Halfway through our long 
morning walk, Lady and I rest
on our favorite bench.
 
With her back to me
she snuggles close
and uses her nose to guide
my arm around her.
 
Looks like a Kodak picture
a woman calls from the window
of a passing car.
 
A neighbor couple walking
to the Rec center for morning bridge
stops to pet Lady
who wags her tail thank you.
 
A bobcat sits on the wall
across the street staring at Lady
who stares back.
 
One of Lady’s dog friends
tries, without success, to lure 
her off the bench to play.
 
Occasionally, Lady wiggles her body
to make sure there’s no space between us. 
I run my hand through her soft hair. 
 
A bench poem by Jane McKinney as first seen in the book, Morning Walk, published in 2013. More stories and poems about Lady may be found in Miracle Within Small Things: A Mother and Daughter’s Journey Through Loss and Aging. It is available through your local bookstore and on Amazon

"A time it was, what a time it was" goes the song...and it was all of that. It was the spring of 1969. I was 19 years old and I was finishing my sophomore year at Grand Rapids Junior College.
 
Most of my classes were in the West Building (now Kendall School of Art and Design), a flat, gray concrete box that featured a cafeteria, counseling offices, classrooms, and the English department. There was a main entrance with double doors, but we always used the south entrance, a single door flanked by a pair of benches.
 
For most of that spring those benches defined us, a small group of nearly clueless boys who sat on them. In a year, we had gone from buzz cuts, khakis, and loafers to long hair, jeans, and boots. We knew little about the world around us, a fact that did not prevent us from proffering opinions. The Vietnam war was escalating by the day. We started seeing stories about guys we knew who weren't coming home. We wondered how long each of us had. Books alone weren't enough to take our minds off it.
 
So we started a game.
 
The door was maybe 40 inches across. The benches were about 30 inches or so high. One of us got the idea that the space made a perfect hockey goal. All we needed was a puck. We got one: a Joppe's chocolate milk carton. The games were on.
 
There was just a handful of us—me, Big Mike who came from a small town south of Grand Rapids, Dale the photo guy who came from an equally small town and whose mother, Vi, less than five feet tall, made the best fried chicken ever, Riley, who looked like a mini-me of Grizzly Adams and who always carried an inhaler to combat his asthma—although he still had a laugh that sounded like a vintage car trying to start on a cold day. There were a couple of others but they seldom showed. And then there was Larry the Poet.  
 
Larry was lean and wiry, probably around 5-10 and weighing in at no more than 150 pounds. He had a perfect mustache. He usually dressed well, seldom in jeans, so much so that we once attended a writer's conference in Muskegon where the poet Chad Walsh was supposed to show. Walsh never did but Larry was wearing a cool vest and tweed blazer, topped off with a sporty fedora. So we told people Larry was Chad Walsh and they bought it. 
 
Larry was soft spoken, shy, but he wanted to play goalie, which he did with an animal-like fervor. He'd position himself in front of the door, arms extended so he could grab hold and balance on the benches. Imagine a well-dressed crane.
 
The rules of our games were vague and I don't recall how we chose sides. When we did it was no more than two on two. Larry played goalie for both teams. His defense was near impenetrable. We'd send long shots and he kicked them back at us and out of reach. He broke up passes with one hand. If we tried to push the carton between his legs, he'd drop to the ground and smother it. Even high shots we hoped would fall behind him were swatted harmlessly away.
 
The games got more intense, although fair play reigned. No one got bloody shins, except maybe Larry. No punches were thrown. Most of the abuse was directed toward the Joppe's carton, but replacements were readily available from the nearby cafeteria.
 
After a few hard-fought contests, the stakes were raised. Someone found an empty industrial size Vlasic pickle jar outside the cafeteria kitchen. We had a trophy...the Vlasic Cup. Soon there were team names—Waytown South was the Cup favorite—and game stories. Players with goofy names—Kip Farkas and Morrell Fizell. We did postgame interviews on the benches and sometimes talked about where we wanted to be in 1970 and beyond.
 
And then summer came.
 
The Vlasic Cup disappeared. The games stopped. Big Mike and I went to MSU and finished school there. Dale got a job working for a wire service and we lost touch. Riley laughed and wheezed his way to a future far from us. And Larry...well, Larry. I saw him once that summer. He had a guitar. We went to the beach in hopes of finding girl he liked. We didn't find her. When we go back to the city, Larry and I waved so long. I never saw him again. And he never came back for his guitar.
 
