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The Soldier and the Squirrel introduces children to the Purple Heart

through a loving story of a friendship between a newly wounded soldier

and Rocky the squirrel with his backyard friends. This story began as a

blog during my first year in bed after my incident. With much

encouragement, it is now a book and has been placed in the

Ronald Reagan Presidential Library & Museum. Please watch the video

on the About page to learn for the Soldier & Rocky are changing children's

lives.

 

ORDER NOW

 

 

In 2018, Bensko founded Veterans In Pain - V.I.P. Facilitating OrthoBiologic solutions for Veterans suffering from chronic pain, by connecting volunteer physicians with our country's heroes, nationwide. 

V.I.P. is a Platinum Certified GuideStar Nonprofit, and Certified Resource of Wounded Warrior Project.  

501(c)3 EIN# 83-0600023

www.VeteransInPain.org 

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Wednesday
Jan232013

Being Betty Crocker

Betty CrockerI am no Betty Crocker. I get out the brownie mix. Set it on the counter. Look at the directions. Three steps. I can do this. Water, eggs, and vegetable oil. But I need a bowl. I open the cabinet where I keep my mixing bowls. I have way too many bowls for somebody who rarely mixes anything but her metaphors. I do brownies, and cupcakes. I tried to bake a cake one time for my daughter’s birthday. It wasn’t a very pretty pony.

There will come a day when I will bake something that doesn't come in a box. I want to bake like my mom. Like Betty Crocker. Why is it that I have had four children and have very little ability to bake anything that doesn't come in a box? Who was Betty Crocker anyway, and why can’t I be more like her? So I Googled "Betty Crocker", to discover how to become more like her. I was flabbergasted. It turns out Betty Crocker never even existed. According to one website, "In the 1910's, The Washburn Crosby Company received thousands of requests for answers to baking questions. In 1921, managers decided that it would be more intimate to sign the responses personally; they combined the last name of a retired company executive, William Crocker, with the first name “Betty,” which was thought of as “warm and friendly.”

I am horrified and liberated at the same time. Betty Crocker wasn't real. I am free from the guilt of trying to be someone, that never lived.

The oven is preheating, the air filling with the aroma of a remnant from last week’s cupcakes stuck to the bottom of the oven. I like to refer to this as re-baking. It will go away in a minute.

The 8x8 square pan sits on my counter, the pack of instant brownie powder resting limp over its lip like a slumbering sack of possibility. The eggs are still in the refrigerator. The vegetable oil in the cabinet. But it’s a start. I will bake. But until then I will sit with this moment at my computer with an unexpected peace that I no longer need worry that I'm not like Betty. Now I focus on how to bake more like my mom.

 

Monday
Jan212013

A Quote for The Edit

"A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines and a machine no unnecessary parts."

Saturday
Jan192013

Feed-ing Acapulco

I love acapella, but could never spell it. Until I wrote this. I was going to write about how much I love it, until spell-check brought up Acapulco. Then I wondered, why am I not in Acapulco? In a swimsuit, laying on white sand with my stomache sucked in 'just so'. Taking pictures of my manicured toes so I can Facebook my moment of euphoric bliss. I would post it, but not to make my friends feel bad. It would be because perfect moments so rarely happen, that with them comes the urge to scream to the world that something good is happening. That there is a moment somewhere in the world where life is ok. For a moment. Like when you hear good Acapella. If I were in Acapulco listening to acapella I might just split in two with happiness. As long as it's good acapella. Otherwise it would be like having food poisoning at the opera.

My heart swells when something good happens. It's a visceral reaction to tell the world that it occurred. That life's not all bad. It's not all flu and catfish. There's good out there. That never makes the news. That's why we have Facebook.

I Facebook when I want to feel good. Where I can look at other people's toes and feel a delicious jealousy reserved for hope. The kind of hope mankind could use. When most of the news is sad. It's amazing how the heart can ache, like two sides of a coin. How love and hate can come from the same place. I don't want to turn away from what's wrong with the world. Otherwise it will never change. But isn't it a glorious thing when we can stop to revel in something that's right? Like my friend's upcoming trip to Secrets. An image of new school in Haiti. My neighbor's children holding eachothers' shoulders in a photo from Disneyland, even if they didn't speak the day before. For that moment, a mother sees her children how her heart sees them. Perfect. Even if the world will never see what she does, posting it on Facebook says she cares about what others think of her life. I do. It's so hard to be alive and do it right. To live a life we were raised to live in magazines. My mother had Red Book. I have Pinterest. Which both inspires and depresses me. Like learning to spell acapella but not being able to do it.

