"Life is like a black and white photograph. There's a lot of grays and a lot of darkness, but if you look closely enough, you can see bright spots of light." ~ Benson James O'Connor Sr.
My father, Ben, passed away at approximately 4pm on March 8, 2013 – One week to the day after his 78th birthday. He had been fighting a long battle against cancer for many years and one hour after his chaplain visited, he shook loose his mortal shell and ascended onto Heaven. At the time it happened, I was at home, preparing for the cast party for the play Angela and I had been part of called, Splitting Issues (and many other noteworthy concerns)when I had received ‘the call’. The call I had been dreading for months now. The call from my mother that told me my father had left us.
My father fell neatly into the ‘character’ category – as in, “he’s a real character”, and he was at that. My father and I had, for the vast majority of our time together as a child, been remote, yet loving to each other. I was living under his roof during the most critical years of my young adulthood and he ruled the nest with a kind hand and stern look. He had a wicked sense of humor that also forged my own, helping me to see things from a different point of view, a trait that would serve me well later on in life.
If you look up “Old School” in any dictionary, you’re likely to see a picture of Benson J. O’Connor Sr. He was as old fashioned as it gets, and raised all of his kids as such; especially his boys. We learned to never, ever strike a girl/woman, always open doors for them, and to never leave them without an escort at night. These are only some of the basics my father instilled within us, but they are some of the things I still hold true to to this day.
He always gave me a lot of freedom to go my own path, make my own mistakes, and learn from them and he always supported whatever goofy hobby I was into. I can recall his excitement when telling me that a model of the helicopter Airwolf had come in at a local hobby store and I can recall how he would watch with quiet amusement as his son built guns out of pipes and painted motocross armor to look like something out of Mad Max.
My father had once told me, “you are into science fiction, while I am into science fact”. He said it not dismissively, nor insultingly. He simply stated a fact of one of the things that separated our interests. Yet, while he really, really didn’t care for science fiction, he never once tried to steer me away from it; in fact, he encouraged it completely, for he knew that it was an area of not only interest for me, but one of inspiration. He would buy me things like the first VHS box set of the Star Wars trilogy (which I still have) and then also give me a framed photograph of the space shuttle at its launching pad at Cape Canaveral, ready to blast off into space.
I remember sitting at home with him watching ‘Rat Patrol’ or ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’ with him while the rest of the clan was off doing something. I cherish those days – days when it was just me and my dad, sharing something together; something that would leave an indelible mark on my art, as I drew half-tracks and tanks constantly as a child, a fascination I would carry into this very day. He gave me a technical book he found at a garage sale called simply “Tank”. Filled with blueprints, schematics and facts about the armored behemoths of the modern battlefield, it too, fueled my imagination.
For my 17th birthday, since I was in the SCA, he gave me a knife that he made himself in our garage – an ‘Arkansas Toothpick’ in a wooden sheath, crafted by his own hand. I carried that blade with me for years in the SCA and had it not been stolen from me, it would be hanging on the wall in my home next to my shield from those days. Since I had been showing so much interest in my Irish heritage, he gave the book, 1916, which covered the Irish revolution of that year and a book of Celtic legends that introduced me to such amazing stories as Táin Bó Cúailnge: The Cattle Raid of Cooley. While he didn’t care for fantasy and the like, he still felt it important enough to expose his son to the mythology of our people. But that was always his way, really. He’d give me a piece of historic or scientific fact the same time he fed my imagination with fictional tales and adventures. He raised not only a critical mind, but a dreamer’s heart.
When I was 19 years old, I followed in his footsteps and joined the United States Navy. When I announced to him that I had done so, his reply wasn’t what I’d been expecting, “Did you ever consider that if the Navy’s so great, why aren’t I still in it”? Yeah, he got me there. Still, my serving our country in the Navy brought us so much closer then we’d been before. Now we had something truly in common with each other. Now he had someone to talk about and share stories about his own Navy days and his time serving. If the Navy gave me nothing else, it gave me that, so I’m very grateful. We would laugh and bitch about life ‘under way’, and keep each other entertained with conversation about the state of affairs for the sailor, past and present.
At 21 he gave me an M1 Garand, one my most prized possessions and the simple gift meant, to me, that I had finally become a man and a man that could be trusted with such a powerful weapon. My father had always had guns in our home throughout my life, and he raised all of us kids around them, teaching us early on to never, ever touch them or any other gun we find. He taught us that they were tools, not toys, and he taught us that they were our RIGHT. This is something that is so deeply ingrained in his children, for good reason, because it’s true.
In recent years, as he developed cancer, we found each other sharing company more and more as I was his chauffer and pack mule at gun shows we would frequent throughout the valley. He was well liked in that community and it was always a kick to push him around in his wheelchair and listen to him and his old gun buddies laugh and bitch about the state of affairs for the American citizen, past and present. This time became something precious to me as it harkened back to the days of sitting in front of the television and watching Rat Patrol. It was something me and my dad shared alone, and yeah, call me selfish, but I liked having the man to myself once in a while so he and I could just talk and get to know each other more and more with each visit.
He taught me so much; things that I will never forget and things I will pass on to my own children, God willing, for they are good and just things to know. He was my teacher as well as father. He was my mentor to all things in my life. He taught me the basics and he taught me some of the more advanced things. He taught me to think logically, but to not be afraid to dream. He taught me how to live…
…and my affinity for the F word? Yep. He taught me that too.
