It’s A Small World After All

Posted on December 22, 2023 by ivanbenson

Horrific war in the Middle East, Israel versus Hamas, unspeakable brutality and loss of life; the continuing struggle between Ukraine and Russia; health care concerns over RSV and new strains of Covid; economic upheaval and the rise in the prices of virtually everything; uncertainty about our political future in the U.S.A.

We are inundated with national and international concerns. And often we sit in the comfort and security of our homes watching these issues unfold before our eyes, donning warm bedroom slippers and sipping the hot drink of our choice as the videos and pictures flash before us on our laptop screen or on the enormous high definition screen in the comfy family room. We adjust the lighting in the room to suit us as we stay seated in our fluffy chairs not needing to move a single muscle. It is winter in the South, and we are experiencing the coldest temperatures of 2023, lows in the mid 20s, highs in the 40s. But we are safe, shielded from the low temps as well as the turmoil of war.

Until . . . our central heat goes out. Brrr. It was 58 degrees in the house when we woke up this past Tuesday morning. Our HVAC people came out by noon that day to investigate. They thought they had diagnosed the problem, so they ordered a part and returned two days later to install it. But that didn’t resolve the issue. A subsequent visit that same day with more parts didn’t resolve it either. The new verdict is a blower motor. And hopefully they can install that today, but . . . there is no appointment scheduled yet this morning. We shall see.

The clothes washer is starting to act up now, too, leaking water onto the floor, and it seems confused about when to move from the wash cycle . . . . What’s next?

And in an instant we are: keeping up with a fire in our fireplace, buying load after load of wood from Lowe’s, constantly repositioning the logs, using heat from the oven in the kitchen, and keeping a borrowed electric space heater going in whatever room seems logical at the time.

Our world started to get real small Tuesday morning. And since.

I do care about world concerns, and I sympathize with those grieving in faraway places. But when I can’t watch it on the news in my warm secure home I find that my concerns become much more local. Much more tiny. Much more focused on keeping us somewhat warm, wearing coats in the house, not wanting to have the front door open any longer than necessary when the dog asks to go out to pee.

It’s a small world after all.

I suspect I’m not much different than you, even though you may be appalled at my lack of sensitivity. If you were in my place . . . what would you do? What would you feel?

In the early days of our nation, long before the internet, television, cable news and Facebook people used to get their news by word-of-mouth, or by the occasional visit to town where a local newspaper might tell of world events. One might learn in a letter from a relative that Aunt Betty died several months before. Or that there was a gold rush somewhere out in California. Nothing was instantaneous.

Cooking was from scratch, water was hauled in buckets, repairs were done by the owner of the property, and animals were cared for by the owner, too. To be clear, your family’s subsistence was up to you.

I’m not advocating we return to that life; the mortality rate was horrific, and the flu could just as well take your life as not. But it’s interesting to me how small that world was for a family, or even a community.

Then we got modern. More and more. “Progress,” we called it. A few balked but most did not. Life became more than just subsistence. And that is good. But we’ve also paid a price.

Numerous books like Alvin Toffler’s Future Shock observed our advancing civilization and predicted a level of despair to follow. He was correct. We have yet to learn how to balance our psyches; there is no time, because the next advance is in front of us before we have resolved the old ones.

But then . . . your central heat goes out. Now that creates a certain level of despair, no doubt. But it also clarifies some things, narrows some concerns, focuses your energies into a single strain: how do we keep warm?

I know that eventually our present issue will be resolved. Thank goodness for innovation and science and the creation of central air and warm clothing from a department store. But for a few days . . . it is actually refreshing to experience burning a fire in the fireplace. Not to create a mood, or for the feeling of coziness as you curl up with a book. Not to add to the ambience of the room as you gaze at the large screen TV in front of you depicting the severe cold and deprivation experienced by the Donner Party in their trek out west. But . . . simply for heat. Simply to stay moderately warm in the wintertime.

Merry Christmas! We will definitely remember THIS one at our house.

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I Miss Mayberry

Posted on October 31, 2023 by ivanbenson

When Rascal Flatts released the song “Mayberry” in 2002 they struck a chord that is universal in our modern culture: our desperate need to slow down, find peace, and be known. So that when they sing the chorus, multitudes of us listening consciously or unconsciously say, “me too.”

I miss Mayberry
Sittin’ on the porch drinking ice cold cherry coke
Where everything is black and white
Pickin’ on the six string
People pass by and you call them by their first name
Watchin’ the clouds roll by

Nostalgic? Of course. A bit unrealistic? Sure. But do we long for it? Most DO indeed.

You don’t have to be familiar with Abraham Maslow’s hierarchy of needs to know that safety, belonging, being loved and known are crucial to human beings.