So I live for the moments that aren't set by experts, but just my friends finding moments of perfection in their own lives that are beautiful even if bordered by imperfect bookends we don't ever get to see. It's what's between the bookends that is exquisite to me. Because it gives me hope as it swims up my feed. That others are searching for hope just like me. In our lives that aren't simple. Or easy.

Someday I'll make it Acapulco. Until then, I'll be nourished by my feed. And applaud my friends for posting things that make their heart ache in a good way.

Thursday
Jan172013

The Color of Blue

Diligence: Constant and earnest effort to accomplish what is undertaken; persistent exertion of body or mind. 

Our 9 year old, Cassie May, started a blog. The Kumquat doesn't fall far from the tree. If Kumquats grow on trees. It all started because she wanted our family to get a puppy. The full court press began at Thanksgiving. It involved an art-board presentation deserving of Mad Men status on the reasons why we should get a puppy, but also a verification of all of the research she had done on dog breeds and which dog was best for our family. The winner was the Brittany Spaniel. She researched over a hundred breeds. We have four children and only researched two breeds. Because there are only two kinds of children. Or so I thought. Until I had children. Then I realized there are over a hundred different breeds. 

Cassie May announced she wanted to start a blog on how to talk your parents into getting you a dog. And so began Cassie's Dog Blog. It was her goal to post her research on dog breeds and her progress on getting her parents, to get her a dog. Within a week she had over 700 followers. Ready to torture their own parents about getting them a dog. I felt a karmic twitch.

Every morning she launched into a daily lecture on how to train a dog, how to feed them, bathe them, walk them, play with them. But we made it very clear to her, that a puppy was not in the near future. I had just had multiple spine surgeries. Daddy was working two thousand miles away. Yadayada. Her dog research never let up. And it became more about exercising her love for the animal, than actually having one. It was about appreciating the qualities of breeds, the issues involved in taking care of animals properly. Her maturity stunned us. And we gave in. But she had no idea.

Little did she know, we had done some researching of our own. Don was in Nashville, and had found a family who's Brittany had a litter, and there was one puppy left. She was ours. But we had to keep this a secret, because we found her three weeks before Don could fly her home for Christmas. I practiced my mantra over and over that we had to wait to get a dog. 

Cassie May continued to blog. Then on December 22nd, her world turned upside down. With her older siblings in on the plan, and her younger sister oblivious to our scheming ways, Operation Blue commenced. The color of blue was the name our family had decided would be the perfect name for a puppy, if we ever got one. Blue is our favorite color. Because our oldest daughter, who is now in college, decided that Tiffany Blue should be renamed Macky Blue. And so it was. Everything we saw that was light blue suddenly became a Macky Blue, so we should probably be naming the puppy Macky Blue, but that would be weird, to name your dog after your daughter. So it is Blue. 

Macky found a sparkling blue color with little rhinestones on it. We wrapped it in a clothing box. It was night time, the Christmas tree lit, fire was turned on. Because in California we turn on our fireplace. I know. That's weird. And wrong. Don texted me when he was outside the front door. The kids opened this strange early gift of a clothing box. Which is never too exciting to kids. The clothing box. Sometimes it's socks. So I told them it was socks. From Justice. Then upon pulling apart the white tissue inside they discovered a lack of clothing. It was quite boring in there, actually. Except for a collar. That was Macky Blue. With sparkles. Their brains began to race. Our youngest began to spurt out nonsensical vocals with words resembling "Puppy! Puppy! It's a puppy!" Cassie sat there in shock. And then the front door creaked. It was a daddy. With a puppy, and big red bow. 

Blue is now three months old. She asks for the door, when she wants to. We have lost six pairs of shoes, one rug, two computer chargers, and three supposedly indestructable chew toys. But we love her. And she's ours. The greatest gift ever. All because of a little girl who went Mad Men, over the color of Blue.

