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

Ragtime Cowboy Joe

Posted on August 22, 2012 by ivanbenson

On Saturday hospice took over my mother’s case at the assisted living facility in the small community where she now resides, a few miles south of us. I was pleased. She needs the extra care, and I think they will provide it for her; that is good. But the gravity of the situation does not escape me; I have no illusions. My guess is that she has days to live. We will know more at the close of this week, they say.

I sat by her bedside yesterday evening, watching her breathe through her O2 mask, frustrated that it was fogging up her glasses so she could not read (one of the few joys she still has). We talked about what was going on with her, and all the nursing attention she was getting all of a sudden. I was not sure at first whether or not she understood the gravity of the situation. Later, it became apparent that she was quite aware.

It is interesting to me that in her final days she does not seem concerned with record keeping, crossing i’s and dotting t’s (the meticulous and painstaking character traits she has always been governed by), and keeping track of everything. Although . . . she did notice I had moved the walking cane that she has not come even close to using since she went in the hospital four months ago. She “doesn’t miss a trick,” as they say. She seems resigned to these final days. I am amazed at her sense of peace about it all. It is obvious she understands that the material things she is leaving behind are – meaningless now.

At one point I asked her if she wanted to sing, or tell jokes. She said, “I can’t sing.” Then within a couple of seconds she said, “Ragtime Cowboy Joe” and smiled slightly (an old humorous song she used to sing to us as kids). I had forgotten about this old tune through the years. But rest assured – I won’t forget it now. Ever.

The coming days will be hard for me, I know. I wake in the middle of the night, and my thoughts go to mother, her pain, the years she gave us, the life she gave us. I remember when I turned 30 she called me on the phone to wish me a happy birthday, but her words were, “We have an anniversary to celebrate, today.” I said, ” I know what day it is for me, mother, but what day is it for you?” She responded, “Well, I did have something to do with it, you know!” We laughed. I had never even considered that before.

As time went by last night she said to me, “I’m sorry for being such an interruption in your life lately.” I assured her that we knew what we were doing when we moved her here, that we wanted to play this role in her life, and that I had never regretted it once. She said, “Well, soon your life back can go back to normal.”

Oh, then, what I would give to never have normal again! But I do not get to choose, do I? I am not ready for what is soon to happen; I do not want to let her go. Just one more talk, mother. Or one more verse of a song together – you taught me so many: Somewhere Over the Rainbow, Three Little Fishies, Mares Eat Oats, and . . . Ragtime Cowboy Joe.

He always sings, raggedy music to the cattle

As he swings, back and forward in the saddle

On a horse, a horse that’s syncopated, gaited,

There’s such a funny meter to the roar of his repeater.

How they run, when they hear this fellow’s gun,

Because the western folks all know,

Why he’s a high-faluting scooting,

Shooting son of a gun from Arizona

Ragtime Cowboy, you’re talking ’bout your cowboy,

Ragtime Cowboy Joe.

Posted in Aging Parents, Assisted Living, Family History, Nursing Homes, Stories, Uncategorized, World War II | Tagged , , , , , , , | 14 Comments

The Music of Your Life

Posted on July 29, 2012 by ivanbenson

Tomorrow I will move my mother to assisted living in a nearby community; a new chapter in her life will begin. I pray it will be an easy transition for her, and one that will give her the chance to enjoy a certain level of dignity and relative independence as she faces her final months/years on this earth. That is my goal. I want to be a good son, and I want to do right by her – she has given me so much . . . life itself.

Many years ago my mother sent to me a quotation she found interesting. She did this often, since the use of words and pithy sayings was always of paramount importance in our family. I have an album full of these quotations from her, but several have remained favorites of mine through the years, and here is one for your consideration (credited to John Ruskin).

“There is no music in a ‘rest’ but there is the making of music in it.

In our whole life melody, the music is broken off here and there by ‘rests,’ and we foolishly think we have come to the end of the tune. God sends a time of forced leisure, sickness, disappointed plans, frustrated efforts that makes a sudden pause in the choral hymn of our lives and we lament that our voice must be silent and our part missing in the music which ever goes up to the ear of the Creator.

How does the musician read the rest?

See him beat the time with unvarying count and catch up the next note true and steady as if no breaking place has come between.

Not without design does God write the music of our lives. But be it ours to learn the time and not be dismayed at the rests. They are not to be slurred over, not to be omitted, not to destroy the melody, not to change the keynote.

If we look up, God Himself will beat the time for us. With the eye on Him, we shall strike the next note full and clear.”

Recently, I have had some “forced leisure” and “disappointed plans” put on my proverbial “plate.” What do I make of it? How do I read these times in my life? How can my own mother look at the very real restrictions on her abilities, the limitations with which she approaches the end of her life? Walker, wheelchair, oxygen tank – these are not goals to which she aspires.