That’s why, a couple of weeks in advance of my 70th birthday, my family surprised me with a short trip to Mt. Airy, NC last week to see the hometown of Andy Griffith, the true setting for the fictional town of Mayberry. (It turns out, initially unbeknown to Andy, there was an actual Mayberry in nearby VA, but I digress). In truth, the setting and even the characters and some of the stories in the make believe town were based on Andy’s friends and life in Mt. Airy.

One way to an American born baby boomer’s heart is to put him in an early 1960s black & white squad car in Andy’s hometown and have him hear that distinctive whine of the police siren; so much fun. Of course, much of what you see on the T.V. show was filmed in California, but in Mt. Airy you can eat lunch where Andy used to eat as a young man (at Snappy’s Lunch), and have your hair cut in the real Floyd’s barbershop while listening to Floyd’s 78 year old son, Bill, tell stories from the past. The original barber chairs and cash register are intact.

We stayed in an airbnb in nearby Ararat, VA, secluded in the woods and pastureland, beside a river; the fall leaves were blazing with color and the nights and early mornings were cool and damp with dew; it was idyllic. Like Mayberry.

What do you feel when you begin a movie on your television and you see the caption: BASED ON A TRUE STORY? That always intrigues me; I like to watch, read, or listen to TRUE stories about REAL people. Fantasy is great, but truthfully . . . there’s even a bit of fantasy in TRUE stories, too, isn’t there? Most fiction is based on reality anyway (except for Kafkaesque tales, of course), and with non-fiction we expect reality. In fact, the source of our storytelling, literature and film is often true stories. It’s why we can relate to them.

The characters, places, and events in the Andy Griffith show were often based on true stories, many from Andy’s own life in that little town of Mt. Airy. But then, if you starred in a story about yourself, don’t you think you’d draw from the persons and events in your past? Sure you would! In fact, you do that even without the cameras rolling.

It seems to me that the characters we meet early in life set the cast for our life’s story. That’s not to say you don’t come to know anyone other than folks in those early years; rather, you find new friends and associates that mirror those original folks. It’s almost as if you interpret every new fact in light of the old familiar faces. And if someone truly different comes along you either don’t think they’re for real, or you force them into a mold familiar to you. Or . . . you add them to the cast.

So Wally was real, Floyd was real, Hollywood coming to a small town to film was real, etc.

What we love about Mayberry is the familiarity, the safety and comfort of a place where people are known; where the town drunk is familiar, the officers of the law are familiar, the barber, fix-it man, postman, mayor and county clerk are all familiar.

But what difference does it really make? Do I truly need to know my neighbors? Why can’t I just keep to myself, and have others do the same? We’re all so very different, aren’t we? Our culture is multifarious; it’s not possible to truly relate to everyone.

Is this what we’ve come to in our advanced, civilized, sophisticated American way? Rubbish!

Surrounded by a loving wife, my children, my son-in-law, my grandchildren, and two good friends (in other words, familiar faces) I experienced the safety and comfort that allowed me to relax, be myself, enjoy a new place and even some new faces in that little town. It was unforgettable.

I miss Mayberry. And whether you know it or not . . . I think you do, too.

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In the End . . . .

Posted on September 20, 2023 by ivanbenson

I know that Mary Poppins suggested we “start at the very beginning,” and I agree with her “that’s a very good place to start.” However, I am captivated today with a phrase I heard in a meeting with several men early yesterday morning, sipping coffee together, and supporting one another in our varied lives.

“In the end . . . .“

My intent in this short blog entry is not to be morbid, however; rather, to be practical. To be real.

I suspect that you, like me, are focused almost ALL THE TIME on the proverbial here-and-now, gliding through life’s glorious days of sunshine, or trudging through the mud of life’s challenging rainy days. Seldom do we think of our final day(s). Who will be present at our bedside, and who will not? What will be the experience of our last walk in the park, the final book read, the last meal, the last embrace with a loved one?

It will come, of course. The End. The last page in your life’s book. The curtain closing. The stage lights darkened. The adoring audience (assuming you have one) departed.

I’ve seen this happen over and over again in my 70 years on this earth. The first ENDING I can recall is my maternal grandfather’s passing (I was just a young boy), but as time went on other relatives and friends and numerous acquaintances joined the procession, some young, some old. And finally my own father made the journey across, then a few years later, my mother. Then my wife’s father, then her mother.

My father enjoyed a final meal in hospice, having spent the previous day singing old hymns to himself, then the following day, quietly in the evening, after his supper he made the journey. My mother awoke briefly from her sleep just long enough for the nurse to ask if she needed anything, then after responding . . . took her last breath.

There are no advertisements on television about The End; no products or merchandise presented to the would-be consumer (only to the family or friends they leave behind). Few popular movies prepare viewers for The End, and you’ll be hard pressed to find any T-shirts with logos or cute sayings that seriously address your final day. But you can be sure that day will come.

All our efforts at eating healthy, exercising religiously, and keeping a positive attitude will one day be swallowed up by an atrophying force that won’t take “No” for an answer. In spite of all our attempts to stave it off . . . it will come.

