|
 The
spirit of Christmas was in the air late in December
of 1956. The first snows had fallen in the high
country as winter announced its arrival in the
Superstition Wilderness Area east of Apache
Junction. Low stratus clouds engulfed the towering
spires of Superstition Mountain while a slow
drizzling rain met with the approval of the local
cattlemen.
Deep in the Superstition Wilderness there was an
angry, bitter and lonely old man who had chosen
isolation rather than the kindness of friends. “Old
Ben” had been prospecting these mountains for more
than a decade. He believed the old Dutchman’s lost
mine existed and he wanted to find it. His search
for the Dutchman’s gold had become as strong for
“Old Ben” as the devotion of any pilgrim of Islam
headed for Mecca.
My father and I visited Ben over the years because
he and Dad had something in common. They were both
veterans of World War I and had served with General
John Perishing, commander of the American
Expeditionary Forces in Europe. Both men had
witnessed the slaughter in the trenches along the
Western Front. Both men had survived the horror of
trench warfare in Europe. Each year Dad and I tried
to visit Ben’s Camp a couple weeks before Christmas
to say hello.
 Ben functioned well in the mountains, but within
society he was a misfit. His experiences, no less
than that of my father’s during the war, had left
his heart laden with hate for those who were
associated with the production, distribution and
application of war materials that were designed to
destroy thousands and thousands of lives during a
terrible time. Ben chose to live apart from this
society because he couldn’t forget the rattle of
machine guns, exploding artillery shells, fumes of
poison gas and the screaming agony of the wounded
and dying soldiers on the battlefields. The war had
been over for almost forty years, but Ben still
lived in the shadow of its horror.
Dad had also survived the battlefield of that war
and for that reason understood Ben and was his
friend. Ben and my father had spent many hours in
idle conversation discussing the Dutchman’s lost
mine, each being careful not to reveal any important
information about its possible location.
We often sat under a large boulder in Petrasch’s old
camp in La Barge Canyon talking about the Dutchman,
Jacob Waltz. Sometimes Dad and Ben would hike up to
Petrasch’s old camp on Tortilla Mountain and spend
the day.
Christmas was once again coming to Ben’s Camp in the
Superstition Wilderness, but he never celebrated
Christmas because he didn’t see any real value in
it. He said there was no God or Jesus Christ at
Flanders, Verdun, or the other battlefields of
Europe. Once again we bid our farewell to Ben and
began our hike out of the mountains leaving the
lonely old man to cope with his misery. As we drove
home that day I thought of old Ben and his lonely
existence. Arriving home we found Mother had
decorated our house and a beautiful tree for
Christmas. The spirit of Christmas filled our home
as friends dropped by with a friendly “Merry
Christmas.” My mother was always full of the
Christmas spirit and she wanted to share it with
everyone who would listen or sing carols with her.
On Christmas Eve morning I got up early and talked
to Dad about our friend Ben. I kept thinking about
Ben and finally suggested to Dad that I wanted to
hike back into the mountains and spend Christmas Day
with the old man. I was young and very
impressionable at the time. My father’s first
concern was my mother and our traditional family’s
Christmas get together.
“What is Christmas,” I asked, “if it is not about
sharing one’s friendship? Didn’t you teach me this
dad?”
Mom and Dad decided to allow me to share my
Christmas spirit of friendship and giving with Ben
on Christmas Day. Mom provided me with a couple of
quickly wrapped Christmas presents for Ben and I
grabbed a colorful ornament from the tree. I
prepared my hiking gear and I was on my way to First
Water Trailhead.
I arrived at First Water about noon. By the time I
reached Ben’s Camp the daylight was rapidly
disappearing. I called out for Ben as I arrived in
his camp, wishing him a Merry Christmas. He called
back inviting me into his camp. He immediately
scolded me for leaving my parents on Christmas Eve
and coming into the mountains. I handed him the two
small packages mother had wrapped for him. The
delicate glass Christmas ornament had survived the
hike in my backpack. I handed him the ornament and
then suggested we needed a Christmas tree. Ben
laughed and said, “You’re not going to find many
pine trees in this desert.”
At that moment I could see that Ben enjoyed having
my company. He ended his comment with, “The only
trees around here are those devilish Cholla.”
Near Ben’s camp, in the dark, using a small
flashlight, I found a Cholla cactus skeleton that
would serve as our fitting desert Christmas tree. I
piled some large rocks around the base to hold it in
place. Once the Cholla was secure Ben and I went
about decorating it.
We placed the Christmas bulb from my mother’s tree
on top of the Cholla. We added a few pieces of
tinfoil here and there. We then made some ornaments
out of empty sardine and bean cans. Ben had a
plentiful supply because he loved sardines and
beans. We made a simple garland out of bits of
colored string we found in camp. The tree was not an
ordinary one, but then Ben was by no means an
ordinary man. And this was also no ordinary occasion
for Ben. The meaning of Christmas had found its way
into Ben’s heart in that odd-looking Christmas tree.
We laughed together at our effort to create a
Christmas tree. We had found the spirit of Christmas
together.
We sat admiring our handy work when Ben reached into
his bag and removed a very old Bible, then placed it
under our tree. He looked at me with a tear in his
eye, and said, “Isn’t this what Christmas is really
about?”
Yes, we were celebrating Jesus Christ’s birthday in
the simplest manner. The happiness of sharing our
friendship on that Christmas Eve I will never
forget. My father eventually talked Ben into
returning to society and being a friend to others.
This lonely old man taught me that it is not how
much you have, from Kollenborn, A-4 it is sharing of
your friendship with others that is so important.
Since that time many Christmases have come and gone,
but few of them are remembered as this one.
Ben returned to the world of the living and each
Christmas for many years, until his death, we
received a card from him addressed to “My Desert
Christmas Friends,” and simply signed “Ben”.
After almost fifty years we still decorate and enjoy
a Cholla cactus skeleton in our home for Christmas. |
