Publisher's Message
One Last Party

by Sue Gillis

I met Molly Benjamin (Benjy) in 1994 through a shared passion for newspapers and writing. At the time, I had just left Burlington after starting two newspapers. Kicking around Provincetown, I began hanging out at the Cape Cod Times office with Benjy, who wrote three weekly fishing columns and who mesmerized me with her stories about the sea.

Benjy, took me as the country girl I was and taught me about life on the sea, about the wind – “everything here is about the wind” she said – and about Provincetown’s history and its characters, its secret places and about dune rides and clam bakes on Race Point, sunsets on Herring Cove, the fishing culture, the Portuguese and the Wash a Shores, and the heartaches and joys of living in a small fishing village at land’s end. Our endless talks about the press were the genesis of my third newspaper startup, the Provincetown Banner.

Benjy had one good eye; she lost the other in a fishing accident. She wore a black patch over the bad one, which only enhanced the electric blue in the other. That eye could size you up in a P-Town minute. But it was her ears that heard the fishermen’s talk. She could mimic their unique and colorful dialogue, hear the nuances, the slang, the nicknames, the rhythm and cadence of their speech. She heard so well that she grew to talk just like them. And she captured it all in a writing style that won her readers all over the Cape and far out to Martha’s Vineyard.

She took me everywhere from the clam spawning business  out on Martha’s Vineyard, to fishing gear stores to stock up, out on the flats to tend and harvest clams, to the Old Colony, where the roughest fishermen gathered to drink and tell tales every day. She was recognized everywhere we went. Like a rock star people came up to her; some she knew and some she did not, but she always took time to chat. All the while, I stayed close by, listening and learning.

Benjy was as rough as any fisherman in the harbor. She fished the Grand Banks herself for a long time and was just as comfortable on turbulent seas as she was creating colorful pieces for the newspaper. Her house was a tiny converted shack, with old boats and fishing stuff strewn everywhere. Inside it was cozy, warmed by a wood stove and decorated with original art, all from local artists. She drove a beat up truck with a sign on the door that said “Clams so Fresh They’re Rude.” She smoked a pack of Camels every day and some say she drank too much Bass Ale.

Being Benjy meant squeezing the pulse of life every minute. She knew that when you go to the edge you have a better chance of living a remarkable life.

Barely sixty, with Hepatitis C and some missing teeth her hard living finally caught up with her in December.

The call I was dreading came on Wednesday morning December 13th at 7:30 am. Benjy had peacefully passed away around 5 am. Though not unexpected, for hours I could not catch my breath.

She was my harshest critic and my best support and I loved her for it.

Just four days before I had sat close by her side during a party of more than 400 friends who turned out to bid her farewell in Provincetown style. One last party, which was really a living wake, was hurriedly pulled together in a few days. A raffle raised $10,000 including original artwork, Broadway tickets and the food, which even included a raw bar and huge pots of Portuguese soup and clam chowder. It seemed like the whole town was there, from the artists to the old Salts. Folks had to get in close to listen for her voice was weak. Lined up from 5 to 10 p.m. hundreds of teary-eyed men and women from all walks of life openly expressed gut-wrenching love. Some had known her for over 30 years, some for only an hour’s encounter. But if you had known Benjy only for an hour, that hour was profoundly memorable.

A living wake or one last party may seem abhorrent to many; some may be frightened to actually face the dying, for to reckon with the dying is to confront your own demons. The truth is that it brings out the very best because it forces us to say what we need to say, to acknowledge old hurts and disappointments, to let go of grudges, to really understand on both an intellectual and emotional level what is important and what is not. There is no fudging. No lying. No escaping.

And you learn that you have what it takes to do the right thing, which is to show up and give the gift of kindness and compassion when it is needed most. Perhaps the most surprising aspect is that sometimes the dying make it kind of easy for you. They know what to say.

Like many others, I did not expect her to go so fast, in just 23 days. I thought there would be more time. She wanted to go out onto Nauset Beach one final time.

I believe Benjy is out there now – on the beaches, the flats, riding on the salt in the wind.