Notes From The North Country By Jeff Benitz

Sometimes it’s not easy having high-risk friends. They live life fully but you never know what to expect when you answer the telephone. I got news this morning a friend I grew up with, a best friend in Junior High school, died in an avalanche in the High Sierra’s on the California/Nevada border.

Andy Entin had worked the last 16 years as a ski patrolman at Squaw Valley near Lake Tahoe. He was trained in rescue, EMT, and avalanche control. Early in the morning with his partner they were assessing the avalanche potential before the mountain opened to the public. They would make decisions on whether to close trails or dynamite a slope to trigger a slide. Above the tree line six feet of snow had fallen and Interstate 80 was closed for a 100 mile stretch west of Reno. Coming in on a cut of a 35 degree slope the snow let go under his skis. Headwall, the northern slope, had been his charge for nine years. The 1960 winter Olympics were hosted there.

Andy was taken with the shear as the snow roared down. His Ski Patrol partner was able to find him buried and dig him out as the emergency crews tried to access. His bones were broken and he was in trauma. He was 41 years old.

When we were young we tromped the New England streets of old Needham. The town was fairly small then and the sidewalks rolled up around six o’clock. Most of the time we walked the train tracks that were a direct route between our houses. A good stretch of the way the tracks were straight and in summer a mirage rippled in front of us. The smell of railroad tie creosote boiled in the sun, molasses stuck to our sneakers.

About half way to Andy’s house there was a big bend in the tracks. Two railroad lines merged and formed a triangle so any train coming from any direction could take either track. In the middle of this triangle was three acres of land. Tall tufts of brown grass had grown up around rust colored trucks from the 1940’s, disused railroad cars, and miscellaneous railroad equipment and machines. There was a pile of discarded track. It was a place forgotten by time. We were surrounded by steep gravel walls that sloped 40’ up to the railroad tracks. It was a place of privacy as a tree fort in the woods or a secret garden in a maze. We only knew about it from walking the tracks yet there were houses and businesses on just the other side of the raised track.

Sometimes we would explore the old vehicles and railroad cars, climbing around and digging up old bottles or cans. Other days, when we heard a train we would scramble up the loose gravel to put pennies on the track and then spend the next hour trying to find the smeared coins. Most of the time we leaned back on the hot July roof of a boxcar and discussed family, friends, schoolmates; and tried to make sense of a life one doesn’t understand at 14.

If it was a weekend, when the sun waned, Andy would invite me to dinner at his house. We would stumble up the gravel embankment and on the tracks see who could find the oldest nail in a tie. They used to date the railroad ties with a nail that had the last two years of the century on the head. The railroad used this to see what wood or what conditions their ties performed in. If in doubt of the century we would read the track, itself, which had information molded into it.

His parents were kinder than they may have realized. His father was an architect; his mother a watercolor artist and he had one sister. My family didn’t have much money and a good feed was welcomed. The family was warm. Arriving, we might find his father crafting away on a large sheet of paper, his latest commercial building. He would always share in our young questions. After staying overnight one time I remember his father, very excited, asking us to get in the car. We went up Interstate 95 so he could show us a building he had designed. It might have been seven or more stories tall and was still under construction. To this day I remark on it to friends when we pass it.

Likewise, they included me on day trips with his mother when they didn’t need to. They were family outings. His mother would go to paint on Cape Cod or maybe Rockport on Cape Ann. Andy and I would explore the tidal pools for critters, cut our feet on barnacles, and pick periwinkles off the rocks to throw into the Atlantic. With the water splashing against the rocks we would watch the canvas come to life on her easel.

These are good memories but I have one more. As I sit typing, I have on my desk a CB radio. It is a home station. No one had home stations in those days. It is the consequence of a plan Andy and I devised. At that time families had one telephone (some even had party lines) and they didn’t let their children talk all the time. To stay in touch we saved our money and went to You-Do-It Electronics and bought antennas and 40 channel CB Radios. We left it on the same channel and at any time we could chat back and forth, sometimes pretty late into the evening. This is the same CB home station. It doesn’t get used much anymore.

It was more than 20 years ago since we chummed around the abandoned railroad yard. I suppose some developer flew over and found the spot. Now there is an office building surrounded by a large tar parking lot. The town, itself, is hard to recognize for those who grew up there. As High School progressed our friendship faded to polite, “Hellos” in the hallway. The way friends who were close find different directions. We would talk at times but had different circles. Then he moved away.

It still comes as a shock when a friend who lives on the edge goes down. We tested our limits and made it pretty well then. As we got older we pushed them farther. This time it was critical mass. Somewhere in the ether our voices can still be heard, those teenage conversations on the CB radio. The signal may be weak and 100 million miles from earth by now, but it’s still there.

Godspeed, Andy, Godspeed.

Drawing: Motif 1, Cape Ann, Rockport, Massachusetts (By John Walker)

Notes From The North Country By Jeff Benitz

I don’t mean to steal the title to Robert Graves’ book on the Great War. It’s different than that. I’m saying good-bye to propaganda or listless entertainment. An excellent book by Jacques Ellul, “Propaganda: The Formation of Men’s Attitudes” (1962) helped define the modern media age. Bolster that with, “Subliminal Seduction” (1974) by Wilson Bryan Key, and you have a sense of modern T.V. It’s time for T.V., America’s latest opium, to disappear. We can thank government for the convenience.

