My Dad Loved to Dance...

Dad and my cousin, Patricia Fortier, hoofing it...

My Dad loved to dance. I once asked him, feeling that he and my mom were so incompatible when I was a teenager, what made them decide to spend their lives together. I never could understand what they had in common, except arguing. Well, truth be told, my mom was always the one yelling and carrying on. Nevertheless, his answer was, "Your mother is an excellent dancer and that is how we met!"

Three weeks ago, I took my mom over to a fancy party on the lakefront where she shared old times with "that old gang of mine" ( the TOGOMS social group ) and every woman who knew mom would pull me over to the side to tell me what a  GREAT COUPLE  they were!

"Oh, you mean, on the dance floor," I replied.

"Son, could your father ever cover the entire floor! I don't know how your mother could keep up with him!" "It is only because so many other ladies wanted to dance with him that your mother ever got a breather," one well kept octogenarian said. I was a bit taken back, when she asked me,"Do you dance?"

Well, here are some pictures from 1996 of my father enjoying a dance or two with my cousin, Patricia, who is a professional trainer and Zumba instructor. Dad and mom were celebrating their 50th Wedding Anniversary at that time. Dad did dance often with mom, but I swear, I still don't know how the hell they made it that long together... I guess it must have been... all that dancing!

Until Now...

A sketch assemblage of one of Folsom's many Cowgirls...

This is a cut and paste study of a woman I have tried to sketch, in bits and pieces, over the past few months. Actually longer than that...

I first met Jenny years before Katrina and naturally, I met her at Gus's restaurant in the village of Folsom. I was taken back by her gruff manners, loud voice and the fact that she walked right in and made a fresh pot of coffee as if she owned the place. The adage about "book covers" resonated in my mind which made me feel guilty for prejudging her. Unfortunately, the cover was all that was needed  to entertain myself wondering how she'd look dressed to the nines, with makeup on, in high heels and a slinky black strapless evening gown. I wondered what hairstyle would she wear? I don't think I have ever seen her without a horse themed baseball cap on her head. Her scruffy, blonde white hair, crooked spectacles, missing tooth and leathery, sun bleached skin was, at first, a sight to behold and quite frankly, still is.

Now, when I was young, after having fallen off a horse twice in one day, I was consoled by a Texas cowboy that told me it takes at least ten times falling off before you can be called a true cowboy. If that is truly the case, then John Wayne's got nothing on me. For I have fallen off more horses in more states to qualify me as cowboy extraordinaire ten times ten. But that's a story for another time. Suffice to say, a horse is one of God's most eloquent designs especially when, for no reason or for the pure joy of it all, they just take off and run. Over time, I became fascinated by the many urban cowboys and true country cowpokes that daily drop by the restaurant for a cup of coffee and a bit of conversation about their favorite subject, horses. The restaurant is always full of horse people, cowboys and plowboys, rednecks and rejects, winners and losers, those that ride and those that own, barrel racers, jumpers, rounders and recreationals, all talking that talk.

Jenny is one of about five women I have befriended over the years that are professional riders or caretakers of the equine. And it comes as no surprise that Jenny is the most eccentric.

"I've been around animals all of my life. In the old country, ( Holland ) my daddy taught me how to ride bareback at the age of three," she said. By the time I was ten, I was trained to be a jumper. Daddy would put a coin between my knees as I sat atop the saddle and told me to make sure it was still there after the horse made the jump! He'd pay me double if I was successful, but owned him double if I let the coin fall to the ground!"

She said with a nod of her head and a toothy smirk, "He was tough on me! I was the youngest of twelve brothers and sisters and I had to prove myself worthy of their respect every day... and of the horses."

"You have to earn the respect of the horse as well," I inquired.

"Of course, she said, that's the trouble with the horse industry...it's about winnings. They don't respect animals, they don't care about the horses. They're not there for them. They don't understand 'em. You see this year's prize, Zendatta?"

And so for the next half hour or so, just enough time to finish another cup of coffee, Jenny went on and on about Zendatta's training regiment, and how the jockey misunderstood the horse's style of running and what he'd do over to win the race if he had a second chance. She went on about breeding and maintenance, about the financial state of racing, about calcium in the soil and how horses get nourish- ment and the nutritional differences of thoroughbreds and other breeds... and on and on.

Seems like few people have the hands on knowledge as someone like Jenny. It's not just her job, it is her entire life. All seventy years of dedication.

