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Show THE ZEPHYR/ APRIL-MAY 2007 BILL BENGE, OLD FRIEND... Late on a Friday night last October, word came to me that my best friend, Bill Benge, had died suddenly of a massive heart attack. I soon realized that Life for many of us who knew and loved Bill would never quite be the same again. He was only 60 years old, and though he had been plagued by health problems for years, he was remarkably happy at the end of his life. Or maybe at peace is a better way to put it--- happy in a very introspective way. It was a relief to know his spirits were so high on that last evening, but all of us wish he'd had more time to feel so good. We had both come to Moab as young men, more than 30 years ago, from large cities that has infected so much of the rural West in recent years. Today’s latest New West immigrants could learn something from Bill. They might try embracing a small town on its terms, not theirs. They might consider that different values can often complement each other, instead of conflict. And that in the end, the New West should strive to be the sum of its many different parts, and not an exclusive and regimented and inflexible culture determined to rid itself of the very qualities in a small town that brought them there in the first place. and had chosen, for our own reasons, to make a life in this once rural and largely un- I miss my buddy Bill. And I'd like to think that somewhere, out there, he misses us known community. Most of you know the facts of Bill's life—he was a lawyer by trade and in 1974, became the youngest person in Utah history to be elected as a county attorney. He served as Grand County Attorney for most of the next three decades. After he retired, he moved briefly to Salt Lake City, but came back to Moab, less than a year before his death, and opened a private practice. too. But I hope, if there’s a Great Moab Diner in the Sky, they keep a booth open for him, 24 hours a day. Adios amigo. Bill Benge 1946-2006 Despite Bill’s talents as an attorney, his passion was food. He loved to cook and he loved to share his creations with his friends. Bill contributed recipe columns to The Zephyr under the nomme de guerre, Willie Flocko. Here's an offering from October 1993... . I met Bill, just a few months after his election and for years, I only knew him well enough to say hello and chat a bit at old City Market or the post office. Later, however, at a very low point in my life, Bill showed up to offer support and comfort and we forged a friendship that lasted more than 20 years. We had our squabbles and disagreements, but could never seem to finda reasontostaymad. ~ Willie Flocko’s.. COUNTRY KITCHEN In the last year of Bill's life, we spent a significant amount of our time together reminiscing and lamenting the changes that had transformed Moab in the last decade. We This column is dedicated to Officer Neil MacDougall, Strath-Clyde Police, Lochgilphead, Argyll, Scotland. were very good at it. It had been, for years, a quiet, albeit oddly diverse little community; As Stiles reported in the August issue of The Zephyr, I took a brief sojourn to Scotland this summer. I’ve always wanted to go to Scotland and it was everything | expected and more. 1 searched out and found Crusader graves and ruined cathedrals, castles and abbeys. If the same were in the United States, they not only would have been designated National Parks, but "theme parks" would have been built around them with the accompanying hordes of tourists and fast food restaurants selling cathedral burgers. In Scotland, however, with only a few exceptions, I _ was absolutely alone in my visits to these monuments. I drove on one-lane roads for up to 20 miles to reach some of them and often never passed another vehicle. The emptiness of it all reminded me of the way the Canyonlands were when I moved here twenty some years ago, though rolling and green, rather than angular and red. now, as we all know, in little more than a decade, Moab has become just another New West real estate market to be exploited and sold off in quarter-acre parcels. We barely recognized our old town anymore. We often had breakfast at the Moab Diner, one of the few cafes left in Moab that didn’t exist merely for the tourist traffic. That is to say, it’s still affordable and the waitresses recognize us. On one of our last trips to the diner, however, we found our café so crammed with strange faces that we had to take a number and wait for a table. It wasn’t the Diner's fault—it had simply been overwhelmed by its own