by Luke Lively
I shifted the conversation back to the topics I felt much more comfortable discussing: banking in Philly and my strong resume. I talked most of the time, allowing some of my frustrations with Merchants to seep out.
I had finished my talking resume as we closed in on our destination, Smith Mountain Lake. We took a sharp turn off the two-lane paved road onto a single-lane dirt road with grass growing in the middle and wheel ruts making the Jeep bounce so hard I banged my head against the top of the interior. We were now officially in the middle of nowhere—without cell phone service.
When I thought of lakes, my impression was much different from what I saw as the Jeep climbed one last hill and began the last descent toward the shore. The lake was stunningly beautiful. I hadn’t expected a body of water so large and unpopulated. Benny had said the lake was small and crowded, but I didn’t see anyone. After driving through narrow, forest-lined highways, seeing the blue waters stretching out ahead was a shock to my already overloaded senses. As the Jeep made its way down the steep hill I saw a large log cabin. It had a tin roof that reflected the cracks of sunlight penetrating the deep foliage of the tall trees surrounding the cabin. It had a covered porch facing the lake. Two wooden rocking chairs and a swing were on the porch. I appreciated that they weren’t chained down.
“This is beautiful,” I said, as Benny pulled the Jeep beside the cabin.
“Yes, it is,” he said, pausing to look out at the lake before getting out of the Jeep.
“So what do you think of our little piece of heaven, Jack?” Benny asked as we entered what appeared to be the cabin’s main living room. The ceiling rose to the second story with a loft situated above the main level. A stone fireplace dominated the opposite wall. “It’s not much, but we enjoy it more and more the older we get. I can’t wait to leave the city and come here.”
Did he say city? If Benny thought Roanoke was a city, I needed to take him around Philly on the nontourist tour. Roanoke’s tallest building was probably a dozen stories. I told Benny if he wanted a real shock to his system, he should be in my shoes. “Coming from Philly to Smith Mountain Lake seems like a world apart,” I said, already smitten with the beauty of the lake. “I can see why you would want to come here so often—it’s great,” I said. “The fireplace must have cost a small fortune to build.”
“We hauled all of the stone here,” he said. “It was a lot of work. I can remember carrying every stone—getting it here and placing it—all of us working together.”
A slight melancholy tone was evident in his voice. But after a pause, Benny was telling me about the history of the area. He told me how the lake had been expanded with the construction of a series of small dams, but remained similar to what the Indians had seen hundreds of years ago when they had hunted in the area.
Looking around the cabin I saw lots of photographs. A variety of pictures of the scenery of the area were on display, along with a number of what I assumed were family photos. “Is photography one of your hobbies?” I asked.
“Yes, I used to enjoy photography—I took my fair share of pictures as you can see.”
I stepped over to a large sofa table. The first photograph on the left side of the table was of the sun rising over the nearby hills with the mist from the lake lifting upward, the reflection of the sun muted on the water. It looked like something right off the front of a postcard. “You’re very good,” I said.
“Pointing the camera and clicking the shutter requires very little real skill, at least for the purely amateur level I would claim. Aim, point, and click. Getting the right photo is all about timing—just like most things in life,” he said with a smile. He stepped beside me and picked up another photo of the lake. “Being at the right place is only one part of the challenge. Having the patience and attention to be at the right place at the right time is what takes the thoughtful effort. Remaining in touch with what is going on around you requires attention to the moment. You have to be awake—in the moment.”
“I would say so,” I said. “I never had the patience to wait for anything—especially the sun coming up so I could take a picture of it. You must have a lot of discipline.”
“The discipline is in opening up, being there—in the present. Photos should capture something. They aren’t just a reminder of the moment. A great photo puts you there, so you feel the ground under your feet, smell the air, and hear the sounds. You’re there experiencing the moment! That is a rare photo. I took hundreds, probably thousands of photos to come up with a couple of dozen photos that come close to capturing what it’s like to be there. But a photo only takes you so far. We see everything in life through our own filters.”
“This one has to be one of those rare ones,” I said, looking at the photo of the sun rising.
“That one is special,” he said. “For many reasons . . .”
Benny picked up a photo of a group of people crowded on the front porch of the cabin. “Every photo has a different view—just like life. After the photo is developed I usually find something I missed when I was clicking the shutter. Interesting how you can find something you overlooked—something that was there but you didn’t see it at first glance. A photo is one of the few ways to give you a second look at life, isn’t it?”
Benny was obviously talking about much more than photos. “I’m not so sure that would have been a good thing in my life,” I said. He let my comment pass.
“To me, photos are a way for me to share a moment with others. It’s a way to show a different view of the world. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then a picture helps to make the world a simpler place to live, something I love—simplicity!”
Simplicity was the farthest concept from my reality. Hearing him talk about simplicity after rereading his book only reminded me that he was out of touch. I wanted to say “Life ain’t simple,” but I kept the thought to myself.
“I never want to take a picture; my goal is to create a vivid memory of what I am seeing so I can share it with others. I would call it sharing the experience of the moment. I’m probably boring you, Jack. I apologize.”