I always knew horse racing was an expensive sport, but I never realized that there was so much involved in the details of owning and caring for horses till I met Jenny. But then, until now, I never really saw past the cover.

What A Great Tribute And Why Didn't I Think Of That?

A sketch with tone for a later painting!

A few years back my high school baseball coach passed away. Wilfred "Skeeter" Theard coached many kids over his long and illustrious career. Anyone in New Orleans who was casually or intensely involved in baseball for the last four or five decades knew, revered and loved the irascible coach. I played for him for three years as did my more talented brother, Tony. My father, who played ball with Skeets when they were in the Evangeline League, told me that Skeeter got his moniker by being real good ball player for his age and, for being so small... small and pesky, like a mosquito.

At his funeral, half the local baseball world was there. Former ballplayers, professional and amateur, sportscasters, journalists, coaches, nuns, teachers, colleagues and old friends all came to show their respect and share stories about the coach that are only half truths; the stuff that makes ordinary people legendary. For sure, Skeets was a legend even as he lived. Busted bats repaired with brads and tape, restitched covers on baseballs, recycled uniforms, having the team search the entire field to find one lost baseball were only the beginning of the many stories that abound!

My two brothers came to pay their respects while my younger brother, now a physician, came with an used baseball. It was one of those grass stained balls that had seen better days with scratch marks, cuts and scuffs, but was still in great "Skeeter-Shape".  I was surprised to see it in his hands because Bob never ever played a sport that involved a ball. At an early age, Bob was myopic and I think it bothered him most of his life that of a family of eight, he was the only one who didn't play the game. Yet, there he was, dressed in a suit with that baseball in his hand. He came up to me and asked me to sign the it. I was as flattered as I was confused. When I looked at the ball, I noticed that it had other signatures on it. Other signatures that I recognized and some that I didn't. In my best Mickey Mantle imitation, I had scribbled my autograph on the ball. Bob smiled and then passed the ball around for others to sign. Soon, the ball was almost completely black and blue with signatures as he invited me and my brother to walk up to the casket and join him along with his two sons to respectfully set the baseball next to Skeet's rosary draped hands.

"The Egyptians used to leave their loved ones, as well as Pharaohs, with gifts for the afterlife," he said. "I thought this would be a appropriate gift for Skeeter." I was blown away. What an incredible thing to do, I thought. A baseball signed by many of the ball players he either played against, played with or coached and taught the love of the game. Bob never even played the sport and nor did his children, but he hit a home run on that day.

"Bob, I said, as my eyes started to well up,"That's such an incredible idea. With all these ballplayers here, why didn't any of them think of that?" What a great tribute!

And... come to think it, why didn't I?

 Copyright 2011_Ben Bensen III

Opening Day Thoughts...

Three Generations of Baseball

Every spring, Opening Day of Baseball brings with it a flood of memories, good, and sometimes, not so good. Many books have been written by journalists, sportcasters, fans and sports aficionados, waxing eloquent about the rites of spring, renewal, the natural cycle of life and the many comparisons of life to baseball. Some parallel the absurd, some can put a lump in one's throat or make a grown man misty eyed. Comedian, George Carlin, had a funny take comparing the pastoral nature of baseball to the aggressive attitude of football. It is the first day of baseball and with 181 more games to go,  every player on every team, today, is batting a thousand. For me, I celebrate the event with Chablis, sushi and scorecards. Three or four games are scheduled on television, and I plan to watch all of them, even if, by the end of the third game, the wine will make a mess of my score keeping.

I come from a baseball family, but so far, only my dad was able to make it to minor leagues with high hopes of a major league career before the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Four years of jungle warfare, where Dad contracted malaria, stole his baseball prime right from under his four fingered glove. He grew up in the depression and corroborates hard time stories with many of his friends about playing ball with taped string, rocks, bottle caps and anything one could throw or catch. Stickball was all they had and if you had your own sawed off broom handle as a bat, you cherished it. My grandfather started a club for kids, like my Dad, to help them compete in a healthy and supervised way. TOGOMS was the name of the club which stood for That Ole Gang Of Mine and apparently is still a viable get together for many of the older folks. Then, before it was printed "ad nauseum" on tee shirts, baseball really was life!

