Sad news drives Ben to a quiet hilltop, where he finds a moment of grace in a silent snowfall. (This story links with the events as told in "And This Gives Life to Thee.")
Slings and Arrows…and Snowballs
Ben was caught up in the utter silence of a soft, slow snowfall. No…not just the silence of it, the peace of it, the…serenity of it. He watched the gentle white flakes falling all around him and listened to…nothing. It was as though the world had gone still, and from that stillness came a sense of grace almost overwhelming in its volume, a grace that made him deaf to his intended task.
He'd gone there to mourn, and yet…he couldn't, not even there on that frozen hill overlooking the lake, the place where he'd buried his third wife years before…the place where he'd thought he'd buried his heart until his sons, in their own need and through their own love had proved to him otherwise.
All those years ago Ben Cartwright had stood on that hill and cried out against the cruel whims of fate, much like Shakespeare's Hamlet had against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune while standing alone in a cold castle in a far more distant time. Of course, Ben was no Hamlet. Nor would he consider taking his own life, to sleep, to dream no more…. No. Much as he might have desired such sleep in those bleak days after Marie's death, he'd had a responsibility to his sons, the three fine sons God had given him even as He'd taunted Ben, refusing him the comfort of a wife beside him, the love of a woman to help see him through the fears, the sorrows, the pain all men are destined to endure.
Now Ben stood on that same hill, ready to rage again for the sake of his sons. Would none of them ever be allowed to know love, to be loved for a lifetime? To feel whole and complete, secure in the strength that the bonds of marriage build within a man? To grow old without ever truly being alone?
Alone. Ben smiled despite the ache he felt, the emptiness he knew whenever thoughts of Marie—or Inger, or Elizabeth—haunted him, teasing him with a touch that would never reach him, the hint of a kiss on his cheek like a warm breath of air that vanished as quickly as it had come. Oddly, standing there on that white, blanketed hill, enshrouded in silence, Ben did not feel alone. He felt that warm breath of air again, and then he shivered against the sudden chill of a wayward snowflake finding its way beneath his collar.
A single snowflake was nothing compared with a thick, wet snowball, and yet he was reminded of the snowball that had found him right there, on that very spot, many years before, a snowball that all three of his sons had laid claim to; none of them had been willing to let either of the others feel the brunt of Ben's wrath. He'd been angry then, too, angry and afraid and…weary after two years without Marie, two years faced with raising his sons alone, two years of hoping and praying he was doing right by each of them. While he'd been standing there, silently raging against his fate, his sons had wandered off together. They'd been young and full of energy, full of…life. They'd needed something more than to stand before a gravestone on a cold, winter's day making wishes that would never come true and praying to change a past that was as lost to them as their mothers. And so they had started playing together in the snow.
Ben had been oblivious to their laughter, oblivious to the way they'd been able to find enjoyment in that place where Marie lay turning to dust and waiting for Ben. When the snowball had hit him in the back of his neck, the cold, wetness of it dripping down into his collar and stinging his skin with its icy touch, it had been as though his blood had gone to ice, too; and his temper had as well. He'd turned his rage away from God…and toward his sons. He could still remember how they had looked at him in fear. And each one of them, even Little Joe, young as he was, had been prepared to turn Ben's anger from the others, unwilling to watch either of his brothers suffer, no matter who had truly been at fault.
Ben had been forced to realize, in that moment, what two years without Marie had done to his sons; it had bonded them as thoroughly, as completely as anything could. That realization had turned Ben from rage, a thing that had blinded him to the strength and perseverance of his sons, and toward thankfulness. Yes, he had lost three wives, but he still had much for which to be thankful. He had three sons. And they had each other. And now, all these years later, they still had each other. And because they had each other, they were well equipped to endure the fear, the sorrow, the pain all men must endure. The slings and arrows that had driven Hamlet mad—and that had blinded Ben to the grace that had been opened to him then as vividly as today's fresh blanket of white—would be borne by each of his sons in turn, and the others would be there to see him through it.
Today, it was Adam's turn.
Surely it was the bond Marie's death had caused him to forge with his brothers that was drawing Adam home now. In just a couple of months, after the spring thaw, he would be among them again. He would be a widower, like his father, a thing that might bond the two of them in new ways as well. But, unlike his father, Adam had not been blessed with a child before losing his wife. And for that, perhaps, he would rage…or worse, suffer in silence. It would be up to his brothers…and his father…to help him realize a single snowball holds a lot more power than all of Hamlet's slings and arrows combined.
When the screech of a hawk broke the silence around him, Ben blinked himself back to the moment and realized it had stopped snowing. The moment of grace had passed. The world would start moving again, and so must Ben. It was time to go home. It was time to face two brothers who'd been torn between sadness for Adam's loss, and happiness over his impending return, and to help them remember—and even relive—the laughter.
Reaching down, Ben picked up a handful of snow. He packed it into a ball, took aim at a tree and let it fly, smiling when it reached its target with a wet splat. Hoss or Little Joe, whichever one of his sons he saw first, would never know what hit him.