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.”

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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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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.

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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.

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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.

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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