Frances R. Bennett
Memories of My Husband
He was born June 12, 1924, into a family that included an older sister and brother. Twenty-one months later another boy was born, and Mark often said that he and Bill were closer than twins. I certainly agree with that as I listened to stories about his family and read letters Mark had written to Bill when they were both in the service during WW II.
As it was with most families during the Depression, there was not much money. His dad was running a hardware store and was left holding the bag by a large number of people who owed him money. His sister helped out because she was a nurse and had a paying job. In fact, the family credits her with saving their home. She made sure they had money for Christmas gifts, even if it was only a Mickey Mouse watch. Actually, it was all he got.
They had clothes and never went hungry. In fact, it was just like everyone else during that time. They all still had a good time, went to school, and enjoyed life. Mark had jobs, to be sure. His mother made sure of that, and he brought the money home and gave it to her. The one he talked about the most was mowing the cemetery and how hard it was to mow around and clean around the tombstones. That is why I was so surprised when on one of the last trips we made to Little Rock, out of the blue he said, "I want a big tombstone." In the end we got him a nice one, but it just so happened that our grave-site was behind a man who had more money to spend than good sense. There was no way to compete, so I told Mark I was sorry but I couldn't outdo Mr. Anonymous.
He loved his brother Bill. He would tell me that Bill would always get into a fight with the older boys, and when he couldn't win, he would call on Mark. Another way I could see this love was when I read the letters. There was a letter that I can remember that Mark wrote to Bill saying he was sending him two or three dollars, that was all he had, and he would send more when he got his check.
There was not a jealous bone in his body. He always rejoiced to see other farmers do well. He was a super farmer, although he never got recognition as such. The one thing I know— not many sharecroppers could retire and leave the wife enough money to live where I do without money worries. Neither was he selfish, with one exception. He would drive old pick-ups and take the ridicule other farmers heaped on him; he would only get new equipment when he really needed it—not just because everyone else had the latest. He worked right along with the men we hired, and many times he and our son would take a second shift. This was especially true in planting. No, there was not a selfish bone in his body when it came to our son and me. I can say that I always had what I wanted, and he never complained.
Our son loved to go to school and Mark never complained. All he said was that he didn't want Mark III owing a lot of money when he got out, so we paid what he didn't earn for himself. He was ridiculed about that, too. "Isn't that boy every going to get out of school?" he heard often. Mark calmly said in reply, "At least I haven't had to buy him three new cars because he totaled the ones he had." "Why don't you make Mark play football? He is so big and the team needs him," was another comment. Again Mark replied, "I played and my knee is paying for it. I won't ask that of my son unless he really wants to."
We built our home in 1966. Again everything I wanted in the house was there. The most amazing thing about building this house was Mark was on the job every day all day long except for one day when we went to pick out the color of bricks. He culled the lumber and would tell them they were not going to put that board in his house. It had some knotholes or wasn't straight. Surprisingly, back then there were not many knotholes or crooked boards, and they would cull them.
One of the funniest things when building was he did not think the footing on one end of the house was deep enough. After they left, he went out and got down in the trench and dug it to "his" specifications. They never could figure out why they miscalculated the amount of concrete and ran out. When I sold the house in 1997, there were only two small cracks in it. It was built so well that you couldn't hear the outside noises except for once in a great while.
I am going to close this chapter by entering the two pieces my son and I wrote to read at Mark's funeral. Mark III had the preacher read his, but I read my own. I believe they will give you more of a picture of the man.
Elegy Written by My Son
My daddy never preached a sermon nor did he ever sing a solo, but his witness was one of steadfastness and commitment. He may not have touched millions of lives, but to the ones he did touch he made a significant impact. He was a rock and his word was his bond. Daddy would set a goal, and he stayed with it until it was finished. He made many sacrifices in the present in order to reach that final goal.
Daddy never lived his life vicariously through me. I was never pushed into being what he wanted me to be or do what he thought I should. He let me make my own mistakes but supported me to the fullest while I was making them. His support was the greatest when I needed it most. He was always there, and he always allowed me to be my own person. The one thing he didn't want me to be was a farmer even though he was one of the best farmers around. Farming was not only his living but also his love.