Years later, I went downtown and walked past the old West Building. It hadn't yet been christened as Kendall but the benches were gone. 
 
What a time it was.
GFK of Michigan

Lutyens Bench
My Lutyens bench was designed by British architect Edwin Lutyens in the early 1900s when he worked with famed garden designer Gertrude Jekyll. I saw these benches often when I visited England in the early 90s. I coveted one for myself.
 
When I saw this bench in a garden catalog, I eagerly ordered it. My late husband and I spent many happy hours in this quiet spot, he pulled the grill out here to cook and smokers retreated here. I've enjoyed it tremendously. It communicates something timeless to me.  I'm home here. 
D.E. of Ohio
 
Courtside
Twice a week for many months, I sat on a park bench and watched my son play tennis. His movements and strokes were smooth and precise. It brought such joy to see him follow in my footsteps as I had followed in my mother's footsteps. There was a time when three generations took to the same court to share their love of tennis and each other. 
H.M. of Arkansas

Miracle Bench
I think of myself as having mastered both walking and talking. At the end of every trip, I would walk down the stairs to the deck to feel the breeze and see and hear the sound of the wind, the waves, and the boats. Unfortunately, unexpected health-related issues curbed this enjoyment for the past year and a half. And, when I did try to walk to the deck, my body refused. How many times did I say I wish there was a bench before the stairs, so I could relax after my walk, enjoy the environment, while meeting and talking to my neighbors? 
 
Well, thanks to some neighborhood association board members, supported by many of our neighbors, a miracle happened. A lovely bench was erected exactly where I always dreamed it to be and I use it every day. 
P.F. of Michigan
_______________
 
Better Shared
My favorite bench is in no way ornate. It is simple and functional, hardly what one might call beautiful. Yet it places me in the lap of beauty. From late spring to early autumn, you’ll find me many mornings sitting on my friend at the edge of our prayer garden, content with a cup of coffee and a book of inspiration. It’s a comfortable seat amid flowers and trees, robins and sparrows, a special place where I feel melded with nature.
 
This summer I have come to share the bench with our grandson Henry. He is at a positively delightful age, two and a fraction, and as we sit and take in the glory of the garden, I point out all of the varieties that bloom before us. Then he takes me by the hand and says, “Grandpa, come.” We make a circuit of the stepping stones that Teresa has placed around the birdbath, and Henry announces columbine and daisies. I show him Maltese cross and orange globe mallow. We circle five, six, seven times, calling out the names of the flowers each time, before we return to our resting place. There, he sits close, resting his hand on my wrist as he looks around, ready to tell me more about this world so new to him. 
E.S. of Wyoming 

​On a bench tucked alongside the playground,
a short walk to the windmill, safe distance from the coop,
she tells me why she prefers not to eat chicken;
 
how every morning the rooster watched her tiptoe
across the yard with a plate of table scraps,
reach up to unlatch the gate,
 
how the rooster raced toward her
squawking loud and angry, 
how she’d fling the scraps over the fence and run;
 
how her mother insisted
she scatter the food from inside the pen
so all chickens could eat, not just the rooster;
 
how she could not, would not 
walk through that gate, 
how the bird sensed her fear.
 
She remembers the family parrot
released from its cage by her twin brother,
the sound of the screen door slamming
 
as he sauntered outside for his daily chores;
how she heard the parrot waddling
across the hardwood floor, claws clicking,
 
until it found her huddled in the kitchen,
how she clambered atop a small table,
 and how the bird stood guard several hours.
 
She tells me of that first week as Scout Leader,
how the geese chased her and her charges
across the long field and why she’s glad
 
we’re not walking alongside the river today
as she can see the flock of long-necked fowl
from the bench on which we rest.
 
As I listen, a dog, 
leashed and seemingly well-behaved--
unlike the one who took a bite out of my back--
 
strolls over and pees on my foot,
the scent of my fear lingering
even after so many years.
 
It felt good to wash the shoe.

Alongside the Boardwalk
One afternoon I was strolling along the Grand Haven boardwalk which borders the Grand River. I stopped to rest and just admire the boats as they made their way to Lake Michigan. I was grateful to have found an open bench as they were a hot commodity this particular day. A scruffy fellow pulled his wagon of empty pop cans up to “my” bench and plopped down beside me. I relaxed my desire for personal space and had a delightful conversation. The highlight of our time was seeing a boat go by that had a pet rabbit riding on the bow of the boat . . . just motoring down the river on a little towel— up front, all by itself!
KDS of Michigan

Three Wolves
After 70 years of loving benches, the dearest is the one shared with my husband and granddaughter for the last 20 years. Before we say goodbye to our beloved SYLVANIA Wilderness after a week of camping, we sit together on "the bench" to reflect.  After sharing, we let out an echoing “howl” into the wilderness. 
 
