A Boy Names Ben

            A quiet sadness washes over me as I begin writing this blog.  Ben has died.  We had been exchanging emailed birthday wishes in recent years.  His birthday fell in September. Mine in December. I had been traveling out of the country for several weeks last year and arrived home shortly before Christmas only to be on the road again to spend the holidays with family.  I failed to notice there was no email from Ben on my birthday.  Several days ago, I realized I had forgotten to send him a birthday message.  That’s when I went online.

His obituary was there, long, full of his accomplishments as a world-renowned ornithologist.  It recounted the book he co-wrote in the 1970’s which remains the primary anthology for Asian birds; his research work with the American Museum of Natural History in New York City; his memberships in the American Ornithological Union; the Royal Geographical Society; his work with Cornell University’s Ornithology Lab and so much more.   

I was 13 when I met Ben.  I was attending a late spring dance during my freshman year at St. Joseph’s High School in Shawnee, Kansas.  An eternal wallflower, I had been standing on the girl’s side of the gymnasium enviously watching my fellow classmates being led out onto the dance floor.  Never me.  Until a tall, lanky junior, with a crop of thick black unruly hair crowning a handsome face with a square chin, high cheekbones and a long forehead stood before me.  He was attired in worn corduroy trousers and a rumpled shirt, so different from the other boys in their kaki slacks and starched white shirts.  I was led out onto the dance floor for the first time.  Eddie Fisher was crooning I’m Walking Behind You.  I don’t recall if there were any words exchanged between us.  Probably not.  No words were needed.  He was an excellent dancer.

Later that summer Ben began showing up at my house.  We would sit on the front steps rather than risk being impaled by the numerous broken strands in the lone piece of furniture in the front room – a worn wicker couch.  We talked of college, of pursuing degrees; his in science; mine in journalism; of traveling the world; of freeing ourselves from family dysfunction and poverty.

On Saturdays, we often bicycled together on Ben’s birding excursions.  He cataloged each sighting and sound in a small, worn notebook.  Over the Easter holiday break of my sophomore year Ben traveled to south Texas to witness the annual return of the highly endangered Whooping Crane, hitchhiking most of the way.

It was during this same period that Sister Elizabeth, the school principal, called me into her office.  In a kindly voice she suggested I should make friends with some of the girls in my class, suggesting a boy as a best friend was not appropriate.  I would later learn Ben received the same admonishment. 

I saw little of Ben after that.  He left for college in the fall.  Several months later we moved to another state.

In 2006, I was searching the internet for tours to Tibet, a country I had visited only briefly and to which I wanted to return.  The internet directed me to Kingbird Tours of New York City.  The tour company was headed by a Ben F. King.  I mentioned to the receptionist I had known a Ben F. King in high school in Kansas.  OMG! she said.  Ben came on the line and the half-century since we last spoke seemed to dissolve away.  During our half-hour or so of reminiscing, we recalled our lecture from Sister Elizabeth.   Ben just laughed and said, “You were never in any danger from me.”

I saw Ben in New York in 2018.  We were meeting in downtown Manhattan for dinner.  I recognized him a half-block away walking toward me.  He was still tall and lanky, his handsome face remarkably unchanged by the years.  Only his black hair had given way to age, softening to a thinner grey.  Following a two-hour dinner, Ben walked me back to the central station to catch a late bus back to Toms River where I was visiting a cousin.  He kissed me lightly on both cheeks.  “We shared our dreams and some even came true,” was the last thing I recall him saying.

I am blessed to have known someone as brilliant and accomplished as Ben, even in such a fleeting way.  He was a remarkable man.  I am sure Sister Elizabeth would agree.

Rest in peace, Ben.  May God hold you in the palm of His hand.