Like the musician, we “beat the time,” we keep in step with the rhythm, we recognize that whatever we are currently going through is as much a part of the melody of our lives as the times we relish, or the times when we seem to enjoy the most freedom and ease. Because – there is a next note coming. And we want to be present so that we can make it sound as it truly should, “full and clear.”

A melody without rests is like a tune without rhythm. Boring. Unrecognizable. Indistinguishable from all the other sounds that surround us. And so . . . we learn to embrace the “rests” in our lives. They belong where they are. They are by “design.”

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

Your Life’s Story in the Movies

Posted on July 2, 2012 by ivanbenson

This past weekend found us traversing Alabama, Mississippi, and Tennessee by car before returning to Georgia; three days of connecting again with friends from decades ago, other lifetimes in the preincarnated (yes, I think I just created a word) state we often call young adults. It was a fabulous time that included lots of memories, laughter, and tears. Temperatures were in the triple digits, but it did not stop us from investigating places we had lived years before, experiencing again the joys of those times, and seeing how time changes terrain and erodes structures that once seemed so strong.

The highlight of the trip, of course, was in renewed relationships with friends. And I can hardly begin to tell how absolutely thrilling that was. From former students approaching 50, and friends around 60 and beyond, to friends in their early 90s . . . we touched once again the lives that helped shape us in the past. And the feeling was – astounding. There is no price you could put on the value of this short trip into our past.

It reminded me that my life (for lack of a better word) is – real. It is not a movie. I am not acting in a film that features me as the star and the rest of you as supporting actors (more on that in some future blog, perhaps); rather, each relationship is alive and real – not scripted, not coached, not filtered to make it look other than it is. And the effect I have on other people, and their effect on me, is indelible. It is as lasting as it can be. It is like the radiation life of U-238 (half life is 4.5 billion years); it sticks around a bit.

I embraced one of my best friends in the world on Friday night. His daughter was getting married, and we did not want to miss the chance to celebrate with him, his wife, and his son. I have known this friend for 35 years. The bond we have with one another is a prized possession to me. We have shared elated happiness and deep sadness, great pride in one another and great disappointment. Our love and mutual admiration runs deep.

My friend and I are marked with one another’s lives; we are branded as a part of the same herd. We share one another’s stories, and we have passed on to our children (and other friends as well) each other’s tales of humor, pain, success, and failure. Our lives are inextricably bound together. I stood with him many years ago at his father’s bedside just after he had passed to another life, and he comforted me with words of encouragement and genuine grief when my own father passed three years ago.

No, my life is not like a movie. But it is worth filming; a record worth preserving, a plot than rivals any on the silver screen. Because it affects the lives of countless numbers of people. Not as a form of entertainment. (Well . . . I have become a form of entertainment for folks on occasion – there was that time when . . . never mind)!

They say that anywhere from 300 million to 500 million people have seen the movie, Titantic. And I’m sure that out of that number a large percentage were affected and moved emotionally. But . . . marked indelibly? I doubt that number is very high. In fact, it might actually be zero.

But my life – and yours – they will mark people for countless generations.

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Resilience or Resignation?

Posted on June 24, 2012 by ivanbenson

 Life is tenuous, isn’t it?.

One year ago I was stung multiple times on the tip of a single toe by one single, solitary yellow jacket. As the hours progressed my foot swelled, then my calf. Fever set in. A trip to the doctor for relief brought no immediate comfort. And a combination of being in the Georgia sunshine, mixed with sulfa drugs (which are photosensitive), created a fever that caused me to shake uncontrollably, and finally landed me in the hospital for two nights.

One problem led to another (CT scan for possible blood clots, heart monitor for a pulse that seemed too slow, blood pressure that could not be regulated, etc.), but finally I was released. The road back to normal promised to be a long one. I was not a week out of the hospital when my wife experienced abdominal pains, visited the same ER, and was admitted for an emergency appendectomy.  “When it rains, it pours,” they say.

Now, for a married couple with health benefits, sick leave, and vacation time, this would have been an unfortunate and frustrating inconvenience. But for a couple working hourly wage jobs with no health benefits whatsoever . . . this was a disaster. Our hospital bills exceeded $40,000 and the loss of work time was financially deadly.

Life is tenuous at best. One moment you can be sitting pretty and the next you are in the ditch. And it seems to matter very little how much wealth and security you have accumulated, or how thick the castle walls are which you have erected around yourself. The wealthiest of us can fall prey to sickness, depressing circumstances, family and relationship stress, etc., and . . . with enough debt – even financial ruin. And the poorest of us can experience all of the above as well, of course. There is no reprieve based on your poverty, or your wealth.

Nevertheless, here I sit today, writing this blog. I feel fortunate today. My possessions have not been confiscated, I have not lost my residence, and I have not filed for bankruptcy. Not everyone is so fortunate. But what happened in our unfortunate circumstances a year ago, you may wonder?

