More Chess

Moving into yet another decade, Samuel Bean gains his competitive edge, despite his double challenge of being both blind and deaf.

The East Bay metropolitan area finds itself boasting the possibility of a new chess champion, as Sam outpaces the defending champion, a student at the University of California at Berkeley.

Still living at the same address—though his mother, Ella Shields Bean, is by now no longer with him there—Sam is now fifty four years of age. Just moving into his prime, he surely must have thought as he pulled within grasp of first place in yet another chess tournament.

Perhaps a bit prematurely for the scoop on the end result, the Oakland Tribune moves in to report Sam's progress in a brief announcement on May 10, 1950:

            Sam Bean, a blind and deaf salesman of 1807 Santa Clara Avenue, Alameda, is one of the leading contenders in the 1950 chess tournament of the Oakland Chess and Checker Club, club officials announced today.

            Bean has played ten games with eight wins and two draws. Larry Ledgerwood, University of California geology student and defending champion, has won four games, lost one and had two draws.

Another Loss For Sam

Despite Samuel Bean’s rising star in the Bay Area’s world of chess tournaments, all his success in business, personal life and even positive attitude couldn’t protect him from suffering any more losses.

Ella May Shields Bean, Sam’s perseverant and ever-attentive mother who had seen him through every possible life challenge, was now eighty three years of age.

It was only a matter of a few months after the wonderful article on Sam’s life that he had to face the inevitable. After an “extended illness” that eventually landed her in a local hospital, Ella Bean passed away on November 1, 1948.

I can only begin to imagine what a sea change that must have been in the life of the blind and deaf man for whom she had been such a powerful mainstay.

            Alameda, Nov. 3.—Funeral services were held today for Mrs. Ella May Bean, 83, who died Monday at a local hospital after an extended illness. A native of Illinois, she lived in Alameda 35 years. The family home is at 1807 Santa Clara Avenue.

            Surviving are three children, William S. Bean, Alameda automobile dealer; Samuel W. Bean and Mrs. Leona Grant, Alameda; and two sisters, Mrs. Flora Montague, Fresno, and Mrs. Lillie Taylor, Rodeo. There are two grandchildren, Earl R., and Samuel W. Bean Jr.

            Services were conducted at 2:30 p.m., at the Fowler-Anderson Mortuary, 2244 Santa Clara Avenue, by the Rev. John W. Glasse, Presbyterian minister. Interment was at Mountain View Crematorium.

“A Swell Wife”

It is sometimes interesting, in having reviewed a man’s life, to go back and take a look at it in retrospect—from the eyes of the subject, himself.

In the case of Samuel Bean, the Oakland Tribune feature gives us that opportunity. Written in 1948, when Sam had turned fifty two, the Hayes article provides a glimpse into Sam’s life as a review. Keeping in mind—as we’ve seen countless times in the case of other newspapers—that the reporter might have gotten the story wrong, we could just chalk up any errors or revisions to editorial negligence. However, in this case, I think some of the discrepancies we are about to review are more telling about Sam’s stage in life than the reporter’s prowess in getting the story right.

Like rehearsing a litany, Sam got the tale of his injury down pat—though we’ve certainly read different versions over the last several years of newspaper records.

“I was watching some boys on a Palo Alto playground when I was 13. One of the boys picked up a rock and threw it, only playing. It hit me in the head, caused intense inflammation and destroyed the optic and auditory nerves.”

Likewise, Sam’s take on his early years after the injury was straightforward:

Bean is the son of a former Palo Alto contractor and builder. After his accident his mother brought him to Alameda and he became a student at the California School for the Blind in Berkeley.

After that section of the article, Sam seems to stray from what we’ve already learned as the orthodoxy of his personal history. I can’t help but wonder what those discrepancies might be attributed to. What was he thinking? What caused him to remember some details so clearly, while others only incompletely?

Take Sam’s teacher at the California School for the Deaf and Blind. Her philosophy evidently was firmly imprinted on Sam’s mind—he was a dutiful disciple of her progressive views on the handicapped in society. One could almost say she made the man.

And yet, he couldn’t fully remember her name. Admittedly, the reporter inadvertently could have slipped the last portion of her name from the final copy. I wonder, though: could it have been Sam who didn’t fully remember Mary White Eastman?

“I had a wonderful teacher, Miss Mary White. She was blind herself,” Bean said. “She taught me that a handicap is a handicap only in the degree in which you allow it to master you.”

It was from this article that I first found mention of what had become of Sam’s wife, Maud Woodworth Bean. If you recall, I had had trouble locating any records online of her passing. While I tend to doubt the accuracy of the diagnosis Sam gave as the cause of her death—a case of rheumatic fever—if she had prematurely lost her life owing to Marfan syndrome, as I suspect, there would have been little chance that anyone would have known that in 1933.