My uncle also played ball most of his life and only stopped when, at thirty-six, he broke his ankle sliding into third base in a company softball tournament. My Dad's dad always had a quarter or two for batting five hundred in a game. Gramps was pretty much a miser, but loved his beer, his cee-gars and to sit behind those chicken wire fenced ballparks on wooden bleachers and aggravate the umps. The smell of freshly cut grass, of leather, of beer, cigars, popcorn, and hotdogs wafting in the air was a smell I can never forget. Man, so many memories to look back on and such a rich heritage even just within our own family.

I never felt good about under achieving in the field of play. I wasn't a poor player. I was quite good, but I never consistently excelled falling victim to those late season slumps which always seemed let Dad down. Being consistent in baseball is very much valued in the game and is a continuing process of learning, coping with failure, over coming frustration, and eventually finding success through repetition and practice. When I was a teenager, he'd occasionally pass by my room, see my glove on the bed post, and see me with my guitar learning some new riff or chord progression and mumble while shaking his head for effect, " Not an athlete in the family... not a one!" Although the word, "mantra" was never a part of our family's vocabulary, my father always said to me, whenever he felt it was somehow appropriate,"Ben, every time you pick up a baseball, you learn something new!"

When our son, Brian, was a baby, I struggled with how to be a better baseball dad. My temporary solution was to ignore it. This father is an artist and that's that! Of course, as Brian grew up and started to play ball games with his friends, his talent became almost impossible to ignore. Our friends would come over and tell us about our kid's single mindedness. Even at an early age, Brian was so intense about ball games. At that time, Brian's opinion of dad was that he was an artist who occasionally strummed the guitar and ran around an oval track for some unknown reason. Eventually, I felt it was hypocritical and very selfish of me to deny him of the same heritage I had been so exposed to. I guess I just didn't want to fail. The question of conscience was definitively decided when, at nine years of age, Brian's "coach" was sitting in the stands, sucking on a chili dog and hitting on a little leaguer's divorced mom.

I got involved. And, on this Opening Day of Baseball, I can look back and honestly say that not one day went by that I did not totally enjoy my time playing and coaching baseball with Brian and all of the other great, Little Leaguers I had the privilege to coach and be a part of their lives. I can only hope that my son doesn't think less of himself because he did not "fulfill" his dad's hopes and dreams for him. I did not want this "goes around, to come back around."

Most of us, including me and my son, had baseball dreams that never got passed high school or junior college. Still, baseball has such a way of magnetizing one to the game forever. It is a game to be savored, slowly. If you so choose, you can blithely stare at the tv till you pass out, or you can intensely analyze each and every pitch, even three pitches ahead. You know, the what if's! I guarantee that if you are knowledgeable enough to be really into the game with a scorecard, you'll be exhausted by the fifth and longing for the seventh inning stretch. It is that kinda game!

Later in life, I am sure, while playing catch with his grandchildren, fingering those 108 stitches on the ball, in time, taught Dad a thing or two about the game of life and about himself. He never mentioned his attitude toward me about my baseball shortcomings. He never apologized though I came to realize an apology wasn't necessary. I know he thought a lot about it but felt it too awkward to address. For years, I kept a major league baseball in the car to occasionally pick up, toss up in the air or spin,  handling it as a curve, slider, two or four seam fastball. Rub it against my face and smell the game and reflect back.  For many very personal reasons, I stopped the tradition. Life can make you a bitter sonofabitch which makes it hard to see the good. Maybe that's what Dad was intimating. The ball was a gentle reminder that you never stop learning... if not the game, at least, about yourself.

Opening day, 2011. A new season and another shot at the pennant. Today, everybody's a winner. Maybe, I'll find that ragged, old baseball, dirty and worn out, and put it back in the car. Or maybe, I'll start anew with a bright, shiny, white one and set it on the dashboard. You know, you can never stop learning!




Copyright Ben Bensen III/ 2011

Well, It's Certainly Cheaper 'den Golf...

Jury Duty Sketch on 3/14/2011

As mentioned in an earlier blog post, I was cordially invited under pain of death, to participate in one of everyone's favorite civic responsibilities, Jury Duty. I really don't mind doing it, but in eleven summons to appear, I have been accepted as a juror only once and that was in a divorce case that never really got to trial. Seems the young couple decided to try to work it out on their own, hugging and sobbing on their way out of the courtroom door. The romantic in me thought their efforts to kiss and make up it quite beautiful, but the cynic in me says they probably reconciled their differences when they realized the financial implications of a separation or a divorce.

