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Friday, November 28, 2014

Chardin quote



“There is almost a sensual longing for communion with others who have a large vision. 

The immense fulfillment of the friendship between those engaged in furthering the

evolution of consciousness has a quality impossible to describe.” 

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Christmas at Aunt Ida’s by Dick Feagler


With a nod by Dick Feagler to the issues of today, we republish his Christmas column, which first appeared in The Plain Dealer in 1993.

On Christmas, when I was a kid, we all went over to my Aunt Ida's house -- an old house in the old neighborhood.
Just what did you think I was going to talk about today? The little town of Bethlehem with its sniper towers? The unholy mother Britney? The lack of one wise man, let alone three?
It's Christmastime, my friends. Let's rest our weary brains. Let's turn our backs on earthbound stars and People magazine celebrities and media personalities. Let us visit some people whose names get into the newspaper only when they die. And even then, just in the tiny type of the death notices.
Let's go to my Aunt Ida's house. Come on. It won't take long. You'll be home in time for the 11 o'clock news, I promise you.
The house wasn't far from the steel mills, and the fallout from the mills made the dirt in Aunt Ida's back yard black and rich. When the wind was wrong, the air in the neighborhood smelled like a chem lab. Breathing it might have been bad, but nobody knew that then. By the way, my Aunt Ida had great luck with flowers.
On Christmas, we'd all be there. The old folks, the young folks and the kids. The young folks were the young men and their wives still recovering from the great upheaval of World War II. The old folks could remember World War I.
The kids, like me, weren't old enough to remember much. We were busy collecting memories, and this is one of them.
There was no TV. The only one among us who had a TV was my cousin Stanley, who sold them. He hasn't yet sold one to any of the rest of the family, but he keeps trying. He knows it's only a matter of time. For, what isn't?
"I have a 10-inch screen," he tells us, a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth, a tall brown beer bottle at his elbow. He's sitting at the dining room table with the rest of the young men, playing pinochle. You'll notice that they have all, just for a little while, assumed the present tense. A Christmas present tense.
"They are never going to be able to make a screen bigger than 10 inches that will give you a decent picture," Cousin Stanley lectures. "According to the laws of electronics, 10 inches is as big as you can go."
The Army Air Corps gave Cousin Stanley a job fixing radios. That's where he got his electronic knowledge. So my Uncle Ziggy, who flushed out snipers on Okinawa, and my Cousin Melvin, who knocked out tanks in Italy, listen to Stanley with respect. Stanley -- the trumpeter of the dawn of the age of television.
By now, the tiny type has recorded Stanley's name. And Ziggy's. Melvin's, too. And my Aunt Ida's. Time killed them. The tanks couldn't do it and the snipers couldn't do it. But Time? It does it every time.
Time erased my cousin Billy's name. He crossed the Rhine River in the bloody, final act of his war. He lived through obscene and notorious battlefields. He died at 85 cutting wood in his front yard in Parma.
Time is the inevitable eraser, but it does not erase cleanly. If you look hard enough, you can still see traces of them all, faintly. And if you look even harder -- why they are right here!
The women are gathered in the living room, talking about babies and recipes and operations. Nylon stockings that have come back again, so you can throw the leg makeup away. Electric stoves that practically cook your meal for you. Jobs they can quit now -- are expected to quit now -- because the men have come back from the war.
Their woman talk would make a feminist despair. They talk of "female trouble" and permanent waves. And the Christmas crowds at Halle's and Taylor's and Bailey's. And the big Sterling-Lindner tree that looked even a little bigger this year. And Hough bake shop cookies. And trolley cars that turn on Public Square, showering the safety zones with a blizzard of sparks.
Jay Leno is not here. I told you, there is no television set, except the one Stanley is describing -- sketching it in the air with the smoke from his cigar. Nobody has bothered to turn the radio on. There is just talk -- endless, trivial, sometimes mysterious. Sometimes, if a kid comes into the room, the talk suddenly stops. "Ix-nay," one of the aunts will say. "Little pitchers have big ears." There are things, in this long-ago time, that a kid is not supposed to know about. If, for some unfathomable reason, anybody said the word "condom," it would take the room an hour to recover its equilibrium.
Where are the kids? Would you mind, my friend, if I went in search of myself? It won't take long. I know just where to look.
I am with my cousins in the unheated bedroom at the back of the old house. We are burrowing under the piles of coats that have been dumped on the bed. Moutons, mostly, with a few Persian lambs, for animals do not yet have rights. Just a glimpse of myself is all I want. I don't want to look too hard. Because for me, this trip is a wistful mirror.
The bedroom door opens and Aunt Ida is standing in a rectangle of light.
"You kids go into the living room now," she says. "Santa Claus is coming soon."
We go. And as soon as we leave, Aunt Ida opens a bureau drawer, reaches under some flannel sheets and pulls out a moth-eaten Santa Claus suit and a scraggly beard. The pants of this suit have long since disintegrated. So my Aunt Ida hikes up her dress and yanks on a pair of my uncle's blue serge pants. Over these she tugs galoshes.
She takes a pillow from the bed and plucks off the pillowcase. She stuffs the pillow under the Santa jacket to give herself a tummy. She fills the pillowcase with toys from Woolworth's, Kresge's and Grant's. She puts on the beard, the cap. She tiptoes out into the hall. Then out the back door and into the night -- air so cold it makes her nose sting, sky lit with a faint glow from the mills.
Around the house she goes and up on the side porch. She pauses and peeks in the window.
She sees what we see now. Me at 7. My young, handsome father and pretty mother.
(Death took my mother gently, during a nap. My father followed her the next year. But memory brings them back now, and makes them young again.)
On the frosty porch, my Aunt Ida sees us all -- the old folks, the young folks and the kids. Moving, though we can't feel the current, down a river of time.
We don't see her. She is on the other side of the dark windowpane. The adults know she's out there. We kids aren't sure. It's a moment of great suspense for us. We are not yet old enough to understand that life is fairly predictable. That you can usually tell what will happen next. That there are only a handful of plots, endlessly repeated.
I promised I'd get you back. But let me take a last look into that room. Almost all of the people we see there are gone now. But they haven't gone far, and on Christmas they are very close. They are just the other side of the windowpane.

