Beyond Sight: American Story with Bob Dotson
Posted: Monday, June 04, 2007 9:55 AM by Jaclyn Levin
(From Bob Dotson, NBC News National Correspondent)
I’ve made an effort—all of my career—to look behind the media mirror that reflects the powerful and find tales of people who are practically invisible. A lot of seemingly ordinary people, standing in the shadows of well-known people—are terrific stories. I listen to people who don’t have titles in front of their names.
This morning’s American Story with Bob Dotson features a man who began to see, the day he went blind. When his sight faded entirely, when he was totally blind, Pete Eckert decided on a new career—professional photographer. He has found a way to re-wire his brain so that sound helps him “see” again. You have to see this one to believe it. WATCH VIDEO A blind man making a living taking photographs.
The most successful person I ever met was Fred Benson. He’s been a police chief, a fire chief, head of the rescue squad, baseball coach, teacher, builder and President of the Chamber of Commerce. Five times.
At ninety he became a Rhode Island state driver’s license examiner. If you’re sixteen on Block Island and you want to drive, you have to go see Fred.
He was eight when a farmer named Gurd Miliken took him in, and Fred still lives in the little room Gurd gave him, eighty-two years ago.
Five generations of Milikens have grown up around him. They’ve repeatedly asked Fred to join them downstairs where it’s heated, but he refuses.
A few years back Fred won the Rhode Island state lottery. Five hundred thousand dollars. He threw the biggest birthday party anyone can remember. Invited all the children on the island and announced he’d pay the college tuition of any child who wanted to go.
Fred had always thought of his community first. In the 70s there was a housing shortage on Block Island. So, at fifty-four, Fred went to college and got a degree. He wanted to teach high school shop.
The island’s four builders today all got their start with Fred.
Fred never married. Never had children. But, for eighty-two years, he dedicated himself to the people of this island.
We were sitting one sunset watching waves crash against the rocky cliffs. I asked him, “Why?” Fred looked past the lighthouse to the waves breaking against the rocky cliff, then turned and told me a story.
“When I was a little boy, the farmers used to meet for dinner on Saturday night. Each one would boast about their kids. Gurd Miliken had eight sons and me. I sat way down at the end of a long table.” Fred paused to look at a pelican on a pole.
“Gurd rose from his chair, one night and pointed a long finger past all of his boys. He pointed right at me. ‘You fellas wait and see what Fred Benson does. He’ll be the best of ‘em all.’” Fred stopped talking for a long moment. Stared at the sunset for a while. “I hope he knows how I turned out,” he whispered. Then, more intensely, “I hope he knows how I turned out.”
Fred Benson has found a safe harbor. Now he shows others the way.
If we don’t look beyond the headlines for stories, we miss so much. Go where the pack has not. The stories you find in unlikely places can tell us who we are. A fellow by the name of Ed Panzer reminded me of that the other day. Ed and his four brothers rattled across America in the fall of 1922. They were part of a remarkable odyssey—one hundred thousand children—plucked from the slums of New York City and sent west to a new life. Most—like the Panzers—were the sons and daughters of immigrants, found starving and alone, sleeping on the streets. The Children’s Aid Society swept them up and shipped them to towns all across the country.
At each stop their arrival was advertised. The kids trooped off the train. Lined up. Couples simply picked the one they wanted. Orphans were often separated from their brothers and sisters. If a child acted up, he was put on the next train west.
In Tekamah, Nebraska, four of the Panzer boys were chosen.
One was not. George, the youngest, clung to Harold and refused to let them take him back to the train. So, Harold stayed. But each of the five brothers went to live on a different farm. One couple wanted to adopt two of them. The brothers refused. They’d made a pact to keep their last name, so they would never lose track of each other.
And they didn’t.
In the midst of the Great Depression, Ed became a doctor. Harold did too. They worked to put each other through medical school. Brother Jack built the hospital where Harold opened his practice.
Bob became pastor of one of the largest Methodist churches in California. And George, the baby whose hug kept the brothers together? They all started him in business. Today he’s a millionaire.
When Harold Panzer turned eighty-one, he got married ... with the help of his brothers.
Bob performed the service.
Ed was best man.
The brothers still have what they had on that orphan train. Each other.
Great stories are like onions. No, not because they make you cry. They have many layers. They communicate on many levels. They’re laced with things that make them widely appealing. On the surface is the tale to tell, but under that a series of strong images that help us experience the story, not just learn about it. You, too, have such a story. Drop a note in my mailbox on the Today Show webpage, American Story with Bob Dotson.