Blue Belle Bensko / Three Months Old

Wednesday
Jan162013

Newborn Father

A tiny hand envelops her father's thumb

 

Sensing the future through the ribs of his fingerprint

 

Holding it with a natural confidence

 

Despite months of grasping through an ocean of fluid

 

Longing for connection

 

He sneezes

 

She laughs

 

She looks

 

She stops

 She is theirs

Completely
A bond

 

Only they understand

 

Their love is as unique as a snowflake cut from Nature's hem

 

His voices bounce off her heart

 

She is home

 

He speaks of his angel

 

She searches his eyes

 

Bubbles blossom from between her lips

 

He guides her tiny hand to cradle his cheek

 

Closing his eyes

 

She breathes into his skin

 

The meaning of life is not only in the palm of his hand

 

it is holding it...






 

Wednesday
Jan162013

Burger Shake And Fries

McDonalds French Fries take the meanness out of me. They bring me back to a simpler time. When McDonalds didn’t have a drive thru. My car approaches the little black speaker and I develop an acute case of performance anxiety. I completely forget what I wanted to order. The little man in the black speaker with a voice accented with static tells me they are offering something that day that is special and would I like to order it. As I forget my order. Now I need to reassess what I really wanted in the first place. Was it good enough? Was is special? So I cut them off with a no, no, no, I just want to order what I originally wanted that I forgot as I approached the speaker. I would like a Southwest Chicken Salad with a regular iced tea. I remember this. And I order. I am proud. Then it happens. “OK, so you’d like a small iced tea?” No, I’d like a regular, which is a medium. But if I say medium, then I’ll get a large. They ask me if I would like the chicken grilled. My taste buds races with possibility. Crispy or grilled. Crispy sounds so good. Crispy really means fried. But I do it. I order the crispy. Because life is short. And evidently I plan on making it shorter. As I struggle over ordering crispy. I feel bad for the little man in that box all day. Listening to moms like me who suffer from performance anxiety. Who become frustrated at the little black speaker man because they remind us of how difficult life has become, since we were kids.

I was raised at McDonalds. Before there was an internet that make me feel guilty. I had the Hamburger, Fries and Vanilla Milkshake. Especially if we just left the doctor’s office in the building next to it. Then I'd just get a Vanilla Shake. It’s always a special moment when you just order a Vanilla Shake.

My childhood McDonalds had walk-up windows. I was never tall enough for the windows. So my parents did the ordering. We would sit outside in a shaded alcove on a stone carved table with stone carved benches. It was the Stone Age. With little brown Finches battling for scraps and tossed seeds from the buns. It was peaceful. The french fries gaggled in their little white bag. I'd search with my fingers for the softest ones and savor them. It was so simple.

The menu today has so many healthier options. The interiors adjusted to the times. My experience nowadays is more stressful. Trying so hard to have everyone's order written down before I get to the window. But then it happens to my children just as it happens to me. We get to the little box and suddenly something else sounds better. Crispier. When all we really need to be happy is a burger, Fries, and Vanilla Shake. To sit outside and search for the softest fry, tossing bun seeds to needy birds.

Sometimes I drive thru alone. I know exactly what I want. A Hamburger. No pickle. Poor pickle. Nobody likes the pickle. They must have a graveyard for pickles. I request a Vanilla Shake, and large French Fries. Because there is so much possibility in a large McDonalds Fry.

The lady with the funny hat and a smile hands me my order. I pull into an empty space for ten minutes of food and silence. Wondering if I am missing out on a moment by not sitting at the table outside. A chance to remove my shoes and toss bun seeds to little beaks. I open the bags. It’s a Hamburger, Vanilla Shake, and Fruit and Walnut Salad. No Fry. I stop. I breathe. And feel the meanness building inside, the urge to cry for my fry that would take the meanness out of me if I only had it in my hands so I could search for the softest one. It would have tasted so good. But to exchange for my fry I would need to approach the little black speaker man.  And I’m tired. Tired of the drive thru, and wishing things were different. Wondering why they can’t just get it all over with, and just serve Fries. And Vanilla Shakes. And Bun Seeds. With a side of nagging Finch beaks to peck at the simplicity of it all. Next time, I'll just order the Shake. And then it will be special.