If you have spent your life focused on achievement in business, sports, education, etc. – it really matters not at that point. In the End the celebrity, the CEO, the dock worker, the housewife, the ne’er-do-well, all pass through the same checkpoint. And what is left . . . ; that is, the impression you leave behind on all those you’ve touched (because you will leave an impression) will be tied to what mattered most to you.

You’ll not get guidance on this from your TV or streaming service, most likely; you won’t get help from most of the billboards along the roadways you travel, or in the stores where you shop. Those are targeted for the living, for the never-dying, for those who don’t care to focus on The End.

I suppose, truth-be-told, consumerism would have to absorb an almost fatal blow if many of us decided to focus on The End. We would, no doubt, prioritize quite differently; our majors and minors would alter drastically; what we would consider achievements would be almost unrecognizable to our former selves. We might be . . . (and here I’m really going out on a limb) . . . forever changed.

But let’s get real, OK? Being focused on The End doesn’t have to mean planning your funeral over and over, or daily setting out the clothes you want to be buried in, etc. For instance, a close friend of mine shared with me a personal practice he has employed for years; namely, writing a personal letter to each family member at Christmas each year. Whether a toddler in the family, or an older relative, you would receive from my friend a letter honoring you and/or detailing his hopes or dreams for your future, and including his affection for you in case he were to realize his End within the new year; he doesn’t want anything to be left unsaid.

We’re all after a legacy, aren’t we; how we will be remembered? Often, when compelled to consider his/her END, a person will plan to leave money, stocks, or bonds, etc. as a bequest to someone(s). And that is wonderful to do, of course. The memory of you, passed down from generation to generation, will eventually fade and ultimately vanish entirely. What will not fade are the character traits, the admirable qualities (or the opposite), the unique contributions you have made to your loved ones; often these arrive in beautifully wrapped packages of kindness, generosity of spirit, shared wisdom, and life change, i.e. who you truly are. Those will affect the lives and behavior of those to close to you, and, in turn, those close to them; on and on it will go like the ripples in a pond.

You may not have known it, but everyone who enters this world is a singer; everyone sings his/her unique song. And every other singer hears the song you sing. Your song either adds beauty to their song, or ugliness; you get to decide.

I want to live in such a way that when my final day arrives the tears that are shed will be accompanied with quotable quotes, memories that include lots of laughter, stories that tell the truth about me, but most of all . . . lives that are forever influenced for good . . . . In fact, I’d love for the influence to be so seamless, so natural, so silent that it is not even attributed to me by the bearer; rather, that others would have to say to that person, “You know, you got that from _______.” That’s what I heard said to me many years ago when someone said, “You walk just like your (paternal) grandfather” (a man who died years before I was born). I never met him. Never watched his movements. Yet . . . I walk like him.

What would you like your legacy to be? You don’t have to be old to consider it. But you will have to give it some thought. Just remember . . . who you decide to be . . . will affect generations to come. And in the End . . . (I suspect) that’s what will matter to you most.

Posted in Aging Parents, Family History, Fathers, Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | 9 Comments

A Family Affair

Posted on August 11, 2023 by ivanbenson

Divorce, suicide, sexual addiction, child custody case, alcohol abuse, estranged siblings, stillbirth, murder, dementia, autism, food addiction, breast cancer, prostate cancer, heart attack, opioid allergy, etc. Shall I go on? This is just a cursory perusal of some of the issues faced in my extended family.

Does it sound like the back story to a new soap opera (if they even still have those these days)?

I know that as one gets older it seems there are more funerals to attend, more hospitals to visit, more doctors to know, more support groups to attend, less energy, less memory, less . . . .

And it doesn’t seem adequate to just say, “Well, that’s life!”

But there you have it! The vision of life most of us have as we grow up DOES NOT INCLUDE much of what I’ve listed above. These unexpected arrivals are the “Cousin Eddies” of life that come to visit for extended periods of time, and some never leave. They are pock-marks on our otherwise flawless and dreamlike mirages of life.

The truth is these unsatisfactory realities come busting into our pristine showroom of existence and start turning over highly decorated tables, leaving us with enormous messes to clean up and often without any tools to do so.

But we forge ahead, don’t we? Somehow. It’s as if we’ve been made to face our situational/relational foes after a bit of disappointment and depression, get up again, and move on. Oh yes, we may retain some scars, nurse some hurts, and in some cases . . . recover for a lifetime. But we keep living.

I wonder if my extended family is all that different from yours. I suspect not. Life demands resilience. Our love affair with perfection, comfort and ease, success without failure, and joy without pain will come to an end at some point if we live long enough. Then life gets defined in a wholly different way.

And that’s not a bad thing. In fact, it is necessary. Resilience, the ability to “spring back,” only exists when one has been downed by some circumstance or decision; it only has meaning if defeat, disappointment or failure are present. Weight-lifters know this phenomenon well; they purposely work the muscle they’re growing to the point of failure so that it can be stronger.