And yet, having been married to Sam for twelve years—not to mention, being the mother of his two sons—one would think she’d merit at least a mention by name. Though the narrative rehearsed the usual—that he met her while she was serving as a teacher at the school Sam was attending, and that their marriage was a happy one—all Sam said about her was, “I had a swell wife.”

Perhaps I’m being too hard on Sam at this point. Maybe it was the newspaper that was getting it wrong. After all, Sam was already misrepresented as having “had two years of study at the University of California” instead of the California School for the Deaf and Blind in Berkeley.

Despite the article’s flaws, it was here that I also found more details on the evolution of Sam’s business life. According to the Tribune, Sam had “expected to be a cabinet maker but the lure of living among people led him to become a salesman.”

The article also included a photograph of Sam with his “business companion,” Fred Schieff. The two worked in tandem for the Industrial Home for the Blind, where Sam was billed as star salesman of their products.

The Tribune article also confirmed other reports about Sam’s earlier business travels with his wife—those many times in which the two had toured, promoting his writings. The article closed with a taste of the simple sayings Sam used to remind himself to focus on the can-do, positive side of life.

            He and his wife traveled from coast to coast, Mexico to Canada, giving wide circulation among other things, to his philosophy:

            “The time to be happy is now; the place to be happy is here; the way to be happy is to make others so.”

            He presented to customers a little booklet, “Light in Darkness,” of his own poems. One states his theory:

            “Let grouch and pessimist depart—

            I want a happy cheerful heart.

            No matter if things go dead wrong,

            I’ll smile, or whistle, sing a song.

            I’ll rise in joy to greet the morn.

            And bless the day that I was born.”

Philosophy and the Fox Trot

“He plays chess as he does everything, wholeheartedly. Although he is so limited actually, he isn’t fanatically, preclusively engrossed in it, or anything. He does other things also.”

As Samuel Bean’s updated life story unfolded for yet another generation with the July 5, 1948, version published in the Oakland Tribune, an unnamed fellow chess player, as we read yesterday, alluded to the fact that Sam had other interests besides chess.

That would not be surprising—even for someone as focused on chess as Sam was. It takes a hefty amount of discipline to exclude all but one interest from a person’s life. Besides, as the news story mentioned, Sam “reads Braille, keeps up on current events and historical novels, and goes fishing and camping whenever the opportunity presents itself.”

Sounds pretty much like most every other person I know. Well…except for the “reads Braille” part.

What really got me was the next section of the article. Apparently, among the “other things” that Sam liked to do was one surprise—at least considering we are discussing a man who was both blind and deaf.

Evidently, though he couldn’t hear one note of the music, Sam liked to dance. The Tribune explained:

One partner reported that he merely asks whether it is a waltz or fox trot, swings into it and seldom bumps into other couples. She said that she tapped the tempo on his shoulder and they got along famously.

And why not? Since Sam was already attuned to people tapping in his hand as a form of communication, tapping on a shoulder to help him keep connected with the beat wouldn’t be much different. Dancing became another practical way for Sam to exhibit his confidence in life despite the barriers he faced.

That upbeat philosophy that kept Sam going “famously” on the dance floor may have been infectious in more ways than one. In retrospect, it gets me wondering who that nameless partner on the dance floor with Sam might have been.

A Grueling Four-Hour Heat

In considering blind and deaf Samuel W. Bean and his later-life fascination with the game of chess, some reader comments brought to my mind one character quality I had observed in the Bean family. Keep in mind that I’ve never had the opportunity and privilege to meet Sam—I’ve never even met either of his two sons—but I did know his twin brother, William S. Bean, and their sister, Leona Bean Grant.

From this association, the one feature I’d say was prevalent in each of their personalities—and even in Sam’s grandchildren—was that of intensity. Bill Bean took that intensity and focused it on his business dealings, becoming in his prime quite successful. Although quite eccentric in her old age, Leona had that same headstrong manner and colorful personality.

Keeping that in mind, it is no surprise that Sam poured all his energy into his newfound interest: the game of chess. Although it was an avocation for him—in addition to his family responsibilities, Sam did hold down a job, as well as pursue various business opportunities on the side—even as a hobby, chess is simply an activity that requires a great deal of attention if one is to develop any skill in its pursuit.

In the July 5, 1948, Oakland Tribune article we’ve been discussing, perhaps reporter Elinor Hayes saw a blind and deaf chess player as an anomaly. She certainly took enough time in the piece to discuss his chess-playing prowess. Of course, as she noted, “He does other things also.”

            His life and position toward it possibly is given its best example in his prime hobby—chess.

            Bean not only plays chess. He is a champion. He ranks fourth or fifth always among the 100 players of the Oakland Chess Club, they report.

            When Northern California played Southern in a test at Atascadero recently, Bean took his special raised board into No. 24 spot, which indicated he ranked in that place among the 50 boards in play.

            He won his match after a grueling four-hour heat.

            Fellow players regard him as an excellent team player.