“No, you aren’t the least bit boring,” I said. Trying to find a way to connect to photography, I thought of the only camera I had, a digital camera I had rarely used. “Do you use a digital camera?”
“No,” he said. “I have several older film cameras that I enjoy working with,” he replied, softening his tone.
“Digital cameras let you see the picture instantly,” I said. “Isn’t that an advantage?”
“Where is that desire for something instantly coming from?” Benny asked. “It seems like a source of so many problems. Rushing to invent, package, or manipulate what you’re seeing may give you something you think you want, but not necessarily what you really need. When you look at the photo you just took, you’re paying more attention to the past, and you may miss what is happening now. The past becomes a distraction. For me, having a digital camera defeats my purpose.”
I wasn’t sure the choice of a camera was so crucial. “And that’s why I would never be a photographer,” I said, laughing. “I have the patience of a three-year-old for things I want.” After uttering the words I realized how childish it sounded—like a three-year-old. Before I could attempt to cover up what I had said, Benny spoke.
“It depends on what you seek. It’s kind of like fishing. If you’re always checking to see if you’re getting a bite, you’ll never catch anything. Is it the catch that makes the experience memorable, or is it the effort? Remember, you don’t always catch a fish when you want to,” Benny said as he moved toward the kitchen. “Speaking of fish, I believe we need to put the feast Ann prepared in the fridge.”
The idea of satisfying desires instantly was obviously a sore spot for Benny, and I did not agree with his viewpoint. For someone so focused on now he seemed to lack the desire to get the things he wanted—now.
“I wouldn’t argue about patience being a necessity for fishing or taking pictures,” I said, wading into a deba
te. “But I would have been put in front of the corporate firing squad for telling my supervisor or our board of directors to wait for something to happen.”
“So what did you tell them?”
“I told them what I was going to do to make things happen,” I said as I almost dropped a Tupperware container. “I reassured them that I was taking charge and would make it happen.”
“You used an interesting word—taking. Instant gratification springs from the idea of taking,” Benny said as he finished loading food into the refrigerator. “This need for wanting and expecting something instantly removes some of the best things in life. Instant rewards, instant gratification, instant emotions. It’s like fast food—you get it fast, but it’s unhealthy and can make you feel miserable. Instant is making the metabolism of our lives unnatural.” Benny turned and looked at me. “Life is not a race. If you behave like it is, what do you think is waiting at the finish line?”
“If you get there first, you win,” I said with confidence. “Being honest, I like getting things faster than slower,” I said. “I like e-mail, laptop computers, my Blackberry, cell phones, microwaves, and even, I hate to admit it, fast food. I like to get news and information when I want it, and I don’t want to wait for it. When I push a button I want a response—instantly.”
“Do those devices make your life better or just faster?” Benny asked. He leaned against the cabinets.
“Of course, they make life better,” I said. “I use my cell phone constantly to maintain contact with my managers. E-mail allows me to send out mass communications to my team and make sure they’re on the same page I am. My Blackberry keeps me on schedule to make sure I don’t miss anything. I’ve got my entire life wrapped up between my laptop computer, Blackberry, and cell phone.”
“Your whole life, Jack? That’s a lot of reliance on three machines. Is that how you really want to live—that connected to work?”
“I guess I don’t know any better,” I said, finding myself laughing at the words springing from my lips. Had I just exposed myself as ignorant or immature—or maybe both? But how could I survive without my machines, as he referred to them? At that point, I began to feel that life was indeed much different in the hills of Virginia and something I needed to understand. “How do you do it?”
Reaching into his back pocket he retrieved a small appointment book with a plastic cover bearing the Citizens Bank name and logo on the front. “If you’re talking about scheduling, we give these out to our clients in November and December every year as part of our marketing,” he said.
I had not seen a small appointment book like that in what seemed like an eternity. “I didn’t realize they still made those. It looks pretty simple,” I said, still marveling at the thought of a small bundle of paper holding my schedule.
“Just the way I like it, Jack, simple,” Benny said.
“I doubt that I could ever get my life so uncomplicated I could write down my appointments and to-do list in a small book.”
“Then maybe you’re trying to do too much,” he said. “You can’t do everything you want to do.”
The idea of “too much” was an excuse for many, I believed. “I’ve got too much to do” was an excuse I had heard from almost all of my team. “Too much” was just a way of giving up. “Then what do you do?” I asked.
“You do what’s most important,” he said, “what’s right—now.”
I stopped before speaking because I knew I had just driven my argument over a cliff. “I guess you’re right—prioritizing is a must.”
“Doing what’s right goes beyond prioritizing. Let’s go out on the porch, and I’ll share some of my ideas and see what you think,” Benny said. “I enjoy hearing your thoughts.”
“Sure. What else would we talk about the entire weekend—banking?” I asked, smiling.
“Exactly,” Benny said. “I’ll fix some tea while you finish unpacking.”
I stepped into the bedroom and looked around. The sunlight was flowing into the room at an early afternoon angle. I walked toward the window and looked outside. The light was shimmering on the calm water. The view toward the lake reminded me of Benny’s photos. I remembered looking out the window in my apartment in Philly the previous evening. The view was remarkably different. The cold, dark sky of my hometown was replaced by the bright rays of the sun in Virginia. But I still felt detached.