The other day some T.V. channels went off the air. It was time to buy an analog to digital converter box. Smiling, I have to say our situation was bleak, we thought to give it a try. As it goes we have about three channels, they all come in like oatmeal and one is in French a language we don’t speak. That station is from Canada and in a different time zone. Perhaps we’ll still get it after the digital conversion on February 17.

For now, the box has to have a strong enough signal to receive a digital broadcast. In analog the wave could be grainy but still acceptable, with digital if it’s not a strong enough signal the box can not compute and simply crowds the screen with a “No Signal” announcement.

With digital we have, “No Signal”. A friend has wrestled with different clerks from the T.V. companies or makers of the converter with no success. They say we are too far from the broadcast towers, that an analog broadcast has more durability than the precise digital system that is superior.

My friend brought up a good point, he said, “I never thought I would see the day when T.V. was not free”, “We already watch the commercials”. And so, down the line, the temporary gas tax during WWII became permanent, cellular phones got you to pay to receive calls, state lotteries promised lower taxes that never cycled through, and now it’s time to buy T.V.

NOT HERE!

For $30 a month one can get satellite or cable. That would be basic service. It translates into $360+ a year and for suckers much more than that. NOPE! We have started to dust off the library and read more, or even read out loud to each other. T.V. won’t go away but the poor have it paid for by government and the rich don’t care about paltry expenses. Our choice is, “Good-bye to All That”.

Harvard Notes By Jeff Benitz

Armistice Day is November, 11. It has taken on new names as the wars have progressed: Remembrance Day, and Veteran’s Day. After the Great War it changed.

On the 24 December 1914 there was the Christmas Truce. It was the day Germans started to sing Christmas songs and the British replied back from their trenches. They were 30 meters from each other and the songs carried. It ended up, that on different parts of the Western Front, the soldiers lowered their guns and played a game of soccer , the Germans winning 3-2 against the British. This was much to the consternation of Generals on both sides, not the score but the camaraderie. After a few shots fired in the air as a signal they both slunk into their wet trenches to continue the fight for their country.

I am not a film critic but recently watched a DVD called, “The Last Confederate”. It is written from the losing side of American history. The South. It seemed important looking toward Veteran’s Day. The movie was an independent film and the actors were quite good. What struck me is that they were unknown. Who were these people?

These people were sons of the South. Julian Adams wrote the book, “Strike The Tent”. He is younger than I. His great, great, great grandfather was a plantation owner. The movie is about class structure more than morality. It does not discuss the politics of the time or slavery. The fingerprint is one of studying family lineage and the personal story of letters written back and forth during the Civil War, from young lovers and the epic story of love during war. A twist is the woman is from the North and he is from the South. It is a true story. In their class borders are not defined. Tentacles reach everywhere and family is in all countries. Upper-class families defy divisions, there is always a landing zone when countries fall apart. An estate somewhere where all can gather when times turn.

Politics and government are fleeting. Family names and property last.

What was curious about, “The Last Confederate” was what I discovered after the movie.

Julian Adams, after writing his book about his descendant, ventured into a screenplay to make a Hollywood movie. After plying around with his script in California, he found no takers. He returned to his father, Weston Adams, and said, “ let’s make the movie ourselves”. This was news to the old sport, not a media man.

To the letters and the diaries he recorded his family history. It was put on film by amateur actors. Julian Adams wrote the book, produced the movie, wrote the screenplay, and acted as the forward character. The woman who played his counterpart played the piano and wrote the songs for the movie.

The movie, “The Last Confederate” was an example in mentoring. The family had money and connections. Their history was of enough importance they wanted it recorded. Their was enough tension that the children learned their history and had it instilled. Under “Special Features” on the DVD the father demonstrated that he had a close relationship with his son. It answered many questions. There are still those who come from wealth that perform as their parents did. Julian Adams could have sat on the coattails of the family; rotted in a kitchen talking about all his great lineage. Instead he was taught and exercised patriarchal skills.

Open Letter To Applebee’s CEO

7 November 2008



Mr. Archer, President
Applebee’s Services, Inc.
Overland Park, Kansas
66062

Dear Mr. Archer:

I understand Applebee's has a "Salute to the Veterans" on November 11, 2008. I do not see any participating restaurants from the state of Maine. In fact, there is NOT ONE Applebee's in the SIX New England states that participates in your, "Salute to the Veterans". There are 436 Applebee's restaurants in New England! In the United States there are more than 1600 Applebee’s Neighborhood Grill & Bar franchisees. If one does the math, more than 25% of your business is in the New England states.

I would remind you, Mr. Archer, that Maine has one of the highest number of veterans per capita in the United States.

Also, the Bangor airport is a hub where returning military personnel are greeted by retired military volunteers. It is the first time those fighting the current war (GWOT) land on U.S. soil after their tour in Iraq or Afghanistan. From Bangor they transport to their respective states or bases including Kansas.

Is this an oversight that Applebee’s does not salute in New England? Or, is Applebee's insincere and this is simply tokenism toward the veterans?

Very sincerely yours,

Jeff Benitz

Postscriptum: Of 8449 restaurants, if 163 are participating that means Applebee's has 1.92% of their businesses giving free meals to the troops. That is a lot of marketing for less than 2% of your locations. Who knows how many patrons would actually be veterans at those locations, lowering the number more. Looks like marketing exploitation to me.