This experience is so treasured by our granddaughter, that she drew the scene for us - each being a wolf on the bench.
K.N. of Michigan
 
The Reading Bench
"You may have tangible wealth unfold; Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold. 
Richer than I, you can never be--I had a Mother who read to me."
Discovered on a bench at Hemlock Crossing in West Olive
M. W. of Michigan
_______________
Benches are a reminder to pause, strengthen one's relationship with others, with nature, with one's self. Do you have a bench story you’re willing to share? 

A Hospital
 
The first significant bench of my life was anchored on the grounds of a Hospital near the lake front in Chicago  where my mother gave birth to my sister Bernice.  I and two of my younger sisters were placed on the bench and told not to get off of it and not to talk to anyone while our dad went to visit our mom. He told us he would be able to see us from the window of the room my mother was in and that we could wave to our mother. It was November.  It was cold. I was five years old. There were too many windows and I thought our dad forgot us.
​K.M. of Chicago
 
(P.S. He did not forget.)
 
A Church
 
I painted this bench located in our “Memorial Garden” lavender. Located at our church, it gives visitors a place to meditate, contemplate, and pray. Lavender makes it a bright spot in the garden.
M.W of Michigan
 
Clue #14 “Bravo for Benches” Laflin Family Scavenger Hunt
 
Worth 50 points. On property owned by the famous and most-loved captain in the Holland community whose business attracts thousands (maybe millions) each summer.
 
“My team would not let me even stop and get ice cream. They said the lines were too long!”
J. M. of Colorado
 
(His team finished first for most points scored! I promised J.M. I’d buy him ice cream at Captain Sundae’s next time he is in town. Did I mention my family is a bit competitive?!)
 
Do you have a favorite bench story? Please send it my way! And thanks for noticing benches. And where there is a shortage.

​She is awakened before dawn by the sparrows,
not the symphony of song she hears in the forest
but the clicking of claws on the fiberglass overhead.
 
She rolls over, on vacation, closes her eyes. 
Ripples drum steadily against the hull
as fishing boats motor toward the channel. 
 
Dawn’s light peers through ports and she is awake. 
Out of bed. Turns on the coffeepot and opens 
the sliding hatch to the morning’s stories. 
 
Three ducks glide past the stern, pause, move on.
A fish lunges, breaks the surface, disappears.
A tapping under water near the closest piling 
 
is a puzzle. Both shrug. Watch the seagulls.
He tells her drinking coffee in the cockpit together
is a favorite time of the day. She agrees. 
 
The forecast calls for wind in the face. Whitecaps. 
He pulls out a book; she, her journal and pen. 
Both are asleep before noon. 
 
Tomorrow they’ll sail out the channel and head north. 
Or maybe they’ll stay another day. 

​Do you remember your favorite bench? What made it your favorite? Would you be willing to share your story—in a sentence or two? And a photo, if you have one? At https://www.facebook.com/mary.mckschmidt1?
 
I never noticed benches until several years ago, when my outdoor adventures with Mother—so essential to her health and mine—changed, based on the availability of benches. Our hope is to get others to notice benches, too. And join us in making more benches available for seniors in public spaces throughout Michigan communities. Maybe even beyond.
 
Awareness is the first step. And why not make it fun? 
 
Later this month, 55 members of Mother’s family—to include several of her children, nieces, nephews, their children and grandchildren—will come to town to celebrate our 75th annual gathering as a family. The tradition began when Mother’s mother (a woman we called “Mom”) decided to invite her children to gather in June of 1948 to celebrate the safe return of her sons from World War II. We have been gathering as a family ever since.
 
This year, since we are the hosting the reunion, Mother and I decided to create a Bravo for Benches Scavenger Hunt focused on our favorite benches in town. We had such fun taking photos of the benches, thinking about why we liked them, and then creating clues for the teams, we thought you might like to join in the fun. 
 
Please submit your favorite bench story with a photo. At some point in the future, you’ll be entered into a drawing to receive a copy of our new book, Miracle Within Small Things: A Mother and Daughter’s Journey Through Loss and Aging. Stay tuned for details.