 

 

 

Monday
Jan142013

Her Brush

My mother stood in front of her mirror like a flamingo, one foot perched up on her thigh that pressed against the lip of her sink. This was her stance each morning as she 'put on her face'. I'd enter her bedroom, a sweet aroma of Aqua Net hung in the air. Sounds of preparation echoed from her bathroom. It was my father's bathroom too, but only to him. Mothers have a way of marking things. By being mothers. Her bed. Her kitchen. Her hairbrush. One of the most defining elements of my childhood, is my mother's hairbrush. I say is, because it's still around. It's over forty years old. Its yellow. Its handle is gone due to an unfortunate wrestling match with a Bobby Pin which launched it to a tiled floor. It was fractured into two sections for years, the handle barely hanging on by a ligament of plastic. Until one day, it broke completely. Just the hairy belly of a bristled face remained to stroke and tease my mother's hair into its masterpiece.

It was yellow in my childhood. The kind of yellow they discontinued due to marketing tests in the eighties. It could be valuable just for the color. Or museum worthy as an example of pop culture's influence on the hairbrush of the seventies.

I was not to touch the hairbrush. It was a sacred item procured from Queen Tut's womb. It was perfect for teasing my mother's hair and any usage by children to brush the hair of the dog or a doll would result in the loss of its powers. Or worse yet. It might get lost itself. So it sat by her sink. Next to the Aqua Net.

I used to sneak into her bathroom when she was busy. Her teasing comb next to her teasing brush. A thin layer of cosmetic powder on the counter taunted my finger to make a line in it. But I didn't. It was Mom's counter. But I couldn't resist her brush. It was the gateway drug.

I reached for it remembering exactly how it was positioned before I picked it up so she'd never know I was there. My hand nestled around its broken body, the bristles facing up. I tried to stand like her. Her left leg bent and foot perched flatly to the inside of her right thigh. Her toes always flexed and then grabbing gently her snow white skin. I wanted her snow white skin and her pretty painted toes. And her brush. But I had to be a grown-up to have such things. Like having a couch. A bed. Only grown-ups knew how to get those things. A house. A car. A brush.

One day, her brush went missing. It wasn't me. But Mom knew by the remnants of long locks left in its bristles that I was there. Her tone was sharp. Like its bristles.

The hunt began. To find the brush. That I didn't lose. But I was recruited as Suspect A and the brush was lost.

Tears welled in my eyes making the search difficult. Forms of furnishings swept past my trojected mission. I collapsed on the sofa defeated with the frustration of my innocence.

I felt the cushion next to me sink and a body slipped into its fold. An arm wrapped around my shoulders to calm their bobbing swells. It was then I heard the first apology of my life. The first time anyone ever said Im sorry. My mother cupped my cheeks in her hands, looked into my eyes and apologized. She had found her brush. Someplace she had set it down. It wasn't me. She overreacted. I was a good girl.

Throughout my life I have remembered that moment as sacred. It laid a foundation for my life of the concept forgiveness. Because at that moment, in the last few stuttered breaths of a child's cry, I understood what it meant to be human. To feel another's remorse. To accept an apology and go right back to loving them. Completely.

As the years have worn on, the bristles on her brush have depleted, a virtual graveyard of teasing. The yellow has faded to a muted shade of mustard.

I visit her home now with my own children. When I hear they are all busy, in her kitchen, I sneak into her bathroom. And stare at her sink. The Aqua Net is gone, but the rest is the same. A thin layer of dusting on the counter. And her brush. Positioned just so. So when I leave she'll never even know I was there.

 

-----------------------------

 

After reading my blog on "Her Brush", my mother delighted me with an email this morning responding to my story about her most personal item. The following is her reflection on the brush and its history. This is proof that my mother is reading my blog. I just hope she approves.

THE BRUSH

By Maggie Lockridge


Since my daughter has written an ode to my brush I thought I would expand on it's history and my genuine attachment.
 
The yellow brush entered my life at the age of 17, a mere high school Junior.  It arrived via the Avon lady who also brought me Forever Spring, a fragrance I dedicated my earlobes to for over twenty years.  It was then discontinued, but I still had my brush.
 
It had soft bristles and a lovely curved handle.  My hair was thin but I had a multitude of strands.  Brushing my hair with this brush was akin to a scalp massage.  Not too harsh to over-stimulate, not too soft so to not get the job done.  But primarily, it served to gently smooth the outer surface of a French Roll, a style that I wore my hair, an attempt at the Audrey Hepburn look.  Yes, I teased it, caught up in the tradition of the time.  A practice I took up once again in my twilight years.
 
The brush was dropped to a ceramic floor when in my fortys.  Snagged either on a snarl of teased hair or a leftover bobby pin.  The handle went flying.  But that was ok, I still  had “the brush”.  It went with me wherever I went, if it was inadvertently dropped to the back of a drawer, or left in an overnight bag, I panicked.  Where was my brush?
 