            One of them discussed his attitude toward the game thus:

            “He plays chess as he does everything, wholeheartedly. Although he is so limited actually, he isn’t fanatically, preclusively engrossed in it, or anything. He does other things also.”

The World Through Sam’s Hand

After taking a hiatus from the narrative of blind and deaf Samuel W. Bean of Alameda, California, to celebrate everything from this blog’s anniversary to everyone’s Mother’s Day, let’s return, for a few more days, to close out Sam’s story.

While Sam hadn’t enjoyed as much media attention in his family-man phase of life as he had in his earlier student years, apparently the Oakland Tribune had a few more good words to put in on his behalf, once the war was over.

We’ve already read the November 1, 1947, announcement of the new edition of his poetry book. This was followed, only eight months later, by a feature article in the Tribune. Under a two-part headline stating what had by now become the traditional portrayal of the man—“Alamedan Prospers, Plays Despite Blindness, Deafness”—reporter Elinor Hayes (or a nameless editor) added a poetic touch: “Black and Silent World Conquered By Samuel W. Bean.”

The story beneath this predictable pronouncement seemed to take up the old breathless affect. The reporter rehearsed all the usual introductory remarks: that Sam was both blind and deaf, that he hadn’t been able to see or hear anything since the age of thirteen—yet despite that, he had managed to hold to a cheerful, can-do attitude.

Still at the same address after all these years—1807 Santa Clara Avenue—the fifty-two year old man was again billed as a salesman and poet. There were a few additions, though. For this sketch, Sam’s reputation was expanded to include the labels “chess champion” and “philosopher.”

Of the “philosophy” angle, Sam’s interviewer explained,

He gets along with a philosophy and joy that would do credit to the most fortunate man in the world.

The reporter observed,

His world is completely black and silent, or so it would seem. In it he has made himself a bright, prosperous citizen. His hand, and this is characteristic of his whole attitude toward life, is his only contact with life and is held out as gaily as that of a candidate.

Considering that “not a sound or sight but memory has entered his life since he was thirteen” and that he hadn’t “heard a word in thirty nine years,” it may be no surprise that the Tribune article, once again, took on that aura of amazement. Here was another reporter, taking on the assignment of interviewing the same man we’ve had the opportunity to know and observe through nearly a full lifetime. Perhaps that was awe-inspiring for a first-time encounter.

After all, as the reporter observed,

He never saw his wife or two sons. All their smiles, affection, problems and normal family expressions could only be brought to him through their fingers tapping words out into his hand.

A new theme seemed to emerge with this story—though perhaps we could sense this message coming through in earlier articles. The reporter explained, “He regards himself as ‘master of my fate’” which Sam demonstrated “by the fact that he goes out alone whenever he wants to play at the Chess Club…or anywhere else.”

Chess, of course, had become the new love in Sam’s life, ever since he had lost his wife so many years ago. This July 5, 1948, Oakland Tribune story, itself, ran fifteen years almost to the day after Maud Woodworth Bean’s passing. With the same level of energy he and Maud had once poured into touring to promote his writing, Sam was now consistently focusing on the world of chess tournaments.

Mother’s Day Greetings From Another Age

With nary a mark to tell where she got it, or who might have bestowed it upon her, Agnes Tully Stevens’ keepsake card bears a familiar verse that even I remember hearing, so long ago, being recited.

Unlike the card I posted Friday, appearing older than the hidden mark that revealed its date of 1979, this card is undated and appears yellowed. I have no idea where Agnes might have gotten the card—somewhere in Chicago, I presume—for there is no publisher's information affixed to the cardstock.

There is no listing of author, but using a segment of the first stanza to search for further information online, I found a longer version attributed to the poet, Ann Taylor. Apparently, Ann Taylor wrote the original version of the poem in her earlier years, revising the concluding stanza much later in life. She also saw selected stanzas of the rather long poem set to the artwork of James Pollard with a working title the same as the opening line of the version of Agnes Tully Stevens’ card. The Pollard artwork—a young child kneeling and praying in her bedroom—was estimated to have been created and published some time between 1820 and 1850. Since Ann Taylor was born in 1782, the poem must have been known some time before James Pollard chose it to accompany his artwork.

Whether Agnes Tully Stevens’ card was inspired from the publications of those earlier years—perhaps passed along by her own mother—or served as a later testimony of the enduring sentiments expressed in the original poem, I have no way to tell. Regardless, it is a fitting way to pass along those wishes for a happy Mother’s Day, from our Tully ancestors, through Agnes, to her grandchildren—and now to you!

My Mother

Who taught my infant lips to pray,

To love and serve God every day,

And walk in wisdom’s pleasant way?

My Mother!

Who ran to help me when I fell

And would some pretty story tell,

Or kiss the place to make it well?

My Mother!

How could I ever cease to be

Affectionate and kind to thee

Who wast so kind to me?

My Mother!

Ah! no, the thought I cannot bear,

And if God pleased my life to spare

I trust I shall reward thy care,

My Mother!