Daddy loved his family, his extended family, and his friends. The one thing that was difficult for him was seeing someone he loved be sick. The past few years it got hard for him to go see Grandmother because he saw her have more pain and going down. He never wanted anything for himself, but he never failed to let me and Mother have the things we might want. He was a selfish man only when it came to himself.
Daddy was what he was. It didn't matter to him what your economic status was. The color of your skin didn't matter. Only you the person were important to him. He treated people the same, and you always knew where you stood with him.
That was my daddy. He loved me and I love him dearly.
My Words
Some of the following I have talked about before, but I needed to.
I want to tell you a few things about the Mark some of you didn't know. He had many names. Mark, A.M., Junior, and Sam. We were sending a memorial to Stuttgart, and Marvin called to see if I had lost my mind because I said "by Junior and Frances." He was a junior, and that is still his name around Almyra and Stuttgart. One time he was down at the bullpen at Loyd's and this man came in and said, "Well, there's Sam." Mark knew he was from Arkansas County. He got that nickname from on older man in Almyra because he was always asking questions. Even on his final trip to the emergency room Wednesday night, he was still asking questions. He must have asked Lawrence Staton dozens about Lawrence's family.
Mark admitted to getting into a few fights when he was a boy, but they were not of his doing. He said his brother Bill would pick them with bigger boys, and he would have to come in and fight to protect Bill. Bill just might have a little different version.
Mark was a man before his time. I went to work when Mark III was 10 months old, and he would carry our son and the dog around with him all the time. He farmed with Daddy on a partnership basis, and they really got along. Daddy would tell Mark what to do. Mark would say "uhhuh" and go on and do it his way. It worked really well. Daddy thought he was the boss, and Mark knew he was.
One time he angled across the road turning in our drive. On came the blue lights. The policeman asked him if he had been drinking. Mark said, "Those are fighting words. I must be the only teetotaler in Chicot County." A week later we were riding out towards the state park jiggling along when on came the blue lights again. The state trooper came to the window, looked in, and said something like "You're the teetotaler I stopped last week, but you really should stay on your side of the road." No ticket either time.
He loved for people to tell him how much younger he looked than he was. Now that caused me to have to tell them my age because I look older than I am.
He had his very own sense of humor. Floy Bostick told me the story about when we were building our home. He was in the AP&L office and someone was telling him this would be nice or that would be nice, and Mark said, "I've got so much nice now I may not be able to pay for it." Mark put in as much time while we were building our home as any of the workers. He culled each board, and they didn't go in if they were not good enough. He missed one day of being there and that was the day we went to Malvern to pick out the bricks.
Mark loved his garden and the pecan trees. Last Wednesday while he was still on the floor waiting for the ambulance, he says, "Have you finished side-dressing the onions?" I hadn't but I will. When the pecans were falling, we always had to walk the road and get the pecans before we could drive in or out, day or night.
He had his heroes, but they were for the most part ordinary people. Oh, yes, he loved Mickey Mantle, the Dallas Cowboys, but three heroes in the past few years were James McDonald and his brother Bill and sister-in-law Waunetta. He so admired James' attitude during and after his accident and Bill and Waunetta's attitude through Bill's cancer.
Farming wasn't work to him. It was his hobby that happened to make his living. He was a perfectionist, and he never expected his employees to do something that he didn't do with them.
Mark started back to Sunday school late in his life, but oh how he loved that class and each member of it. He never wanted to go to the parties, so he said, but once he got there he was the party. He always bugged Floyd Sessions about whether Karnack was coming, only he never said it right. It was always "Karmack."
One last thing I want to share about that man called Mark. I was at the drug store in Lake Village one day, and I happened to drive up there in the pickup. When I got out, I noticed this black man looking at either me or the truck and then he got into his truck. When I came out, the man got out and came over to me. "Mrs. Bennett," he said, "I want to tell you how sorry I was to learn that Mr. Mark died, and I wanted to tell you what a special man he was. I could borrow anything he had, and any time I needed any advice, he was always there to share his knowledge with me. I learned much from him. You probably don't know it, but I would stop by and we would visit out under the pecan trees any time I saw him outside." No, I did not know they had visited together during the years. I cannot tell you just how much it touched me—that this man took the time to wait to tell me what Mark meant to him.
As I said, Mark touched many lives, and I hope that these things I have remembered today show you just a little how very special, kind and loving he was. This man called Mark, Daddy, Junior, Sam and Honey.