The hospital and many of the doctors/labs discounted their costs for us (due to lack of insurance), and created interest-free payment plans which continue to this day. One of my part-time jobs has an assistance program for just such situations, and they contributed greatly to our debt. Several family members saw fit to send us money to help stem the tide, and another of my jobs excused some of the hours I had missed and paid me for it anyway.

My point in this diatribe is not to solicit sympathy, or ask for financial assistance, of course; rather, it is to say that although life is tenuous, and security can be an illusion . . . there is a truth in all this that I am learning. And that is this. Real joy, true happiness, is found in embracing the whole of your life, not just the parts that seem worthy. Your story is the story of success and failure with lots and lots of boredom and mundane moments in between. And the truth is that the times of trial and testing (be they financial or emotional or physical) forge in each of us some much-needed character, give those around us an opportunity to reach out and love us tangibly, and . . . give our own individual stories the twists and turns that make them truly remarkable.

Resilience. Ah! A powerful response to the uncertainty we live with every day. Each story worth reading is filled with lots and lots of resilience.

Posted in Stories, Uncategorized | 4 Comments

Father’s Day 2012

Posted on June 17, 2012 by ivanbenson

Today is Father’s Day 2012. A loving voice message from one daugther, and a phone call from another has properly humbled me and made me feel loved. Monica treated me to a lovely cup of coffee from Dunkin Donuts, then a drive by Dad’s gravesite, and on to Briscoe Park for a quiet, contemplative sitting by the water. Ah, the beauty of water falling in the morning sunlight. Breathtaking!

Today, I am struck by the picturesque and insightful words of Psalm 77:19. After an awesome description of how God delivered the Israelites from Egypt, parting the Red Sea with incomparable power and shock-and-awe special effects, Asaph says this:

“Your road led through the sea, your pathway through the mighty waters – a pathway no one knew was there!”

A pathway no one knew was there. In spite of all the complaints about how my life has not turned out the way I wanted it to, and I don’t have the income and security I thought I would have at this age, I have, of late, been reminded that the reality is this: the story of my life is the story of one blessing after another.

The pathway that has been provided for me is one that I did not see coming. My story, my life journey is as much a surprise to me as is the Phoenix rising from it’s own ashes; the spirit enlivening the dead bodies in Ezekiel’s valley of dry bones; the unexpected turn of events when a man who was executed somehow comes back to life. It is not anticipated; it is not predictable; it is not scripted.

I wonder if your story is like mine. I stood at my father’s grave this morning, and I remembered his face, his laugh, his mannerisms. I recalled his service in the war as an engineer gunner on a B24; I heard the sound of his deep voice, and called to mind the way he walked, the way he gestured, and the way he enjoyed a good cup of coffee . . . just like me.

His career is not what matters to me. His standing in the community is not what I reflect upon. His path was indeed one which no one would have guessed. But that path included me.

There is a path. There is a road to my life. It is often not visible until my foot hits the ground, ground which I usually cannot see is even there until I have put my full weight on it. Then it appears, as if out of the depths.

Posted in Aging Parents, Family History, Fathers, Stories, Uncategorized, World War II | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

The Lost Story

Posted on June 14, 2012 by ivanbenson

When my mother was born in May of 1924 the world took no notice of her arrival. There was no parade, no radio announcement, and no economic ripple. Her story began with little to no fanfare. In so many ways it was just like any other day in west Tennessee.

Her growing up years were uneventful on the world stage, or even on the national stage. Like many others her age, she enjoyed her summer visits to the relatives in the country, and was duly enthralled with the color that almost jumped off the screen when Dorothy opened the door of her small house, welcoming all of us into Oz, and eventually, the Emerald City in the 1939 classic, The Wizard of Oz.

As a young adult in east Tennessee, singing in a community chorus, she was introduced to my father. And as they say, “the rest is history.” Of course, the truth is . . . it is all history. Her history. Mine and my brother’s history. My children and their history. And now my grandson and his history.

The story – the telling of one’s tale – the building blocks of your life – the sometimes imperceptible influences that mold and shape your existence, and in turn . . . mold and shape the existence of countless others . . . these things are the stuff of life itself. And knowing them, knowing your story . . . can tie together the seemingly unrelated strands of your life.

Mother is 88 years old and in failing health. Dad has been dead for over 3 years now. My brother and I are both (although we find it difficult to believe this) older men now. Our Mother’s story shaped us. And yet, like so many others who sit in the rehab facility where she is currently, her story is fading. Her memories, while present with clarity sometimes, are often clouded with the passing of the years. Without the care to preserve it, her story will soon be a lost story, gone from memory.

This blog is an attempt to keep that story alive. And to invite others who can identify with what I am describing to share in the preservation of stories. To encourage others to take a look at their own story – this is the first step. I hope you will join me in this incredible journey. For each story is unique and possesses entire worlds.

Posted in Aging Parents, Assisted Living, Family History, Nursing Homes, Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | 8 Comments