The refining process is often something we’d rather do without. But we can’t, can we?

My father lost his own father as a young man, learned to cope with a broken relationship with his older brother, endured vein stripping due to thrombophlebitis, lost a kidney to cancer, lived with employment beneath his skill level, moved his wife and two sons 1,500 miles away from family and friends due to respiratory struggles, kicked a long standing nicotine addiction, and I witnessed as he decided not to do dialysis on his one remaining kidney and chose to face death which occurred three months after his final diagnosis.

My mother suffered from back troubles all during her adult life, lost her father and mother while she was in her thirties, stood by my father’s side as he moved her away from her family and friends, went to work to bring more income into the family, had to bury her husband and move back across the country after his death, suffered from pulmonary problems and had to go through a back surgery from which she never fully recovered, entered assisting living and was dead 25 days later.

When you make the mistake of listing all the maladies one endures in life it can be daunting. But I can tell you this: my father died, lying in his hospice bed, after a day of singing old hymns he loved and enjoying his supper; in my mind’s eye I can see the smile that was on his face.

And my mother, fully aware of what was to come, lay peacefully resting in her hospice bed until shortly after midnight, surrounded by two angelic nurses who read hymns to her, she awoke briefly and they asked her if she needed anything. She said, “No.” Then took her last breath. I saw her not one hour later. At peace.

One cannot measure the success of a life by listing its maladies. One cannot measure the success of a family by listing its failures. And the goodness of life is not present only in the spaces between maladies; it embraces them, too.

If I live till November this year I will be 70. That gives me pause. I almost died a month before my 63rd birthday, so . . . I know it can happen. And will. I could list all the things I’ve endured, of course, and try to impress you with how tenacious I am. But I know the truth.

I am as fortunate as they come.

I am learning to take the good with the bad. And so must you. Our “stories” would not be worth reading, nor would they warrant a retelling if there were not a mixture of success and failure, elation and defeat. It is within the very nature of this world to kill. And it is within our very own human nature to survive.

Your personal story is what happens in between those two warring natures: where you (or someone you love) overcame the addiction; where you . . . endured that defeat; where you . . . faced that Giant of disappointment; where you . . . loved in spite of rejection.

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THIS Comes HIGHLY Recommended!

Posted on August 1, 2023 by ivanbenson

I had the opportunity recently to say, “Thank you” to two persons who first influenced me over four decades ago; one has terminal cancer, the other is recovering from a stroke. Both are in their 80s, and interestingly . . . the two have been best friends for coming up on 70 years.

Thank you. These are powerful words, are they not? If you’ve been fortunate enough to hear them said to YOU, what a priceless blessing that is! But I have found that saying them to someone else, someone who truly has made a positive difference in your life, is life-giving not just to the hearer, but also to the sayer.

There are several tests for the influence someone has had on you:

  • Do you often quote them?
  • Do they come to mind when you are in a situation where words of wisdom are needed (and you think to yourself, “Now what would ______ do/say right now?”)
  • Do you function differently, or think about things differently, or approach things differently, in a way that mirrors what they taught you?
  • Do you find yourself smiling whenever you think of them?

The two gentlemen I spoke with recently certainly register a “YES” response to each of the tests above. Each is unique (to say the least); one is more widely known than the other, but the influence each one has had upon the other is apparent, too. One is married, with three grown children; the other has never married but has been single all his life.

Both have shaped my perspective dramatically. It was an inestimable pleasure to tell each of them that very thing; I included concrete examples, memories, words shared, etc. This was not just a simple, “Thanks for everything!” Rather, it was a detailed recollection of specific instances remembered, and a revealing of how those instances have lived on in my life.

Each man was grateful to hear the words. Of course. And they thanked me; “it made my day,” one said. But what surprised me was what the whole experience did for me. I felt light as a feather, almost boyish again, full of excitement and energy. Because before someone with pivotal influence in my life . . . died, and passed from this realm to another, I had the chance to boldly and elaborately say, “thank you” for making a profound difference in my life.

I have quoted these men for years. And now . . . I have let them know just what they’ve meant to me.

I’ve done this before with firefighters, police and paramedics, etc. And no matter the response (for the responses are quite varied) it is always a great thing to do. Just an hour or so ago I thanked a county police officer for his service. It can be a soldier, a nurse, doctor, teacher, pastor, waitress . . . there are so many people who pour good things into our lives.

Almost seven years ago I had a 100% blockage in my left anterior descending artery (LAD, the infamous “widow maker”); I was saved from death by the valiant efforts of my family and a series of first responders (paramedics, catheter nurses, and cardiologists, etc) who came to my aid in the middle of the night, being roused from their own valuable sleep because they were “on call.” I did not have to force myself to seek them out and thank them; I did so readily. I even went back to thank them again on the anniversary of the event.

