Time will not wait for our convenience
Friday, March 14, 2008 11:25 PM CDT

I didn't know Ben Gelman, the longtime and much-admired columnist for this newspaper.

Gelman died last July, a few months after I became the editor of The Southern Illinoisan. He was in a nursing home for the final months and the time never seemed right to visit and introduce myself.

Gelman's friends told me he was battling Lou Gehrig's Disease, otherwise known as Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. It is a devilish disease. Some people live for years after being diagnosed. Others pass quickly. I thought there would be time to meet Gelman after I'd fully settled into Southern Illinois.

This was a mistake, though not intentional. We usually imagine a great deal of sand in the top of the hourglass. It keeps us going. It keeps us from focusing on the settling sand.

I thought about Gelman after attending an opening reception for the "Ben Gelman Memorial Photo Exhibit" at the Carbondale Civic Center. The exhibit of Gelman's photography runs through March; it's well worth seeing.

There are 30 images in the display, ranging from an iconic view of the Brooklyn Bridge in Gelman's native New York to an electrifying shot of a young **** Gregory honing his comedic talents in Carbondale while a student at Southern Illinois University.

Much of the imagery depicts the 1950s and '60s, a time when life seemed more rigidly defined and suited to the black-and-white photo display. One almost can picture the colors, though the renderings largely are comprised of tender grays.

My favorite shot? It was Gelman's view of a huffing steam engine on the locomotive turntable north of Carbondale. The 1959 image marked the end of the steam era on the Illinois Central Railroad, the train that ran between my boyhood home in Rockford and the Chicago homes of my grandparents. I loved trains. Still do.

My sister, Karen, and I rode the last steam train when its farewell tour wound through Rockford. It seems as recent as yesterday, though all I can recall of the day's colors are the gray smoke and steel black flanks of the locomotive.

Gelman started his career with The Southern as a photographer, moving into the region with his wife, Virginia, a native of Marion, and their son. Some of Gelman's friends and peers attended the opening of the photo exhibit, sharing stories about a man who graduated from high school at the age of 14 and lovingly cared for his younger brother, Murray Gell-Man, who later won the Nobel Prize for physics.

Here are some things I learned: Gelman changed the spelling of his family's name to avoid endless explanations, developed a lifelong fondness for bird watching in New York City, once tore the pages from a book he read and passed them to Murray so both could read the same book while riding a train, was competitive in any undertaking, told a story beautifully and understood the value of coaching young reporters and photographers.

When I congratulated his friend, Laraine Wright, on the success of the exhibit she shared something about Gelman I'd never heard.

Wright told me Gelman especially enjoyed meeting the people who were named editor of The Southern Illinoisan. It was a sweet thing to say and I thank Wright for thinking me worthy of an introduction.

But I've been a little upset with myself for failing to find time for someone who walked the path ahead of me. It was an opportunity lost. And the sand drifted deeper.

GARY METRO is the editor of The Southern. You can reach him at (618) 351-5033 or gary.metro@thesouthern.com. You can also "talk" with him at the Editor's Blog, www.thesouthern.com/editorsblog.

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