Thanks, dad. I love you and will see you on the other side. Just save some Guinness and a few magazines of ammo for me, alright?
My father, Ben, passed away at approximately 4pm on March 8, 2013 – One week to the day after his 78th birthday. He had been fighting a long battle against cancer for many years and one hour after his chaplain visited, he shook loose his mortal shell and ascended onto Heaven. At the time it happened, I was at home, preparing for the cast party for the play Angela and I had been part of called, Splitting Issues (and many other noteworthy concerns)when I had received ‘the call’. The call I had been dreading for months now. The call from my mother that told me my father had left us.
My father fell neatly into the ‘character’ category – as in, “he’s a real character”, and he was at that. My father and I had, for the vast majority of our time together as a child, been remote, yet loving to each other. I was living under his roof during the most critical years of my young adulthood and he ruled the nest with a kind hand and stern look. He had a wicked sense of humor that also forged my own, helping me to see things from a different point of view, a trait that would serve me well later on in life.
If you look up “Old School” in any dictionary, you’re likely to see a picture of Benson J. O’Connor Sr. He was as old fashioned as it gets, and raised all of his kids as such; especially his boys. We learned to never, ever strike a girl/woman, always open doors for them, and to never leave them without an escort at night. These are only some of the basics my father instilled within us, but they are some of the things I still hold true to to this day.
He always gave me a lot of freedom to go my own path, make my own mistakes, and learn from them and he always supported whatever goofy hobby I was into. I can recall his excitement when telling me that a model of the helicopter Airwolf had come in at a local hobby store and I can recall how he would watch with quiet amusement as his son built guns out of pipes and painted motocross armor to look like something out of Mad Max.
My father had once told me, “you are into science fiction, while I am into science fact”. He said it not dismissively, nor insultingly. He simply stated a fact of one of the things that separated our interests. Yet, while he really, really didn’t care for science fiction, he never once tried to steer me away from it; in fact, he encouraged it completely, for he knew that it was an area of not only interest for me, but one of inspiration. He would buy me things like the first VHS box set of the Star Wars trilogy (which I still have) and then also give me a framed photograph of the space shuttle at its launching pad at Cape Canaveral, ready to blast off into space.
I remember sitting at home with him watching ‘Rat Patrol’ or ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’ with him while the rest of the clan was off doing something. I cherish those days – days when it was just me and my dad, sharing something together; something that would leave an indelible mark on my art, as I drew half-tracks and tanks constantly as a child, a fascination I would carry into this very day. He gave me a technical book he found at a garage sale called simply “Tank”. Filled with blueprints, schematics and facts about the armored behemoths of the modern battlefield, it too, fueled my imagination.
For my 17th birthday, since I was in the SCA, he gave me a knife that he made himself in our garage – an ‘Arkansas Toothpick’ in a wooden sheath, crafted by his own hand. I carried that blade with me for years in the SCA and had it not been stolen from me, it would be hanging on the wall in my home next to my shield from those days. Since I had been showing so much interest in my Irish heritage, he gave the book, 1916, which covered the Irish revolution of that year and a book of Celtic legends that introduced me to such amazing stories as Táin Bó Cúailnge: The Cattle Raid of Cooley. While he didn’t care for fantasy and the like, he still felt it important enough to expose his son to the mythology of our people. But that was always his way, really. He’d give me a piece of historic or scientific fact the same time he fed my imagination with fictional tales and adventures. He raised not only a critical mind, but a dreamer’s heart.
When I was 19 years old, I followed in his footsteps and joined the United States Navy. When I announced to him that I had done so, his reply wasn’t what I’d been expecting, “Did you ever consider that if the Navy’s so great, why aren’t I still in it”? Yeah, he got me there. Still, my serving our country in the Navy brought us so much closer then we’d been before. Now we had something truly in common with each other. Now he had someone to talk about and share stories about his own Navy days and his time serving. If the Navy gave me nothing else, it gave me that, so I’m very grateful. We would laugh and bitch about life ‘under way’, and keep each other entertained with conversation about the state of affairs for the sailor, past and present.
At 21 he gave me an M1 Garand, one my most prized possessions and the simple gift meant, to me, that I had finally become a man and a man that could be trusted with such a powerful weapon. My father had always had guns in our home throughout my life, and he raised all of us kids around them, teaching us early on to never, ever touch them or any other gun we find. He taught us that they were tools, not toys, and he taught us that they were our RIGHT. This is something that is so deeply ingrained in his children, for good reason, because it’s true.
In recent years, as he developed cancer, we found each other sharing company more and more as I was his chauffer and pack mule at gun shows we would frequent throughout the valley. He was well liked in that community and it was always a kick to push him around in his wheelchair and listen to him and his old gun buddies laugh and bitch about the state of affairs for the American citizen, past and present. This time became something precious to me as it harkened back to the days of sitting in front of the television and watching Rat Patrol. It was something me and my dad shared alone, and yeah, call me selfish, but I liked having the man to myself once in a while so he and I could just talk and get to know each other more and more with each visit.
He taught me so much; things that I will never forget and things I will pass on to my own children, God willing, for they are good and just things to know. He was my teacher as well as father. He was my mentor to all things in my life. He taught me the basics and he taught me some of the more advanced things. He taught me to think logically, but to not be afraid to dream. He taught me how to live…
…and my affinity for the F word? Yep. He taught me that too.
Thanks, dad. I love you and will see you on the other side. Just save some Guinness and a few magazines of ammo for me, alright?
