7-07-2026 4:27am

Alice Offers Craig Bennett a Change of Perspective

Lesley Misko Editor

Editor's note: Craig Bennett's essay begins a series of poetry and prose selections submitted as part of Studio B Art Gallery's "In Service" project. Writers were asked to respond to the theme of "service."

by Craig Bennett*

One of the best friends I ever made was a neighbor living in the same apartment complex where I wound up not long after I became divorced. A colleague had suggested that I might look into Parents Without Partners; and, at that time, I was open to just about anything that would get me out among other people, particularly people who would understand what I was going through since they had either been there or were still there themselves. I found the group discussions especially consoling (no matter how bizarre your own story is, someone will always have one that’s even more so), and attending them became almost my only activity with the organization. During the introductions at one of those discussions, an older lady in attendance identified herself as being a writer. This sparked both my interest and my curiosity, so I approached her later to learn more.

She was fifteen years older than I was and had dealt with cerebral palsy from the time she was a child. This made just about everything difficult for her. Walking, speaking, manipulating many things manually—virtually everything she had to do was made harder by her CP. But she had graduated from Temple University with a degree in journalism, wrote speeches for a few politicians in Harrisburg and one in Washington, married, bore three sons, and divorced her passive-aggressive husband when she’d had enough of a toxic marriage. More importantly, she happened to live in the same Spring City apartment complex that I did. Since we were close neighbors and had become acquainted, I offered to be her transportation when there was an event that we both were interested to attend. I felt as if I were taking an opportunity to do something nice—something kind, considerate, and even a little compassionate—for someone who was obviously worse off than I was; and I anticipated nothing in return beyond patting myself on the back for being such an exemplary human being. But in due course, I was both surprised and grateful for what else I gained without having sought it.

Aside from being admirably independent, Alice was bright, well educated, and kept herself well informed. Despite the fact that she had enough personal problems and debilitating conditions to land any three or four “normal” people in the looney bin, she was a genuinely interesting person; and “interesting” is probably the highest compliment in my personal vocabulary when it comes to describing other people. One of the things that obviously played a major part in helping her to deal with all of this was her Christian faith. She had probably found the kind of social acceptance in church activities that she had been unable to find in more worldly venues, and there may well have been times or experiences in her life that she never shared with me that turned her toward faith as the only thing that could enable her to get through whatever the current hardship was, be it temporary or permanent. But she was an admirably broad-minded, non-judgmental believer, and we had many long and exceptionally interesting conversations about the nature of God, the possibilities of divine intervention in the lives of individuals or nations, and other matters that could be accurately described as “spiritual.”

The bottom line here is that she was one of the most interesting and admirable people I had encountered in many a year. I became her transportation to and from many events and places and consistently enjoyed her company. Being impressively independent, she would usually go her way and do what she wanted to or had to, and I would go mine. Then we would meet at a predetermined time and place to hop into the car and head back home. One of the things she told me that she liked about me was that I let her do what she could. I was always there by her side (except when we were each going our own way for a while), ready to lend her a hand—but only if she asked for it. The rest of the time she wanted to feel as independent as possible, not having to depend on other people to do things for her that she could still manage to do for herself.

To escape the family that was still making her life that much more of a trial, she moved across the continent to Seattle. On her own. Although she had a friend who lived somewhere out in the suburbs, she chose to move into a rent-controlled apartment in the heart of the city. She didn’t want to be stuck out in the ‘burbs where not much was going on.

We exchanged letters quite frequently after she moved out there, and hers were filled with glowing descriptions of wonderfully temperate and un-humid weather (she suffered from asthma, as well), vast evergreen forests practically next-door to the city, magnificent views of Mt. Rainier, and snapshots of the harbor area market with bins of prawn and salmon for amazingly low prices. She said that she ate a lot of salmon because it was cheap! I had to come out there, she kept repeating; I would absolutely love it.

I finally did during the summer of 1990—and she showed me all around the city. I rode the buses all over Seattle, went on a sight-seeing cruise around the islands of Puget Sound, and rode another bus to the summit (or almost the summit) of Mt. Rainier, all with Alice as my guide. I interrupted my visit for a week to go on a backpacking excursion in the North Cascades, since I couldn’t abide being so close to those mountains without getting into them for some hiking and backpacking; and it is that trip that serves as the narrative framework for my first book, Nights on the Mountain. But after I returned, I spent several more days with Alice before boarding the train to head back east.

She eventually had to move to an assisted living facility—one affiliated with her church that was located with a view from cliffs above the ocean, surrounded by evergreen forest, and full of people with whom she had much in common. We continued to correspond for a few years, although less frequently than before. And then her letters stopped. I was sorry to have to conclude that she was gone, but I was glad that she had been able to spend her last years in beautiful surroundings, close to nature, and among people who cared for her and appreciated her gifts instead of recoiling at her handicaps. I lost a good friend in Alice, and I doubt that I’ll ever find another one like her.

So, every now-and-then what starts out to be a selfless act of giving with no expectation of gain or return can result in rewards beyond anything that would have seemed possible initially. And I can thank Alice for a wealth of first-hand experience that taught me to view people with disabilities of any sort with eyes that see much more of what they can do or be than what they can’t.

*Craig H. Bennett, author of Nights on the Mountain and More Things in Heaven and Earth, available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com, and most book stores