Some things can be proven with a ruler, a calculator or maybe a scale — something that measures a finite length, distance, weight or fact, or even evidence that stands up beyond a reasonable doubt in a court of law.
And then there are truths that can’t be measured.
This weekend, while feeling nostalgic after hearing about the passing of my cousin Ben, I spent quite a while looking for a picture of him and me that was taken the last time I was at his house.
I didn’t find the photo, but looking for it did remind me of a picture he showed me that day. At the time, it had been a few years since I had seen him, and Ben, one of our uncles, another cousin and I were looking through old family photos.
One of them, a picture of Ben with his father, my uncle John, stopped me cold because the geometry of the frame made no sense.
My uncle John passed away when I was in my late teens, and in my memory, he was a giant of a man. Probably because his personality was so big and his presence filled every room he entered, I always pictured him as a large man. I was shocked that day when I realized that Ben, who was about three or four inches shorter than me, was exactly the same height as his dad.
I would have sworn on a Bible that Uncle John was at least 6-foot-4, because that’s the image I’ve had of him since I was a child. Instead, he would have had to stand on his tiptoes to reach 5 feet, 8 inches.
Ben wasn’t loud and bombastic like his father, but despite their stature, he was every bit the giant of a human being his dad was. He didn’t need to shake the walls to make you feel his presence.
He did it with a steady nature that made everyone in his life know he was someone they could depend on, and then he backed that up by going beyond the call whenever he was needed.
He was the type of person who, when asked to watch a neighbor’s or family member’s house while they were gone, would make sure there was a fresh pot of beans and chile ready in the slow cooker when they got home.
While a camera lens or a ruler is a cold, objective thing that can record facts, neither can measure impact. To a kid, a man who laughs loudly and makes you feel entirely safe is always 6-foot-4, even if the ruler says he’s nowhere near that. And anyone lucky enough to know Ben knows that a man who quietly looks out for everyone else occupies that exact same massive space.
That is something I know to be true, even though it can’t be measured.
Robert Perea has covered news and sports in Northern Nevada since 1993. He has published The Fernley Reporter online since 2016, loves music, is a sucker for the pets who have adopted him, and is thrilled to be printing the Reporter.
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