The giving of the words “Thank You” to someone who truly has been indispensable in your life . . . that is a priceless experience. I was able, in varying degrees, to say those words to both my father and my mother before they left this earth. Was it enough? No! I should have said MUCH MORE. But it was an attempt.

If you have living parents, relatives, friends, teachers, employers who influenced you – TELL THEM SO! You will not be disappointed. This experience does, indeed. come HIGHLY RECOMMENDED! So, get on your phone, or jot a note and mail it, etc. Or even print it in the sand. Don’t wait another day.

P.S. If you have someone to thank who has already passed from this life, do not despair. If you can go to a grave site to talk with them, GO! If you can write them a letter that can never be mailed, DO SO anyway! If you can tell someone that also knew them well (like a sibling), then DO THAT! The truth is: the telling will change you even if they cannot hear you.

Posted in Aging Parents, Family History, Fathers, Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged | 11 Comments

A World of Hurt

Posted on June 8, 2023 by ivanbenson

We spent seven hours yesterday in the ER!

After a lovely time enjoying breakfast with good friends, solving all the world’s problems, and seeing beautiful pictures of Greece and points beyond (from their recent cruise) . . . my wife’s poison ivy (we think) got bad enough to warrant a visit to the Emergency Room.

“Waiting” is often the name of the game in the ER, especially in large hospitals. And this was no exception. With each encounter we were treated with kindness by hospital staff that (for the most part) seemed to really enjoy their work. What was MOST interesting was the microcosm of hurting persons playing the waiting game along with us.

Some patients were silent, and stayed to themselves, but some . . . .

An African-American female in her late 20s waited patiently (or so it seemed) in a wheelchair, her left foot in a cast of some sort. She spoke mostly with her eyes, glancing her and there. She was there before us, and when she was finally called back to triage she shouted loudly to the whole room, “Thank you, Jesus!” She apologized for her outburst as they wheeled her by, but I gave her a thumbs up.

A Puerto Rican woman was wheeled up beside us, and further conversation informed us that she recognized us from church; she was in off-and-on severe abdominal pain from what they thought was probably her appendix. Shortly, her daughter appeared, then her husband. But a pleasant interaction with her continued into the evening even though at times her English was obfuscated by her thick accent. Prayers were exchanged between us.

A young man was wheeled in by a male friend, or sibling perhaps; he was in such agony and proceeded to use a nearby counter for a footstool. He tried to sleep most of the time, but on occasion he would gasp, moan, them slump back into his chair, or alternately rest his head on the counter. A nurse gave him a test in the waiting room; I think she was checking his blood sugar. I heard her say, “271.” Ugh.

Across from us an older gentlemen was there with his wife. Several times she would move from wheelchair to a nearby seat, and when she did (with his help, of course) her face would contort, and she would struggle to her feet in agony. When seated she would slump to one side and grimace in pain. I felt so sorry for her (and for him). But my sorrow lightened a bit when she finally got up and walking by us informed the room that she was “an 84 year old woman in excruciating pain” and no one was helping her. She yelled at and insulted the intake persons (and the hospital), but they held their ground with her. She sure had a lot of spunk hidden beneath her pain, and was at no loss for words as she and her husband stormed out angrily. The staff person said, “What’s your name?” as they took her off the waiting list. And I thought I could sense their professional heartfelt relief and willingness to accommodate the angry woman by deleting her from the queue. BTW, a nurse, not yet informed about the woman’s dramatic exit, called her name for triage examination just moments after the angry departure. But alas . . . .

Another woman (there with a man, or husband) was “heaving” into the trash can near us. It’s so hard to watch people at their lowest. I understand the drowning man syndrome in these settings, i.e. the drowning man is notorious for being so dangerous to save, because he is flailing about, desperate and willing to do ANYTHING if it might save him from a watery grave. If you wade in to help him, “Beware!” He will take you down with him if necessary. What he would NOT do to you in his sane moments he will do without hesitation at his desperate moments.

As I walked around the enormous waiting room area, marking time, I was sometimes met with a smile and sometimes with a blank expression. “These are people just like us,” I reminded myself. They don’t want to be here, but they NEED to be; they are hurting in some way to which they cannot bring relief. They are turning to this place, and these men and women dressed in scrubs . . . for answers. And for compassion.

We live in a world of hurt, don’t we? Two days ago my youngest daughter was recounting all the pain and hurt, sickness and death, and general depression among our friends and family in the past few years. It is inordinate. Does it seem that way for you, too?

In simplistic terms our lives are about trying to stay alive and helping others to stay alive. Now I know it goes much deeper than that. But the truth is we are, each one of us, intent on staying alive, searching for meaning, seeking for happiness, and finding something useful to do with our selves. When that light, that motivation, that powerful urge for self-preservation is gone . . . we long for the EXIT sign of life to appear.

At that moment we are no longer the drowning man flailing in the waters, beating the surface with our arms, lunging upward for a breath; rather, we acquiesce, or we dive deeper seeking our own demise.