In my 50’s it started to shed bristles along with much of my hair.  Maturity was taking its toll,  my very thick, thin hair, was becoming thinner.  But so was my brush, we empathized.  
 
Now in my 70’s I am still dependent on my Brush.  It no longer resembles a brush,  but that doesn’t prevent me from manipulating my grasp so I can still maneuver it over my
sad attempt at a French Roll.
 
This brush truly deserves to be cremated along with my remains, we are inseparable.
Micaela now knows that I also have a miniature treasure chest of Swarvski crystals that must be mixed with those ashes and buried with me in the beautiful rolling hills of Vermont.

Friday
Jan042013

Driveway Buddha

I pulled into my driveway. A load of groceries in the back of my soccer-mom-car,that's never seen a soccer ball. I turn off the car and pause, like mothers often do. Waiting for the moments of silence to pass until something larger than ourself lifts us from the drivers seat, forcing us back to reality. There's something about sitting in the car, in the driveway, that is calming to mothers, that unveils our inner Buddha. Like the "As Seen On TV" aisle. It is glorious while you're there. It's a place where one acknowledges the brilliant absurdity it takes to retreat in today's world. It makes me ask myself, why is it silence that makes me feel guilty, and makes me appreciate life's absurdities. Like why does it feel so good to sit in my car, in the driveway, longer than I should. Perhaps it's because it is a stolen moment when no one knows we're there. It's when silence courses through our veins. Like an addict tapping the wheel for another hit, we wait until someone notices that we're home. That we might be missed. So we wait in the driveway, looking odd. Shooting up silence. Then we wonder, if a neighbor sees me, they might start talking. So we move or act like we're on the phone. Which is pretty easy nowadays as all you need to do is talk to yourself. In your car. When you're alone. But that's not odd. I open the electric hatch to start unloading the groceries, like Buck Rogers would, if he were a not-soccer-mom.

A neighbor stops in his driveway, looking over at me as he talks to himself. My time is up. My Magic Egg timer dinging in unison to the final drips of serenity hitting the pavement. But only for now. Until the next run to Right Aid for the Automated Egg Cracker. Then I will return to my spot. In the driveway. Where I will sit. Again. Until somebody notices the silence leaking from my car and notices that yes, something is definitely odd, I am definitely shooting Buddha, and it feels so very, very good.

Monday
Dec312012

Too Perfect to be Forty

I went to see the movie This is Forty. Because that’s what people over forty do. I figured I could take it. Well braced for a story line follow-up to Knocked Up. Yea the reviews weren't great. But I love Leslie Mann. She always makes me laugh, I feel good about myself in spite of her awesomeness. With Apatow (her real life husband) involved, there would be no way this adventure in Mann Land could go wrong. She's real. She's funny. Her husband let’s her make out with her other actors. She's my muse for accepting age and rolling with it. 

And then she did it. I don't know if she did it, or Apatow did it in post-editing. But I'm still shaking. There she was. Seventy feet high, in bed with Paul Rudd. Camera goes to Rudd. He's ruddy. Eyes are guy-baggy. Like guys hungover with fake love should be. Watching him on camera makes your stocks stink, in a good way. Then the shot of Mann.  Glowing like they put vaseline on the screen, from the inside-out. So she'd extra-glow. There is no way a woman at forty looks that glowy. With no lines. Her under-eyes were sand-blasted to porcelain perfection. You could ice skate on her chin. She looked good. Hollywood good.  To the point that women will, instead of reveling in her humor, obsess the entire movie about Googling her surgeon on their Pee Break App.

Over Forty made me laugh. A few scenes will make you roll. It teaches you how to say “I’m Pregnant” with a shlong in your mouth. OK, not a kids movie. All my nieces and nephews reading this should stop now. But they wouldn’t understand my angst anyway. That’s why I love my nephew Harrison. He always told me I was beautiful. I love him for that, the innocence of family. But how beautiful can you be at seventy feet tall. So I guess I would do it too. Turn my chin into a skating rink.