“This is a different world,” I said to myself as I stared out the window. I turned and saw my reflection in the mirror and remembered one of the questions Benny posed in his book, “Who am I?”
I turned my head to look out the window toward the lake.
We are who we perceive we are.
—BENJAMIN FRANKLIN PRICE
27. Who Am I?
“WHO AM I?”
The question appeared simple for me to answer. I was Jack Oliver, banker. I was successful. I was one of the masters of the universe in the Philly business world. I was connected to money and power. But something had changed. The foundations I had constructed my career and life on were crumbling. I had been looking at myself through a filter, detached and disconnected. The question “Who am I?”—I was beginning to understand—had little to do with a job or career. I had avoided answering that simple question most of my life because I didn’t like the answer. For some reason, being here on the edge of the lake in a place far from my home with a person I barely knew, I felt as though I might finally attempt to understand who really Jack Oliver was.
Benny was preparing a pitcher of tea. Similar to the other four bedrooms Benny had showed me when he gave me a tour, my room was chock-full of photos. The thought struck me that Benny and his wife had two homes to fill with memories, and I had an apartment filled with regrets.
I saw several photos in the room of a very youthful Benny, Ann, and a boy who looked like Benny’s much younger twin. Is that his son? It has to be, I reasoned. While we had talked quite a bit I had never heard him talk about children. But then again, I hadn’t either.
Most of the family photos filling the room were taken at the lake. But one photo stood out from the rest. It was a black-and-white picture, with Benny in military attire. He was kneeling in front of a plane—probably a jet, I guessed. Given his age, I wondered if he had been in Korea or Vietnam. He didn’t seem like the military type. I walked outside to join Benny who was now sitting on the cabin’s front porch.
“Jack, I hope you like sweet tea. It’s actually clove tea. It has a different taste, something that you may have to acquire.”
I actually wasn’t a fan of tea, but I was willing to try something new. I was thirsty, and I didn’t see any beer in the fridge. Before I had the tea to my lips I could smell the scent of the clove. I took a small sip. It was different, just like everything I was being exposed to in Virginia. The taste seemed to open my nasal passages and make my eyes slightly water. “It’s different, but I like it.”
“That’s what this weekend is about, Jack. I’m going to show you why this place is so special to us,” Benny said as he laughed and took a sip of the tea.
“I couldn’t help but notice the photos in my room. You’ve had this place for quite a while,” I said.
“Yes,” he nodded and turned his focus toward the lake. “We’ve had it for a long time. It’s as much our home as our home in Salem.”
“I saw a picture of you in front of a plane. Were you in the military?” I asked.
“Yes. I was in the Navy. I was a pilot.”
“Were you in Vietnam?”
“Yes,” he said. “I served in Vietnam.”
I took another sip of tea, sensing his hesitancy to talk about his time in the military. The breeze from the lake blew what little hair I had left on my head. “This is such a beautiful place. I never imagined it would be like this. Do you spend much time here?”
“We try to get here as much as possible,” he said, sipping the tea. “It’s our little piece of heaven here on earth.”
“I saw a young man in s
everal of the photos. Is that your son?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I waited for Benny to continue. The pause was uncomfortable.
“Jack, those photos mean a lot. The young man you see in the photo is my son. He died twenty-seven years ago. He would have been close to your age now,” he said as he continued to look out on the lake. He took a drink of tea and sighed deeply.
Embarrassed for being so blunt and shocked to hear his son was not alive, I said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“He was a junior—Benjamin Franklin Price Jr. I was so proud to share my name with him. He went by Ben. He was an incredible person. He was intelligent, caring, and compassionate. He got all of those traits from his mother, including his good looks.” Benny said this with a smile, but his face conveyed a pain I could not imagine.
From the photos I saw, Ben looked like Benny’s clone. He appeared to be as tall as Benny with dark, wavy hair. He had a huge, genuine smile in every photo. I wondered what happened, waiting to see if he was going to talk about it.
“Jack, if this makes you uncomfortable, I won’t talk about Ben. It’s still very difficult for me to do, but I feel drawn to share his life with you,” he said as he turned toward me.
“I would be honored to hear about your son,” I said. I couldn’t remember ever using the word “honored,” but I meant it. I knew I was going to hear something that Benny had not shared with many others. I also sensed a certain strength and peace radiating from him along with the obvious pain of his loss.
“How can I go on?”
It was the same question I had asked myself after my mother had passed away.
“After Ben was gone, I asked myself ‘How can I go on?’” Benny said, turning to face the lake. “I felt like I had died.” I sat in silence looking at the side of his face, his gaze firmly fixed on the glistening water.
“Ben was always an athlete. He loved sports. He played baseball, football, and basketball and had a natural talent for anything competitive. But what he liked most was to run. He loved to run. When he was running it looked as if his feet were so light they didn’t touch the ground. He looked like he was gliding—finding a way to defy gravity. You should have seen him, Jack.”