There is much to enjoy in this life: the beauty of nature, the gratification and security in loving relationships, the meaningfulness of good work, the pleasure of food, rest, and a myriad of other benefits. That’s the “sunny” side of life. But . . .

There is also Pain. Rejection. Failure. Hatred and Fear. We all tend to embrace the former benefits and run like a cheetah from the others. Nevertheless, they find us; none of us is fast enough to elude them all. One day we find ourselves or our loved ones in the Emergency Room of life, seeking relief from some malady we cannot resolve on our own.

What we get to choose in those moments is how we will treat our fellow life-travelers and/or the professional staff that offer to help. But it begins when we acknowledge:

“We live in a world of hurt.“

Anonymous
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He who has ears to hear, let him hear!

Posted on May 15, 2023 by ivanbenson

My recent trip to the ENT doctor has left me with a new revelation: I’ll probably never hear like I used to hear in my left ear. All this started about seven years ago when a particularly bad sinus infection plugged up my left eustachian tube. A small tube was put into my eardrum to help it drain. Since then this has been done several times; the last tube, installed about a year ago, must have been the size of a railroad tie.

At any rate, I think the eardrum has finally said, “Enough!” It has allowed scar tissue to make residence there and the result is a somewhat muffled, boxy sound in that ear when I sing. It is especially apparent when I’m in an auditorium with loud music, or trying to harmonize with another singer.

Ah yes. When I sing. For many years now I have sung as a part of my living. That avocation was truncated after my heart attack but has been slowly revived as of late. I am fortunate to be able to perform again, even in a limited way, but . . . it is frustrating to lose clarity in one ear. Forever.

Yes, forever! That is a daunting awareness.

When you’re young so many of the maladies that plague you can be dealt with in time, and you find you are restored to your former self. Sometimes you’re even stronger than before (an injured tendon or muscle can sometimes become less prone to injury after it heals). The body is amazing. But as time goes on, and we age, many of us find ourselves unable to bounce back. My heart experienced such a setback almost seven yearss ago; it will never be the same. And now . . . my ear.

I don’t like when things break. If I can repair a solar light for the yard it makes me feel really good. Or if some caulk seals some failing woodwork, or grout restores the bathtub tile to its former glory, it is gratifying. I don’t mind problems and challenges. Except . . . when the problems or challenges CAN’T BE MET.

When all my best efforts are fruitless, my striving to no avail, my best figuring fails to resolve, and I am utterly powerless to affect a resolution . . . that is devastating. It requires a realignment of my stars (so to speak), a monumental shift of my personal tectonic plates, a grand mal adjustment to my psyche. And that’s no easy adjustment, no “walk in the park” (as they say).

In our lifetime, each of us will face these mammoth, insurmountable obstacles; obstacles that force us to reevaluate, refocus, retool, and press on with brand new goals dressed up in clothing we never dreamed we’d have to wear. But . . . either we wear the new outfit and learn to love it, or . . . we choose to wallow in disappointment and despair.

It’s comical sometimes . . . the things we think. For instance, when I was a young man I used to see elderly men walking for exercise in long pants and street shoes. I laughed and said, “If I couldn’t wear my running shorts, athletic shoes, and RUN for exercise, I don’t think I’d bother!” Now . . . (and for some years now) I do just what they did. And I’m glad I can even do that.

We ALL encounter setbacks and defeats. The question is never whether or not we WILL encounter them; rather, what will we DO when we do so.

You see, I have a decision to make: will I continue to SING (albeit with limitations), or QUIT! I have chosen to sing.

Once, decades ago, I used my guitar to accompany a very elderly gentleman as he sang and played the violin. His voice was shaky and uncertain, his violin skills clearly in the past. Yet he sang and played a song he had written for his bride many years before I was even born. And he made no apologies for his lack of precision, because . . . precision was not the most important thing going on in that moment. He sang and played because he loved to sing and play, and he did so to honor the memory of his beloved wife.

Beethoven . . . well, you know the story; how he finished his ninth and final symphony even though he was deaf. By contrast, few of us are at our ultimate best when we come to our final days. The skin of the strong man’s mighty arm is replaced with wrinkles once stretched by impressive muscles; the aged, knowledgeable writer and scholar is sometimes no more erudite than a schoolboy; and yes . . . the great singer of songs who once wowed audiences and brought them to their feet in thunderous applause . . . is sometimes unable to even carry a tune.

As Gandalf the Grey said, “All we have to do is decide what to do with the time that is given to us.” As we age will experience losses; of this there is no doubt. Can we learn to relinquish, to let go of, to pass on to others the dreams that enthralled and inspired us for a time? Can we take a backseat to others in their life’s quest when it comes our time to shift into a new identity, one that functions as a supportive role instead of a leading role?

I hope to sing by myself and with others until my last breath. But that will only happen if I accept the limitations of my ear. And who knows what else as time goes on. I must remember the joy is in the doing, not the hearing. It derives from the heart; the sound does not matter.