We can't see them. But we feel them there, those simple people who loved us and took care of us. They left us blessings we too rarely count. And, if we let them, they come back at Christmas with gifts of everlasting life.

Saturday, November 22, 2014

August's 6th Birthday Poem

Happy 6th Birthday greetings to August Bender

Holy Moly, is August now 6 years old?
It seems like it was only yesterday he was five years old!
Time passes fast when we grow older, doesn’t it?
Well then, it must be time to celebrate, right?
Will there be surprises?
Will there be singing a ‘happy birthday August’ song?
Not many people have a birthday on Thanksgiving Day,
So let’s make it a special day.
Let’s recognize the many ways in which August is special;
He likes to swim in the water,
He likes to ride his bicycle,
He likes to climb up hills and other things,
He likes to build different things,
He likes to help his parents prepare meals,
He likes to teach sister Lucy new words and skills,
And, he likes to learn new things in school.
All in all, let’s take note that August is one special person,
And his Grandpa Bender is very proud to have him as his grandson.

I love you forever and a day,

Grandpa Bender

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Being Smitten

Being Smitten
By Nate Bender
11/20/2014

This short story is dedicated to my son Jonathan as an aid to his understanding the prelude to his birthing.  This is not to exclude others from enjoying the story.

Relationship attractions (being smitten) have long held my interests, partly out of having failed twice in sustaining a marital union with the same person, the mother of my only natural child.

Taking this story back to the beginning, it is the Fall term of 1964 at Pepperdine University in Los Angeles, marked by new beginnings athletically, academically and socially. Topping it off, it was the term that marked my entry into the travails surrounding being captured, or smitten, by a woman.  Okay, Ann was also smitten, making it a mutual smiting!

Three years previous, in my senior year of high school, I had my first, albeit short-lived, encounter with being smitten with a girl named Sara. 

Back to my story…..I was now on a roll after undergoing a reality-check in my failed Peace Corps launch.  I was on a full athletic scholarship, meaning virtually all expenses were taken care of including room and board, tuition, books and fees.  I even had a laundry money stipend. 

During the previous Spring-Summer months I had completed a four-month stint on the Southern Pacific Railroad as a fireman, earning more money than I ever imaged via ample amounts of overtime. 

In the face of being infused with dedicated momentum to keep my athletic scholarship and remain academically eligible, I became an object of affection.  This mutual allure marked my first intense experience with smitten-dom.  Because of my physical (6’8”) and emotional (unsophisticated) makeup, I’m sure pre-existing impediments served as deterrents in forming mutual attractions.

The initiator of this encounter was Ann Elizabeth Waggoner, from Caldwell, Idaho.  She forthrightly introduced herself to me at a social gathering of incoming students.  I had never experienced a forthright woman before, especially not emanating from a short (5’2”), blond and attractive one.  Back in those days it was uncommon for women to be the initiators in developing relationships.  That was suppose to happen after the catch was made and marriage was secured!  Since my initiator skills were not yet developed, Ann made it rather easy for me to explore the makings of an evolving relationship.

