"Okay, Okay, Carol, I Get Your Drift... Let's Get To It"...

Big Branch Marsh...

Well, it all didn't start out all that great a few mornings ago. I knocked over the coffee grounds that were set up for a new brew. I couldn't have just spilled it atop the kitchen counter. No, that would have made too much sense. Coffee grounds all over me, the counter top and the floor. Okay, it was no big deal. It's something can occur to anyone at anytime. The worse that could happen was that my first cup of CDM coffee would be delayed.

Later that morning, knowing I was gonna have to use my sunglasses, which kept sliding off my face, I grabbed two needle-nosed pliers and started to make the necessary adjustments when the left lense on my regular glasses fell out of the frame. Oh boy, this isn't looking good.

Of course, nothing looks good through one lens. So...

After pouring myself another cup of coffee, I went to my top dresser drawer where I have always stored that plastic case of six little screwdrivers for just such an occasion, but it wasn't there. Spending the next twenty minutes looking for that set of screwdrivers and then wasting another thirty  minutes finding another pair of reading glasses so I could fix my original glasses so I could finish adjusting my sunglasses before they fall off my head and end up in the lake, was gonna make me late for my appointment with the dermatologist.

I was a half an hour late, but the doctor managed to sneak me by the front desk and check me out. He seemed really happy with his efforts to do some minor surgery on a melanoma I had on my left forearm. He asked me if there was anything else he needed to check. I complained about a patch of seborrhea on my face and a swollen red patch on my left calve.

"Didn't we give Mr. Ben some topical medication for those concerns?" he asked the nurse. She nodded in the affirmative.

"Well, the doc asked, "Did you use those meds?"

"Uh... I didn't know that that was what it was for," I replied, feeling like a total idiot!

"It won't work, if you don't use it," he said with a rather sarcastic giggle.

Feeling like a complete idiot and not sure I wanted to inflict myself or anyone else with my discombobulated day, I called my friend Carol Hallock and attempted to cancel our afternoon painting date. The weather was foggy and cloudy most of the morning and Carol was hedging against  going at all. We had been planning this trip in a rather informal way back in early October, and it didn't seem like it was gonna happen at all. So, I called her.

"Hey Carol", I said,  I'm thinking about bowing out of this thing. My whole morning was a mess and it is still overcast here... What'dya think?"

"Well, I got the boat all packed and ready to go, so let's do it, she replied.

By the time I got to LaCombe, where Carol lives, the weather was nicer and really warm for a boat trip in December. For those who are unfamiliar with Carol's work here locally, most know that occasionally she takes her paints out to the bayou in a kayak to capture the moment from a different point of view.

Baby steps...

For now, we loaded my easel and paints in the boat and shoved off for the "high seas" and some vitamin D. About halfway to the point, where the river meets up with Lake Ponchartrain, Carol started having problems with the outboard motor. Naturally, the first thing I thought was my rotten morning luck was rubbing off on Carol. We drifted with a stalled engine for about five minutes until Carol figured out the problem and got that engine running smoothly again... Something about this switch she said as I breathed a big sigh of relief.

We landed on a small beach that separated the lake from the expansive marsh grass, and sat on our lounge chairs talking art, music, life and making a living as artists for about an hour while waiting for the clouds to clear out. Being the impatient kind, she pops up out of her chair, (and our conversation!) and declares that times a-wastin' and quips...

"A lot of people don't like cloudy days to paint, but I don't mind. I kinda like the moodiness!"

Reluctantly, I arise...

A head start...

"Okay, okay, Carol, I get your drift... Let's get to it."

I set up about forty yards south of Carol and when I returned to take a few photos to capture the sunlight that bounced in and out of the clouds, Carol had already set up her palette for the day and was painting. I took a few pics and she took one of me and then we went about our separate ways interpreting the light, the clouds, the water and the marsh grass.

From where I painted...

I must have changed the sky four or five times by the end of the day. We started our paintings around 1:30 and called it a day around 4:30. I must admit that after three hours I had very little accomplished to my satisfaction. Carol had two 8"x 10"s completed. We packed up the plantation, and headed back home, and as the sunset illuminated the entire sky and bayou, we lamented not being with our easels capturing the moment. We arrived at Carol's dock almost at dusk, unloaded the plantation, and decided to celebrate the end of the day Mexican style at a local LaCombe restaurant.

Before we did that, Carol pulled out her paints and, in the kitchen, she started adding, smearing, pushing and cajoling the oil paint around to her liking. I am always flattered when she asked for my opinion, as she often does when we work together. And, though we both took our paintings home, we each put in a bit more work, just refining what was already there. Of course, I'm sure I spent more time noodling my refinements over the past weekend than Carol did.

Chowing down our Mexican feast, smelling of oil paint, sea salt and suntan lotion, I hoisted my second margarita and toasted to our success saying...

"I'm glad we finally got to do this!" I've enjoyed every drop of these two margaritas and every moment painting with you!"