So . . . what obstacles are you facing?

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The Big Eraser

Posted on June 26, 2022 by ivanbenson

It seems like the first things you learn when you start school become the bedrock upon which all future learning rests. Maybe Robert Fulghum was right when he wrote, “All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.” Paper, pencils, desks, etc. are things you will use all your life. Learning to read and write are foundational to all future communication.

That’s why it was so hard on me in Miss Montgomery’s 1st grade class at Woodmore Elementary School in Chattanooga, TN. I had trouble with the concept of writing one answer on the first line of my paper, then going to the line just below it to answer the next question. Stacking things in this order made no sense to me; I wanted to write in a “run on” style, I suppose. Thankfully, Miss Montgomery had also introduced me to one of the greatest tools in all of schooldom: the eraser!

Erasers are the greatest, aren’t they? You can make a mistake, a misjudgment, a miscalculation of some kind . . . then make it as if it WAS NEVER THERE! You simply rub the mark that needs to be expunged and presto – it is gone forever, never existed, totally eradicated.

Well . . . not always totally, right? Sometimes I found that a residue remained. Like a scar from the previous pencil mark . . . and often, an indentation in the paper itself caused by the force of the pencil as it was pushed onto the paper. But for general observation – gone. Right? What a great tool!

As I got older in school we began to use ink pens. Hmmmm. I wondered how mistakes could be remedied with that more indelible instrument. Then voila! They started to make ball point ink pens with white erasers on top. That’s right! Saved again! Errors vanquished. Mistakes excised. Simply cut out of existence. What could be better?

Of course, the erasing wasn’t perfect. You could still often see a shadow of what had been there before. And the surface of the paper was a bit torn, defaced, ragged. But the main evidence of your error would not be very visible, at least not without close inspection. For all practical appearances . . . it was as if nothing amiss had ever happened.

Except, that is . . . when I had to rub really hard on the paper. Especially if the ink had had time to dry. Because then I would scrub harder to get out the ink stain and invariably . . . the paper would tear. Doggone it!

I learned early on in the 2nd grade (especially after one traumatic visit to Principal Johnson’s office) that you certainly don’t want anything bad to go on “your permanent record.” To me that was kind of like putting indelible ink on your paper: it would never come off! And I’d made enough mistakes already in my short life to know I didn’t want THAT!

Now, as I approach 69 years of age this fall, I look back over my life and see LOTS and LOTS of things I’d love to use that eraser to erase. Trouble is, they aren’t on paper. They’re on my Permanent Record. Oh, I have a pardon for those things BTW. And that is priceless. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t still ramifications, consequences, lasting results from my previous words, actions, and inactions.

Erasers are great, aren’t they? And in grammar school they can be quite useful as one learns. But if we take them with us into adulthood the stakes grow higher. Ultimately, torn pages from our tireless efforts to expunge our guilt will result in more than just an effacement of wood pulp.

“Now we have computers,” one might say. Nobody much uses paper anymore. “And if you make a mistake . . . you just hit delete.”

But . . . a history remains in that machine. Doesn’t it?

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This Is Us

Posted on June 5, 2022 by ivanbenson
Pittsburgh Steelers

Finally watched the final show in the sixth and final season of This Is Us last night; I rank this series up there with the series, LOST, in terms of cinematography, acting, and story line. Excellent stuff!

One of the prominent features of this series is its realistic portrayal of a family comprised of one adopted child and two of natural birth. Back stories of the parents, grandparents, and extended family combine to present a true-to-life, messy, complex, sometimes combative, other times jovial journey from birth to midlife for the three siblings.

Topics such as body image, racism, sibling rivalry, alcoholism, sexual promiscuity, and divorce, and death, as well as true love, forgiveness, straight talk, perseverance, and the hereafter, run throughout the series, making it into an emotional ride that rings true with life as I have lived it, seen it, and read about it lived. I highly recommend it!

As I examine my own little world today, I have: friends suffering with addictions, family members in the process of divorce, others coping with dementia, cancer ravaging a good friend’s family, incidents of neighborhood theft, troublesome health issues, as well as delightful times with my grandchildren, a daughter expecting a child, adequate security in retirement, and a loving wife who has put up with me for over 46 years.

Life is indeed a potpourri of events, feelings, educational experiences, mysteries, agonies, and moments of great exhilaration.

Sometimes we grow up thinking that the goal in life is the absence of conflict, the defeat of all things evil, the eradication of all disease, the financial security of the masses, and the establishment of justice and fairness, i.e. a “level playing field” for all persons on the planet.

Then . . . as time goes on (and sometimes it comes quickly) we see these very things have not been realized in our own family, among our friends, and every place we look in the world. Discouragement meets disillusionment; we are first confused, flummoxed . . . then, hardened, cynical. We long for the Utopia we believed existed somewhere, but disheartened that we cannot seem to attain it . . . even in our own lives.

