February 1963 I remember meeting Benjamin Messenger when I was sixteen years old. The first time meeting him, you’d never say he was a handsome man. In fact, the sight of him brought up more questions for me, than answers, the first one being: What happened to your face? It was obviously something I’d never ask him, because the obvious, and only answer, was that he’d been a casualty of war. I suppose that it was pretty-well self-explanatory; we weren’t that far removed from the war, after all. He had a long scar that was a deep, scarlet fold, running down from his left temple to his lower jaw; a second scar came creeping out from behind the stub of his left ear, crisscrossing the first one and staggering across the bridge of his nose. And then there was that stoop and limp he had—he leaned a little to the left—and when I’d pointed it out to him, he smiled, saying he’d been more than tall and straight-limbed in his youth; and that’s how he said it, too: ‘tall and straight-limbed in my youth’—as if people still talk like that. Later, I’d found out they’d taken a piece of bone out of his thigh rather than have to amputate his leg.
We went to ROME pre-covid, and he was supposed to give us a tour. He was supposed to be a history major, but I knew more about ancient Roman history than he did. But the moment he introduced himself to me, I knew I had to use his name. I started writing this story, just so I could use his name.
Benjamin Messenger is a GREAT name!
We went to ROME pre-covid, and he was supposed to give us a tour. He was supposed to be a history major, but I knew more about ancient Roman history than he did. But the moment he introduced himself to me, I knew I had to use his name. I started writing this story, just so I could use his name.
Very interesting start to your story Ben-I will continue reading it. Cheers, Heather