In short order, we became an ‘item’ on campus, studying together at the library, eating together in the cafeteria, and attending other school functions. 

Part of Ann’s allure was her being different in contrast to any girl I had previously met.  Besides her beauty-queen appearance she was a dancer, including ballet, who had been hired by the school to function as a choreographer for the school’s musical tour group, The Coraliers. 

Having a chance to observe her designing dance moves for the group, I became captivated by her artistry.  She also had an extensive musical background including voice.  Foremost, I was captured by her ability to make it easy for me to relate without feeling awkward or out of synch.  The result was blind infatuation!

The Fall term went by rapidly.  I began my basketball exploits, which included out of town travel and over the holiday periods.  Ann went back to Idaho for the term break, and never returned, which I didn’t fully understand at the time.  

Some way or somehow we were able to remain connected over the following two-year period.  We arranged a visit in early 1967 in Reno, Nevada where she was living with her sister and family. 

If there is such a thing as being re-smitten, it surely happened to me.  In short order, marriage was on the option table, resulting in an August wedding in Caldwell.  She then relocated with me to Los Angeles. 

The realities of forming a marital lifestyle and community of support showed its face in short order.  The glow of being smitten changed to a more sobering ambiance around the task of creating a mutually enriching existence. 

While we had no major disagreements during this first year of marriage, it became evident that something was amiss.  My lighthearted spirit shifted to an unexpressed fear and anxiety that we were unprepared for the rigors of marriage and had made a mistake in being married. 

Fortunately, an intercession occurred, shifting my focus on a new challenge.  I unexpectedly received a draft notice for induction into the Army.  Entering the Army offered both of us an opportunity to separate and regroup without being enemies.  Ann now had the freedom to return to college and create her vocational future.  This congenial state of affairs allowed us to remain friends and in contact over the ensuing four years while serving my tours of duty.

Chapter two of my smiting is found in a reconnection with Ann in December, 1974 when I was in graduate school in San Diego, California.  This time the smiting held an even more compelling thrust.  Shortly after our reunion we were remarried, in the absence of friends and family.  Our future together now held more concrete goals and purposes, including owning a home and creating a family. 

Ann had to relocate again, this time from her residence in Massachusetts.  We bought a house in the suburbs, and settled into a domestic life supported by my Army active duty scholarship.  This time around I felt we were more mature and capable of staying for the duration.

Once we settled into our home-making efforts and into a future via my military obligations, the obvious next step was to co-create an offspring, resulting in Jonathan’s birth in 1976.

Life and our marriage changed dramatically once we encountered the reality of military life as an Army psychologist.  After multiple moves, ending in Cleveland, Ohio, the uprooting processes began to show their effects on our relationship. 
Gone were the former dreams and goals.  Instead, Ann’s unhappiness dominated in her bemoaning the insufficiency of her identity as a wife.  Where marital therapy was clearly needed, it was never enacted.  When she ultimately expressed a desire to end our marriage, I was fraught with anger and grief in the face of yet another failure.  In 1981, after seven years of marriage, we separated and finally divorced in 1982.  Smitten-dom was officially over!

As an addendum, Ann died earlier this year with Jonathan in attendance.  May she RIP now.

The sequel to this story can be found in a previous short story involving Sandra, representing my deepest level of being smitten, ever, as she has been my endearing wife of nearing 30 years now!


So, what are the learning points to be gained from this unsettling journey from being smitten into two failed marriages?  (1)  A thriving and enduring marital union requires more than the initial infatuation of being smitten;  (2) Sustainable relationships require skills to address and bridge ever emerging pit falls;  (3) I was a slow student of marital success, but once I found the way, my life has been an unimaginable growth experience and a reentry into being smitten for real!

Sunday, November 9, 2014

Ode to Joy....


An Ode to Joy…err, Nick and Dallas!
By Nate Bender
11/7/2014


Joyful, Joyful, we adore them………
What’s not to adore about them?
Nick, the quintessential affirming leader,
Dallas, the story creator and book making formatter.
Quietly measured in their introverted skin,
Thoughtfully efficient they become in their results.
Leaders they are, sometimes from the rear,
Yet inspirational in elevating life story writings and compilations.
Both arrived on the OLLI Life Story scene with separate agendas;
Nick, to launch and lead a first time offering with enduring value,
Dallas, to expose and enrich his life story writing efforts.
Their arrivals may have separate beginnings,
However their talents were united in birthing a book,
An anthology of poems and short stories to be exact,
The final product emitting prideful joy in all the contributors!
Collectively, we hold respect, gratitude and even love
Toward you as human beings and for all that you have contributed.
Our lives have been touched and community ties have been formed.
Here’s to moving to the next phase, bearing witness to our collective enrichment.