howitzer, but there was the sonorous voice of Judy Garland singing Mom’s favorite song, Somewhere Over the Rainbow, and there were beautiful roses (red and yellow), and loaves of pumpkin bread (Mom’s recipe) for each attendee.

I shall never forget the marathon that marked my first thirty years. And I shall never forget the one that marked my second.

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

Winning the Battle

Posted on September 12, 2012 by ivanbenson

My mother won her battle with pulmonary hypertension just after midnight, as Friday, August 24, 2012 announced its arrival.

She awoke from a long slumber which lasted all day and all night Thursday, and when asked if she was all right, she said, “Yes.”

“Do you need anything?” the nurse asked.

She said, “No.”

Then, she took one last breath and was gone.

I am certain she was correct. There was nothing she needed. And she was, in matter of fact, all right. Quite all right. And now . . . even better.

We got the call a few minutes after 1:00 AM that morning, dressed hurriedly, then made our way out to see her one last time. We watched as an RN used a stethoscope to examine her lifeless body, then officially pronounce her at 1:53 AM.

The nursing assistants there commented about my presence, remarking that “the sons don’t usually show up” when this happens, “only the daughters.” I thought that rather odd. But then, I had been her primary caretaker for the last 2 1/2 years; I did not even consider not going.

My wife and I had written things to her that the nurses were reading to her prior to her passing. I wonder if she heard? They say that hearing is the last thing to go, you know. Then, it occurred to me that with mother’s refusal to wear her hearing aids – that may have been a moot point. Humor. Sometimes it helps get you through the tough times.

Now, almost three weeks later, I am still trying to pick up the pieces of my life that lay broken . . . still somewhat in disbelief that it has truly finally happened. A memorial planned for late this month will bring family and friends together to celebrate her life. And I’m sure that will bring it into sharp focus for me again. When I see my older brother’s tears . . . it may all become real to me. Maybe.

But as I said earlier . . . “my mother won her battle with pulmonary hypertension.” It is interesting to me that even in her death mother was a true lady, knowing when to leave (as they used to say). In rehab, previously this summer, she had commented to me about reading The Last Lecture, by Randy Pausch. I knew then that she was taking in his words, not just passing the time with another good book; rather, scoping out the way she wanted to be remembered, and how she wanted to prepare those who would be doing that remembering.

As I said earlier . . . “my mother won . . . .” The hospice RN had cautioned my wife that someone with mother’s condition would become more and more sleepy, then eventually would fall into a coma of an uncertain duration. I don’t think mother even bothered with the coma stage at all.

But as I said earlier . . . . She won. It is our loss. But it is her gain. Her great grandson visited her earlier in the week. He is just a toddler, and was unaware of the gravity of what was happening to her, of course. He was amused by the oxygen mask she was wearing as she sat in her favorite blue chair. He pointed at her. She pointed back (he was one of the few things that could enliven her). He pointed again. She raised her crooked arm and pointed back, poking her finger at him as she did. And then . . . they touched fingers. Multiple times.

My grandson will never remember that evening. My mother, and those of us there, may never forget it. Surrounded by the ones she loved, and spanning generations, she took in her final image of the little boy that meant the world to her, and she gave him a final embrace with that touch.

And then, less than 48 hours later . . . she won.

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