There is a void in my life, I have to admit it. Every time I drive into Woodstock there is still a part of me that says, “Maybe I’ll run into Ben?”
This was the pattern of my life for several years: I would drive into town for a coffee or to check my email at the library — and sure enough — there he would be, either driving by in his pickup (in which case we would both pull over to chat) or sitting at a computer terminal, or walking to his truck. There he would be, with his serious, gentle smile. Even though I know he’s gone, a part of me still says: Maybe I’ll run into Ben? In some ways, I guess I still do, by encountering the people and friends that he knew, by visiting the places that he visited. But it’s not the same.
During our next-to-last encounter, I met Ben down by the bank sitting on a bench. I talked to him for a while and I was very concerned, because he seemed so thin, but I didn’t ask what was happening and he didn’t tell me. He just wanted to show me his latest carpentry job. So we walked over to the house that years ago belonged to Una Kilty, the grandmother of another friend of mine. Interestingly, this was also the site of my first “job” in Woodstock in 1991: fixing her screen door. Ben was working on some of the woodwork inside: door and trim and such. He was proud of what he was doing and wanted to show me. Looking back now I can see how he was hiding the knowledge of his illness from me. Our last interactions were very gentle and kind. Ben could be very kind.
Over the years of our friendship, I never called him, because he didn’t have a phone, or the phone that he eventually had was just for his VIP friends or clients. We did email every now and then.
Our way of meeting was always by chance, but since we were both Woodstock “be-abouts” I knew I would always be sure to see him soon enough. One interesting thing about our encounters was that we were always by ourselves, alone. That was something we shared in common, we were both solitary creatures, private. Every now and then I would see him with a friend in his truck, laughing (Ben was very, very funny). But usually I would see him alone, like me, content to just be out in the world, out in Woodstock, looking around. In reality I think Ben was much more social than I was, he seemed to know a lot more people. Since he didn’t have a phone, we joked for years about hanging a clipboard on a local telephone pole to write messages and notes to each other. I actually bought the clipboard but never followed through with it because I decided that I didn’t want other people reading our correspondence.
I have seen this interesting phenomenon in other situations over the course of my life, and such was the case with Ben: Ben was a thinker, and thinkers tend to find each other: they take notice of each others’ quiet, pensive demeanor over time, often looking at the ground as they walk, and eventually they cautiously and tentatively strike up an acquaintance. I have been described as a writer, but I think of myself more as a thinker, and that’s definitely what Ben was. When I first met him, we were both living up in Lake Hill. I was in a rooming house and Ben was living and working at the home of a woman who owned horses and baked pies. I would frequently see him walking down 212, looking down at the ground. I think maybe I was the first to reach out. This was about 2009 or so, I had just made some business cards by typing my name and phone number on some squares of birch bark with my Smith Corona typewriter. I handed one to Ben and I think he liked it.
I’m not going to be so presumptuous as to suggest that I had any kind of influence on him, but all I can say is that after I took him on a couple rides in my handmade cedar strip canoe, the next thing I knew he was building his own strip built kayak; after we drove around in my 86 Ford F-150, Ben was buying an 86 Bronco; after I went back to school for archaeology he began exploring Woodstock with a metal detector. All I can really take from this is that we were kindred spirits. We had a similar intensity, curiosity and vulnerability to the world and to each other. I wanted to help Ben in his journey as much as I could, so in the last few years every time I would see him I would tell him to start planning to move away from carpentry, because the body can only handle it for so long. That’s what I did, and if someone had told me that you can get paid to go to grad school I would have done it much sooner. I kept telling him that he was an artist, but he was too much of an artist to accept that. He always had an interesting book or two on hand. I also really think he was an anarchist in his political temperament, but he was also too much of an anarchist to accept that as well. So, he really was a true anarchist; not the window-smashing stereotype but rather the free-thinker, the person who thinks for himself. Ben seemed to take this to an extreme (and I think that was another commonality between us), he seemed to need to rethink and rediscover the world on his own terms. His discoveries and insights were often very interesting, and he would say things and offer observations that were totally unique. Whenever I would offer advice, he would often brush off my suggestions, but I could also tell that he was listening, taking note. Ben was very observant, he was a thinker.
I’ll never forget the day, when working on a house together, during lunchtime, I went into town to get some pizza slices and Ben just walked the opposite way, out into the woods. I came back with my pizza and Ben came back with a plate of cattail shoots. They were delicious — I have to admit they were better than the pizza.
We always met by chance, it was never planned. Whenever we met I knew I could always make him laugh by speaking Minnesotan, with long “O’s” and “ya sure ya betcha” and other references to cows and snow and such. He always loved that, I think it made him feel at home a bit. I am writing this as I am just about to fly to Madison, Wisconsin, where my mother and brother live. That was another strong commonality between us: our status as misplaced Midwesterners. I did not grow up there, but my parents did and I’ve spent many years there. Seeing Ben would always kind of make me feel at home, too. It’s hard to explain. Well, it’s not hard, really, it would just take several more pages. The best way to understand is just to go to Wisconsin, sit at a cafe and listen to the people: how quiet, gentle and funny they are, like Ben.
There are many, many more stories, more vignettes, but maybe I should just leave it at that. Ben was a good guy. I miss him.
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