Copyright 2014/Ben Bensen III

"C'est La Vie," Oue Sera, Sera, and What It Is, Is What It Is!"

Mom Booga-loos it!

More than a week ago, I lost two good friends. One, Bernie David, was 67 years old and died quite unexpectedly while having minor heart surgery and the other, AnneMarie Burgard, fought cancer for over two years. She was 62 years old. Although Anne was very aware of her condition, she rarely spoke about the many chemos she must have endured unless the results of such treatments made it hard to disguise to anyone.

But, Anne was very cool about her condition accepting what she could, graciously answering the myriad of questions we all had to ask. Her faith and her family gave her the courage to continue the fight. Like my wife, Anne was a very intense and dedicated teacher, who was always talking about the trials and tribulations of her students. She really cared about them. Over the period of a year, she'd show up at our weekend breakfasts at Gus's in Folsom regardless of her physical and emotional condition and would eventually end up talking about her class.

AnneMarie at a polo event in May!

Somehow, she had us all believing that she would somehow survive this terrible disease. The last time I saw AnneMarie she was having breakfast with the gang, but had a hard time speaking. What I heard her say was that on Monday, she was going to the hospital for three days of testing.

The news, at first, was very encouraging, but as the days grew into weeks, eventually she would relapse to the point where she was sent to stay at her mother's home in New Orleans. I guess we were all in denial.

Bernie, was a retired oil man, who traveled extensively while employed with various oil companies. Being financially set in retirement, he taught himself to play the accordion, Cajun style. He was also very much into his heritage and discovered not only his Cajun roots, but also his M'kmac Indian roots and celebrated it every chance he got. He loved giving seminars about Indian life in Acadiana as well as Nova Scotia and Acadia. As one would expect, Bernie loved entertaining and making people smile which naturally brings the many stories of his life like playing on the steamboat, Natchez, playing on a street corner in the French Quarter, playing at crawfish gatherings in Acadiana, or playing at the local library.

Mom, Bernie and me at Bastille Day celebration.

One evening, Bernie saw us having dinner at Gus's, which we rarely do. He said he was concerned about his lack of breath whenever he did something strenuous. A week later, he told me that the tests had found a nodule on his lung and a clogged artery that would need attention.

"Ben, what it is, is what is, you know? I just wanna get all this behind me and play my music. That's the most important thing for me, at this time of my life... to play my music!"

He went in for surgery on October 8 and never returned home. Bernie passed away a day before Anne did.

A week ago today, I took my mom and met my wife at a Mexican restaurant. The deaths really had me in a funk, and the rest of the week did not go so well either. It was time to chill out and maybe get drunk, if that's what was called for. Though I'm not one for losing control of myself, saying so was my way of acquiescing... to everything!

After ordering another double margarita, my wife questioned my decision to have another.

"C'est la vie," I replied. That's what Chuck Berry said the "old folks say!"

 "It goes to show, you never can tell!"

And, you can't. It was a beautiful evening with a nice, cool breeze. We had dinner and a few margaritas, but really had not much else to say to one another other than compliment the food. Basically, we just sat and witnessed the sun setting down on a wretched week.

Good riddance, I thought.

Having finished our dinner, as we left the outdoor patio, and walked back into the restaurant, a solo musician was playing his version of Richie Valens," La Bamba" in two thirds waltz time. I laughed and told my mother that the guy was playing a very familiar song but in waltz time. She suddenly decided to dance a kinda of jig as she shuffled her way to the woman's bathroom. My wife gingerly escorted her, as I walked out to the car which was conveniently parked in a handicapped spot just outside the entrance door and waited.

"When I was just a little boy, I asked my mother what would I be?"

Hearing the opening lines of that song, I closed my eyes and slumped down onto the hood of the car. How strange it was that two of my friends were gone and my eighty-eight year old mother is dancing her way to the restroom alive and kicking. How do you make any sense of all of this?

What was it? Good genes? Maybe. Moderate life style? No way, not my mom. Drinking? No! Smoking? Well, actually yes. She did smoke until I promised to stay in college if she stopped smoking! But, smoking all those years didn't seem to have an adverse affect on her.

What is it? Luck of the Irish? No, she's French!

As I was struggling to figure this all out, trying hard not to embrace all those religious cliches about death, despair and destruction, the words of the song that the mistral was playing became more poignant.

"Aw man, this is all too much," I said as I sat up from the hood of the car. And when I did, I noticed my mother was booga-looing her way to exit the restaurant with Therese holding her arms out to catch mom should she lose count on her "waltz time."

"Man, the human spirit," I thought, "it's never gone in people even when they are. It kinda lives on in all of us!"

 I opened the car door for my mother, and smiled as I heard the third chorus of the song...

"Will I be handsome, will I be rich? Here's what she said to me..."

"Que sera, sera, what ever will be, will be,"

The future's not ours to see, "Que sera, sera, What will be, will be..."

Copyright 2012-2013/Ben Bensen III