Body of Evidence . . .

You can call this the anatomy of what is no more. And you can read it if you like, but understand that it's something that came to me after reading a case history of what a woman did upon watching her longtime husband take his last breath. All of you have, or will someday, go through the same thing. So if this gives you a heads up, that's all it's meant to do. It's not in any way, manner, or form, meant to be depressing. It's just a day late and a dollar short. I'll call it a tribute to Ben. (No, you don't just "get over it". Thoughts still crop up once in awhile. And that's A-okay.)


Go back to December 18, 2009 ~

As I sat there listening to Ben's labored breathing in his final hours, I wish I had softly told him what every inch of him meant to me, starting with that beautiful white hair that I cut for almost 30 years. When I'd put the hair cloth around him and fire up the clippers, he used to say he'd rather go to the dentist! But you know what? He also told me that he'd never had a barber do as good of job as I did, and I knew he meant it. He was always clean and neatly groomed, which included his penchant for shaving with foam and a blade. He said his face had to be as "soft as a baby's butt", and it was.

Under that white hair was a unique brain. From it came careful and methodical thought processes in every thing he did, from desk work to his outside endeavors. It also had a handle on the Golden Rule. I'm not just prejudiced . . . Ben was one of the kindest, most thoughtful people I have ever known. On the rare occasions he said something unkind about anyone, I knew they probably deserved it. Ben did get in some college, but he was mostly self-taught. Sometimes I think that's the best kind.

Those hazel eyes . . . I could always read them. He couldn't get by with a thing! They always reflected his thoughts. I have an 8X10 photo of him that I took when we had breakfast at JB's one morning after church. (It was on his Iowa memorial program and is at the bottom of this page) It's one of those where he looked right into the lens, so his eyes follow me everywhere. Now I'm the one who can't get by with anything!

I'd sometimes tease him about the little round end of his nose, and he'd counter with how mine looked like a ski slope. I don't think it does, but I let him have the last say. I'll always remember how I could tell when he was intently listening to someone . . . he'd put his index finger on the tip of that nose.


I wish I'd listened more to the advice and wisdom that came out from between his lips. Sometimes I was one of those who was too intent on thinking I knew all I needed to know.  But happily, his messages made it through! I'm just sorry it took losing him for me to realize it.

He always fudged on his height, squeezing in that extra half inch! But he didn't need to . . . to me he was the tallest man I knew. After he got on in years, it started to bug him that our eyes were even with each other. He'd always say I had higher heels on. ;)


In the heat of things, I'd forgotten that Ben wanted to be an organ donor. Someone later told me that they probably wouldn't accept most of his parts because of the cancer. But let me tell you . . . if someone had received his heart, I know it would have been just fine. It was as good as gold. He was one of those rare guys who would shed a tear at certain movies, apologize when he knew he needed to, listen thoughtfully to both sides, and always befriended the "strays", be they animal or man. 


He had skilled hands, and he loved to work with wood. I always liked to watch him work on something, whether it was a wood project, plumbing, or electrical, and I'm glad I did. I learned his methodical thoroughness. I'm still amazed when I look around and see all of the things he did to make our lives easier and just plain better.


I know there are others who are good at what they do, but this is about Ben . . . the epitome of a good husband, father, grandpa, uncle, friend, fixer, fisherman, conversationalist, and more. I feel lucky to have known him for all those years, and not a day goes by that I don't miss him and all of his idiosyncrasies.


Incomparable.