Max Lindsay Benson - By Andrea Richards

Post date: Mar 5, 2017 9:10:01 PM

Maxwell Lindsay Benson

            Maxwell Lindsay Benson was a man small in physical stature but composed of a sturdy and steady nature that made his presence in a room count for more than the material space his body occupied. Habitually dressed in his cardigan and fedora, he was most often seated at a desk or table organizing numbers to report their history accurately. When not so employed he would often be seated quietly in a corner, listening and observing and occasionally snoring. When a subject relating to government or finance came to the forefront of a conversation, he would occasionally forecast some rather dire warnings about the consequences of the diminished or forgotten roles of self-determination, honesty and work. While his predictions did not display a particularly optimistic view of human nature in general, they did reflect a certitude that good people could prevail and weather storms if thoughtfully prepared and diligently committed to staying the course.

            His colleagues often remarked that he would not allow them to go home from work until every penny had been accounted for properly in whatever ledger was sovereign. His sense of responsibility was keen. So was his distaste for waste. This determination to account for, and use well, all resources may have sprung from a boyhood lived where it took work and prudence to provide a living from a family farm. Even in his 7th decade, after a day spent bookkeeping, he would circle around family apple trees and deposit those specimens that had dropped to the ground with his daughter-in-law. Never mind that the planned canning was done. These hail marked, or slightly blemished fruits, could be prepared for applesauce. “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without,” was a lifestyle he ascribed to. At his passing he did leave behind many pairs of beautiful Florsheim shoes, unworn, lined up in his closet, waiting to go places his feet would never take them.  Though too small for the feet of his grandsons, their rank and file was a reminder of some almost forgotten asides about lining shoes with newspaper and using rubber bands to keep uppers attached to soles on campus days during the depression. Were hard times to come again he had prepared to have sturdy and fashionable coverings for his feet.

Conspicuously absent from this stash of shoes were athletic shoes.  Sturdy walking shoes, yes, but no sports shoes. While he liked to play sports as a youth there wasn’t much time for leisure as boy. A few precious hours of outdoor games, horse rides or canal swimming did not lend themselves to future adult hobbies.  Max liked to watch a good ball game, pass a few weekend hours fishing, drive to the countryside for a picnic, and he and his wife hosted couples’ card nights, but he never seemed to have the time or inclination for the hobbies that often consume some adult men. He loved a good home-cooked meal. He would thank the cook, give his compliments on the best elements, and occasionally propose a suggestion for an improvement which usually involved more onions. Even as he advanced in years though, a lively look in his eyes would appear when he would watch children play and a sense of fun would ripple in his voice when he would inquire of them, “What are you doing Charlie?” or “Throw that ball here, Charlie.” This of course would often instigate a slightly puzzled sideways glance as a child looked to his mother to politely inquire, “Why does he think my name is Charlie?” which would make Max chuckle.

For many years he was the assistant in helping his wife create memorable family meals, getting gifts for growing grandchildren, and maintaining rounds of visits and reunions for friends and family. Cancer took his wife before they could set out on some adventures they had aspired to, but he continued to be the embodiment of reliable dedication to work, to family, to his church, and to the principle of creating security for others. He would never be a man of great fortune, he invested cautiously, preferring to be ready and able to help any friend through a rough patch than gambling on grandiose aspirations. He wanted to be free to make his own choices and for others to be able to do the same.   

Perhaps it was his diligence to fiscal responsibility and thrift that made our Sunday conversation at the end of that May, so compelling. “You are leaving on your vacation on Tuesday?” he asked.

“That’s the plan,” was my reply while struggling to get shoes onto flailing two year old feet.

“Why don’t you leave tomorrow? It’s a holiday.”

I remember being slightly surprised. Grandpa Max wasn’t known for extended vacations, or encouraging spending money too freely while trying to stay current on a mortgage, or making consistent contributions to college saving accounts. My reply was rather non-committal, “I guess when we planned it we just arranged for a certain amount of days and expenses and such. Phil has to work at least a half day. It will be holiday rates tomorrow. It’s our first real vacation with the children and we didn’t want to break the budget.”

He wasn’t going to let me off too easily, “Would it cost that much more to go tomorrow, one more hotel, a little less rushed time together, less driving in one day?”

Now I wondered if he was worried about us driving a long stretch safely. I assured him we could handle the long road trip.

“I know you can do the driving, but wouldn’t it be fun to have more time together. You know I’ve seen so many people save up to do things and then when they have the time and money they don’t have the health or the desire to them. Or the people are gone. You are young and healthy and your people are right here. I think you should go tomorrow.”

I don’t know that I had ever personally witnessed this man do a truly spontaneous thing in his life. He was advocating amending a well though-out plan and spending money in a rather impetuous fashion. But when someone who is the paragon of fiscal responsibility, and calm sensibility tells you do something that seems rash, there is an almost irresistible compulsion to comply. Anomaly can create a kind of authority and credibility that requires attention.

Over twenty years later I can still see the awestruck face of my five-year-old son when he realized that we were swimming at midnight in a pool lit by a huge desert moon. The two-year-old was unnerved at first by the shadows of cacti but soon relaxed to the feel of warm water, the soft smell of the desert and having the pool, and her parents, all to herself. 

The rest of the vacation was pleasant, but it’s that night that we all remember.  I told Grandpa Max that when we returned. He just nodded and said he was glad. But I had learned something about him that changed the rest of my life. As much as he admired a well-kept balance sheet and a satisfying savings account, Max knew that memories must also be stored up.      He had filled a reservoir of remembrance as carefully as he had deposited his dollars. But he probably wished there were even more memories. He wanted me to have reserves of more than one kind.  So I learned from an accountant, in a cardigan and fedora, to plan and prepare, to save and to secure, but also to sometimes seize the moment because it’s that one you will remember.