One day . . . hopefully, we come to accept the failures in our human nature, and if we are persons of spiritual and metaphysical awareness we acknowledge that the Source of our troubles is not one we will one day defeat on this earth; we cannot eradicate it. Going further in our quest we also arrive at the belief that our love for one another is, in fact, the only glue that keeps us bound to one another. And interestingly, it alone is powerful enough to withstand the onslaught of discouragement and disillusionment.

“Love launches us to heights and perspectives that alone give us not only tolerance of the troubles in the world, but the ability to see beyond the failures and embrace the persons involved in them – unequivocally.”

Ivan Benson

Your family is like this, isn’t it? It is a microcosm of the whole world and everyone in it. The struggles and failures, followed by renewed aspirations and successes; the agony of sickness and death, followed by the exquisite and incomparable beauty and promise of a newborn child. All of it encompassed in a blanket of familial love where the all drastic contradictions are melded into an inseparable unit, unassailable to any outside force or entity.

Or . . . such is the dream. Right?

That dream has the ring of truth (in my experience).

That’s why I love This Is Us so much. Broken persons portrayed in a broken world, raised by broken parents in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania find a way to overcome the onslaught we all face. That way is LOVE.

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Playing Favorites

Posted on May 11, 2022 by ivanbenson

The last few days I’ve been pondering an odd question: “What’s the best water you’ve ever tasted?”

Funny, isn’t it, where the mind goes sometimes? I was remembering a hike in Southern Arizona, one I repeated several times with various people (the Harlan’s, my neighbors; my cousin, John; my friend, Larry Stark; and others). We called it “Mount Baldy,” but it’s given name is Mount Wrightson in the Santa Rita Mountains of the Coronado National Forest just south of Tucson, Arizona.

Currently I read on the internet that the climb is supposed to be about 11.5 miles roundtrip, a challenging hike where you rise about 4,000 feet in elevation, and take approximately 6 and 1/2 hours to complete. Larry and I got to the peak in about an hour and a half as I recall (we were young, crazy teens, and motivated to set a record if we could). The best water I’ve ever tasted was at “Bellows Spring” which is part way up the mountain.

For many years now I’ve mistakenly remembered it as “Belle” Spring, and the mountain as Mount “Wrightston” (with the added T). I guess nobody’s perfect, right? But it’s odd how sometimes things are larger when you’re young than when you visit them as an adult. Or how the names of things are either learned incorrectly from the outset and never corrected, or they just morph over time into something different.

The water at Bellows Spring comes out of a metal pipe, nothing fancy, or picturesque . . . . But by the time you reach that point in the long trail the cool water from the spring takes on a beauty of its own. As I said, my memory is that it’s the best water I’ve ever tasted. I wonder why.

If you ask me about the best steak I’ve ever had I’d say without hesitation: “Charlie’s Steak House in Hopkinsville, Kentucky.” If you ask me about my favorite scenery in this country, I’d have to say: “The West” (both northwest, and southwest). If you ask me about my favorite car I’d say: “Corvette.” My favorite meal? “The One I’m Having right NOW!” Ha! Actually, I’m partial to “hamburgers,” but find I can enjoy lots of other things with more prestige, too.

The best breakfast I ever had was on an overnight camping trip; the “bacon and eggs” the next morning were exquisite. But I’m sure that wouldn’t have been true if the setting and the hunger level had been different. The coldest I’ve ever been was on an overnight camping trip in Montana, at the foot of Mt. Haggin, wet from a fitful overnight in a soaked cloth sleeping bag (and a second to that would be after sinking hip deep in a snow drift near the foot of Mt. Baboquivari on New Year’s Day, 1968).

But the best water? Without a doubt. Bellows Spring. But why?

Sometimes . . . to get at the truth about something . . . you have to go back and recreate the events that surrounded the point in question. And when I do that in this instance I get the following:

1. I was always with people I loved when I drank from this spring.
2. I was always very thirsty and tired when I drank from this spring.
3. I was always accomplishing an arduous task (hiking) when I drank from this spring.
4. I was nearing the last segment of the hike when I drank from this spring; victory was close.

As I recall, the final portion of the trail to “the peak” (the place where you get to sign your name in a notebook, date the event, and place the notebook back into the metal ammo box in which it resides) was covered with large rocks, and cumbersome. But the view from the peak (9,456 feet) was awesome, allowing you to see into Mexico as well as much of Southern Arizona.

And all of that, including (no doubt) many things of which I’m unaware, contribute to my evaluation of the water. The who, the where, the why, etc. of something you do . . . these things can color the scenery, enhance the taste, and produce the quality you remember for a lifetime. Your hunger and thirst, i.e. your need can contribute to the quality imbued in a memory as much as anything.

So, try playing “favorites” today. What’s the best water you’ve tasted? Your favorite meal? Try naming your … ests and ask yourself, “Why?”

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