I remember clearly sitting on my Aunt Virginia’s front porch in Springfield, Vermont. She was ninety. Her skin was porcelain too, and it hung. Her neck warbled as she gobbled. And it was perfect. Because it was real porcelain, and real gobble. Her eyes twindled, reflecting off the wrinkles surrounding her eyes. They say you can tell the age of a tree by its rings. She had a lot of rings. So did the tree in her front yard, that was seventy feet tall. It offered her shade, and made her beautiful. She didn’t need Vaseline to make her beautiful. Her beauty came from the fact she was so raw in her elegance it made me ache.

This is Forty made me ache for something real. The writing was ok, relatable to parents with pre-teens. There were some funny bits in there that us parents with cool mom cars over forty go through. Now, parents over forty who live in the projects with gunfire over their heads at night may not find it so funny. Count your blessings, you whiny sons of biatches, they might say. But this is my blog and my story, and I’m a little white girl from the burbs and I say it how I see it so let’s just say it was pretty funny. Then why did it make me sad?

My mother ran a post-op plastic surgery facility for celebrities for twenty years. I’ve been pretty trained to see if something is too good to be true, or real. I have also photographed some of the most beautiful people in the world. So maybe I’m a little sensitive, or aware, if an actress or actor has had some work done. Many get away with it by saying they haven’t had work done, because they’ve only undergone chemical peels, or injections and not a facelift. I’m not judging Mann for whether she had work done or not. I’m just saying whatever she did, or didn’t do, took me out of the story. And made me feel worse about myself. There, I said it. It’s not jealousy. OK, maybe a little bit. But jealousy come from wanting something there is no way of obtaining. Talent. She has that. That alone can make someone jealous. But it was her edginess, her realness, that allowed us other gals to embrace her every-girl beauty and roll with the punches, praising her because she was completely beautiful, and real to us. 

I don’t know why Mann looked so ethereal. Maybe it was just a really greasy lens. Mann looks amazing. Whatever it is, I'll have what she's having. I just wish there was something in the movie I could touch. Like possibility. Even though film is considered escapism, there still needs to be something we can relate to other than BMW’s and whiny children. Perhaps I’m just getting to the point where I’m starting to want the little extras in life. Like a wrinkle on somebody else’s face.

Friday
Dec282012

Discovering My Uncle

My Uncle Edgar May passed away yesterday morning. He's been telling us he was going to die soon. But that's what older people do. It starts around 70. The organizing, the filing, the telling of where the papers are. My uncle started laying the foundation for his death by visiting more. He'd enter the door. Stand there silently. He'd hold his arms outstretched and rest them on my shoulders. So he could take a good look at what's happened since the last time he saw me, and what he's going to miss. When he's gone. Then we'd hug, and I wouldn't want it to end. Because nobody hugs like Uncle Edgar. 