I wonder if, after two years, they are still married!

Nevertheless, this is one of the few good drawings I have to show from the first and only day in the waiting room. An elderly man was explaining, to another potential juror, all about his backyard garden experiences and what he had harvested so far this year and what he has growing now. Fertilizer organics, soil amendments, rotating crops, controlling critters and something about irrigation arrived at my seriously inexperienced eavesdropping abilities in audio bits and pieces. I was seated two rows behind this verbose plow boy and could hear his conversation but couldn't quite decipher what was being said. American English with a Cajun twist is an acquired taste that takes a period of time to adjust to and... a six pack of Tabasco. So, since I couldn't understand him very well, I decided to just sketch him. I think I caught his "cajun-ess" pretty well.

I did hear, as he got up to shuffle to one of the courtrooms, his parting comment,"Aaaay, it's certainly cheaper 'den golf, I tell you 'dat!

What is a King Cake and Who Swallowed the Baby Jesus... A Poll.

"Baby Jesus" doll revealed in a slice of King Cake.

Well, I have had such an overwhelming response to my "Baby Jesus" Mardi Gras post, I felt I owed it to my friends, far and wide, to complete the story even though some may be giving up the tasty treat for Lent. Sorry, I have no Beelzebubian motives to entice one from their commitment forty days from Easter Sunday, but I have been walking around with this scrap of paper in my vest pocket from the New Orleans Times/Picayune's Inside Lagniappe section for almost a month.

In that section, an unofficial poll was taken. The question asked was, "Have you ever hid the baby in your napkin, so you didn't have to bring the king cake to the next party? ( and I swear this is actually printed in the paper...dated March 4, 2011 )

23% of those questioned said, "Yes, I admit it"... while 60% said," No, I would never do that" and 17% had "No comment" or pleaded the fifth amendment. I was amazed, but I would have been even more amazed if the pollsters inquired...

"Have you ever or will you ever have cause to "Swallow 'da Baby Jesus?"

A Different Ashes to Ashes Kinda Story...

 

A few days ago, as my aged mom was getting ready to go see another doctor for yet another test, I walked just four doors down the block to 5115 Music Street and snapped these photos. Yes, if you ask, was this damage caused by Katrina and subsequent flood of 2005, but to me, it represents so much more. 

For this was a house that was once the home to one of my childhood friends whose husband just recently passed away after fighting a lifetime of physical ailments. It also was a place I spent many a summer day learning how to hold a hammer, screw in a screw by hand and tighten a bolt with the right wrench. I learned how to handle a variety of hand saws, correctly measure lengths, shop for the right kind of lumber, hang drywall, plaster and putty and paint and plumb and tons of other skills that have come in handy over my adult life. But most of all, it is where I earned my weekly allowance.

I came early over to this house, in order to have some breakfast including the obligatory cooked prunes and if you were late, you were just out of luck. My chores were sweeping up leaves and debris, cutting and edging lawns, trimming box woods, hydrangeas, legustrums and other assorted bushes, flowers and plants as well as, annually touch up the bird bath with acrylic paint. For my services, I received just enough money to get on my bike and ride a couple of miles to the hobby shop where I would completely blow the mornings wages on paint, glue and the latest model airplane kit. At that age, my hero artists were John Steel, Bill Campbell, Jo Kotula, Jack Leynnwood and Tom Morgan because they were the ones who painted those gorgeous model box covers for companies like Revell, Aurora, Monogram, Airfix, Bachmann, Lindbergh, Hawk, and RenWal. Besides the John Nagy, "Learn to Draw" set, I learned much from building and especially painting the models to look as close as I could to what I saw on the boxtop.

This house also doubled as a garage studio where four teenagers would listen to records, record the lyrics and practice our chops when my dad had enough of us practicing in his garage. It is also, at the age of sixteen, where I had an appendicitis attack under the house tightening a water pipes in the dead of summer.

Although I know I have photos, it would take me a month of Sundays to find a picture of how this house once looked in its prime around 1965. It would be decades before I would ever see the inside of the house I spent so much of my youth living and learning in, helping fix up and sharing the good and the bad times. They say you should never go back and memories are better left in black and white, and I concur, but it is really hard to see this house this way, this house, a home once owned by my maternal grandparents, Pops and Cecilia Fortier. And in many ways, as they say, it is indeed, hard to grow old!