success. But Bill turned to me and said, “It’s over, Stiles.” In Scotland I indulged my gastronomic proclivities at every turn. Every inn at which More than an hing. he never His talents and his oo but Bill never wanted his town to He loved and reveled in | 1. | | : I stayed provided a “full Scottish Breakfast" included in the price of the room. This breakfast included any or all of the following: porridge, stewed fruit, toast, eggs, bacon, ham, sausage, black pudding, white pudding, smoked kippers, finnan haddie (smoked haddock in milk), kedgeree (fish soup), oatcakes with heather honey and marmalade, cheese, tea and juice. a For lunch and dinner, I sampled much of the varied fare of Scotland. Scottish cuisine has been much maligned throughout the world, however, I found it to be wonderful. An example of this maligning is the national dish of Scotland, haggis. Haggis is essentially a pudding (sausage) made of oatmeal, the heart, liver and lungs of a sheep, stuffed into a sheep's A couple weeks later, I found myself driving north to Moab, to Bill’s funeral. Along the way, I passed all the faux adobe condo developments, in various stages of comple_ tion, that were consuming the last remnants of Spanish Valley's alfalfa fields. And Moab, in late October, was busy, even hectic, with tourist traffic and the effects of a seasonally bloated residential population. Yet again, I found myself cursing this New West phenomenon that had robbed me of the quieter world I still treasure, if only in my mind and memory. But as I sat in my chair at the funeral home and waited for the service to begin, I looked at all the faces around me and was struck by the fact that many of us were Moab’s first New Westerners. Many of us had come from urban areas across America to Moab, decades ago, seeking a simpler and quieter life; no one was more prototypical than Bill. Bill Benge grew up in the Bay Area and as a young man, embraced and absorbed the many cultural opportunities that an international city like San Francisco offered. His taste in music was eclectic and extensive. He read more books in a week than most of us might hope to skim in a year. And he traveled the world. Bill was my walking, talking encyclopedia. He was often better, faster and more accurate than a Google search. I liked to call him Renaissance Man—Ren Man for short, and he appreciated the title. And yet, despite his knowledge and educational background and his erudite ways, he preferred the quieter and more honest life that he found in Moab. He never wore his sophistication on his sleeve, though he never tried to hide it either. It was simply who Bill stomach. This "national dish” has been such a t of derision, even among some Scots, that now an event in Scotland of the "Highland Games” is the "haggis throw,” wherein athletes toss a fully haggis-stuffed sheep stomach for distance. i The following is a recipe for haggis that is, perhaps, more attuned to an American palate. | had haggis several times in Scotland and loved it in all of its different varieties. STEAMED HAGGIS 1/2 lb. steak or lamb 1/4 Ib. suet 2 t. salt, 1/4 t. pepper, 1 breakfastcup oatmeal Mince heart, liver, steak or lamb, mix all together with salt, pepper oatmeal; put all into a bowl, lightly pressed, cover with greased paper. Steam 2 1/2 or 3 hours. Turn out and serve hot. : : The haggis is so revered in Scotland, that Robert Burns, the poet, wrote a poem entitled, To A Haggis. This poem is recited during the celebration of Burns’ birthday on January 25th, which is celebrated worldwide as Burns Night. The haggis is ceremoniously carried into the dining room accompanied by a piper piping. The first verse of To A Haggis is as follows: Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face Great Chieftain o’ the Puddin-race! Aboon them a’ ye tak your place was and in that spirit, his friends were as broad and diverse as his vocabulary. He counted among those closest to him, teachers and artists and writers—he was Ed Abbey’s attorney while Ed lived in Moab—but also ranchers and miners and carpenters and short-order cooks anid even some of the men and women he'd prosecuted over the years. More than anything, henever wanted to change Moab. His talents and his personality enriched the community but Bill never wanted his town to be a reflection of himself. He loved and reveled in the differences. He preferred the honest and the genuine to the contrived and pre-constructed. And more than anything, he loathed the bland homogeneity Painch, tripe, or thairm: 23 Weel are ye wordy o' a grace As lang’s my arm. |