I YouTubed my uncle. Up popped a link to a Vermont Pulic Radio interview with my uncle and his sister Madeleine in their seventies about their arrival in America. My uncle first stepped on America's soil when he was a boy. His sister Madeleine was five. Their ship was the SS Manhattan; Appropriately named as they arrived in the mist of New York's harbor outstretched arms of Lady Liberty. Air Force jets shot across the sky. It was 1940, and Italy had just entered the war. In the darkness and fear of that moment, my uncle's ship erupted in applause at the beauty, the grace, the promise this new land would bring. The ship held 900 people. There were 2,000 on board. My uncle's mother was a widow from Zurich. She held her children close and told them that in America, anything is possible. After hearing that, Madeleine wanted curly hair. In American, anything was possible. Even curly hair. Madeleine went on to became Governor of the state of Vermont. 
My uncle became the toast of Washington D.C.,mwith my mother's sister Louise on his arm. I never met her. She died in a car accident when she was thirty, before I was born. Edgar and Louise were pulling out on a dark night, onto a dark road, and they were hit. By a dark car. 
It changed my uncle forever. Shattered every bone in his body. My Aunt Louise was killed instantly. No seatbelt laws in those days. Her head hit the dashboard. I cannot look at a dashboard without thinking of this woman I've never met. The church overflowed with lives she had touched. 
My middle name is Louise. I was raised knowing she is my guardian angel. I've tried to live up to her name. But it's hard to live up to someone who's passed. My family tells me she was perfect.
So was my uncle. To me. Discovering who my uncle was, has taught me that you don't have to die for people to want to live up to you. 
My uncle lived a large life. He won a Pulitzer Prize. That made him really cool to us kids.  But to him, it was more an example of how the world still needs to change. To do more. Than give an award for trying to change the world. He wrote a book in the '60's called The Wasted Americans. He went undercover unveiling issues within our welfare system. 
I thought I knew my uncle. You always think you know someone when you think they'll be around forever. So you can ask them about their life. And then they are gone.
I know the uncle I have loved. But there's a whole other side of him. That other people admire, but I had only heard about.  So I Googled my uncle. 
He served in the Vermont Senate, the Vermont  House of Representatives and as chairman for its Committee on Health and Management. He directed a judicial management study for the Vermont supreme court. He was the head of Special Olympics and had stints as special advisor to the U.S. ambassador to France, inspector general for the federal Office of Economic Opportunity and deputy director for the domestic peace corps. 
He also worked as a reporter for the Buffalo Evening News and the Chicago Tribune. 
Throughout his career, May was a member of several boards including vice president of the American Public Welfare Association, trustee for the University of Vermont, and director of the Vermont Student Assistance Corporation.
He is the author of "The Wasted Americans" and "Dealing with Drug Abuse."  His articles have appeared in magazines ranging from Harper's to Family Weekly. And not so finally, he won the Pulitzer Prize for investigative reporting in 1961.
Edgar is a rare breed. He's the ultimate New England gentleman. His jaw rarely moved when he spoke. He was a politician who looked you in the eye and shook your hand. The weathered skin around his kind eyes and on his palms made you trust him. He lived on an estate called Muckross. A funny name for a glorious fairytale grotto that would make angels drool, if only the pipes worked properly, or a maid would come. 
Edgar is known for his clutter. His kitchen an historical collection of antiquities. I remember as a child being fascinated by his french coffee press. I remember at forty being fascinated by his French Coffee Press. 
He is a man who does not fix it if it isn't broken, or if it is. No need for things that make life easier, if it does not make life better. 
His computer was a huge leap of technological adventurism. His large fingers poking out elegant sentences reserved for long-hand. 
Edgar has always been a man before his time. And the beauty in him is he stayed that way. Preferring phone calls over email, but resorting to email in great effort to stay connected with the younger generation of our family. 
He was smart that way. Because he was the ant-politician politician. He knows how to connect with others, because connection and meaning is what feeds his soul. His whole purpose is to leave this world a better place. 
He has instilled in my children a passion for reading. He instilled in me the personal quirk of leaving classical music playing in my home, even when it's empty. To turn off the television, light the fire, and pick up a book. Each time I do, I think, this is what Edgar would do. 
But now he is dying. In his hospital room at the VA surrounded by loved ones who know him so well they don't need to speak. 
That's when you know you love someone. When no words are needed amongst yourselves to express what a wonderful human being lays before you, different than he was before. Strokes have slowed his brain, his heart is compromised, but his spirit is strong because it knows what it wants. Because he is ready to go. He's said so. For a year. Exhausted from Diabetic complications, his bones aching from the long Vermont winters, and no mountains left to climb. 
My uncle found a beauty in dying. He was peaceful. He felt the touch of his loved ones who never left his side during his final days in the hospital after a series of strokes. My uncle's life is too large for a niece's essay to get it all in. Because I don't know all of the things he did as a young man. I know what he did as an uncle. When we made picnics in his cluttered kitchen and swam in his enormous pond filled with fish that nibbled your toes in the type of cold water only Vermonters know. It is a real man's pond surrounded by a protective forest that fog would blanket in the mornings. I know the piano in his foyer he kept our pictures on that we never knew he had, that mom had sent over the years, of us with crooked teeth that he found perfect. I know the table he'd set in his enclosed sitting area on a table with candles and his recipes from The Silver Spoon we would awe with a glass of red wine. And the worms that lived in the soil in his back yard. They were my favorite part of the visits. Because he wanted us to become one with the earth. He'd teach us as kids it's ok to get our hands dirty. 
It is now his time to run his weathered fingers through the soil. I should be sad. I am. But if I know my uncle, it's the last thing he'd want, for anyone to be sad. However, he would be happier knowing I had learned to use a French Press. 
There will never be another Uncle Edgar. That is what saddens me. Because this world needs one. But letting go of him means a better, more deserving world will get to have him. And part of loving is letting go. 
I look forward to that other world,  with him standing at the door, his arms stretched out with large weathered hands on my shoulders. He'll smile, his deep gravely voice exclaiming how wonderful life is, that we are together again. We'll hug. And in that world, we won't have to let go.