Long before the For Squirrels name carried beyond Gainesville, they were four young musicians trying to find their sound and place in the world.
Three of them — Jack Vigliatura, Bill White and Travis Tooke — had known one another since high school. The three bandmates were introduced to their fourth, drummer Jack Griego, while attending the University of Florida, but he was not the only missing piece of the outfit they found in Gainesville.
Before they crossed paths with their future drummer, the three met Tim Bender — a young man who seemed to recognize something special in them before most others did. He heard the promise in the songs, saw the spark in their performances and became one of For Squirrels’ fiercest and most devoted believers.
Tim did more than simply cheer them on from the crowd. He showed up for them, befriended the people behind the music; he loaded instruments into the van, helped book shows, and offered up thoughtful feedback as their songs took shape, evolving and honing into something more fully their own, and, before long, he became their official tour manager. In truth, Tim wore just about every hat the band needed him to wear. He was their guitar, drum and bass technician, lead cheerleader, photographer, food planner, and even primary investor.
More than any title, though, he was a friend — a close one — to each member of For Squirrels. To Travis, he was also a classmate, roommate and, eventually, a best friend. They even share the same birthday: June 11th.
So, when Sony 550 signed For Squirrels to its record label in early 1995, the band made sure the contract reflected what they already knew to be true. On their billing, the group may have appeared to be four musicians. In their hearts, and in the formal agreement they presented, they were a party of five. They named Tim as a fifth band member—the fifth Squirrel—and gave him an equal share of the benefits, financial and otherwise, that came with signing to a major label.
Tim’s ultimate act of kindness for his friends came as they traveled home from the CBGB in New York on Sept. 8, 1995. It was so small in the moment that no one could have known it would become impossible to forget.
On tour, the band rotated seats in the van every few hours, trading rest as much as they could within the cramped space. Inside the van’s confines were their instruments, their clothes, their jokes, their exhaustion and all the fragile hope they had been carrying together on tour. It was the same used van Tim had helped them buy from a daycare in North Carolina, not far from the home where he had grown up.
Tim was supposed to take his turn on the back bench. Instead, seeing how exhausted Travis was after weeks on the road and an intense performance the night before, he told him to stay there a little longer and sleep.
Travis gratefully accepted.
A few hours later, near Savannah, Georgia, a tire blew and the van flipped again and again down the highway. Tragically, Jack Vigliatura, 21, Bill, and Tim, both 23, were killed, while Jack Griego and Travis were left seriously injured.
Tim, who was seated next to Bill when the accident occurred, could not have known what was coming, yet that last ordinary gesture — the kind of selfless thing he had done for them countless times before — still haunts Travis. Tim’s family has said they believe he would have made the same choice even if he had somehow known the cost.
The bond they had is what makes what happened on Interstate 95 that fateful September day so difficult to hold. The crash did not simply take three bright and promising young men with a record deal, a tour van and a future beginning to open before them. It tore through a chosen family — one built in rehearsal rooms, on small stages, in crowded hotel rooms and across the long, dark miles between shows.
Years later, Travis still speaks of Tim as if grief had not dimmed him, only made his absence sharper. The love in his words carries the ache of someone still reaching for a friend he can no longer call, still finding him in the only place left open to them both: dreams.
“Tim Bender was instrumental in everything,” Travis wrote on social media in May 2018. “We would have been nothing without him. I still have the most amazing dreams with him in them, where we are play wrestling and climbing trees together, just chatting and sharing love. Hopefully I’ll dream about him tonight.”
Much more is to be said of how Tim helped drive the band forward and passionately supported them in the following pages. The letter that follows here provides some keen insight into who Tim was, and the shining intellect and perspective he possessed.
He typed this letter from his Miami apartment on July 4, 1995, as fireworks lit the night outside. Just two short months later, it was recovered from his laptop, found at the scene of the fatal accident on I-95.
Dear Dad and Mom, Gramps and Tom,
A thousand wars rage on Miami Beach. Factions of soldiers huddle around their artillery tucking and huddling when they fire into the black night. Cheering when they explode. Sometimes it seems like they are firing at me. The shells explode all around me. Lights strike and shadows dance. Cloaks of sulfurous drift by. A thousand wars rage on Miami Beach. It is the Fourth of July and from the ninth floor balcony of my apartment I am witness to the war of celebration below.
“A thousand points of light” George Bush said, and for a moment the phrase fits. The scene reminds me of what it must have been like to celebrate the freedom from England. A militia, comprised of farmers, tradesman and stateman alike, united to live better lives (even if better lives equated to not paying British imposed taxes). When that hodge podge military unit beat back the British you can bet they celebrated. It’s hard for me to see from the ninth floor whether the diverse groups of people on the beach tonight lighting up the night are celebrating the freedoms won back in 1776. Hmm? One bothering reason for doubt on this issue stems from the fact that I saw the large tent and salesman selling the arms and the people purchasing them (no hostages were exchanged). At the point of sale the most important issue was firepower per dollar (maybe the military should consult with these people, they could learn a thing or two about bargaining for better deals) and bigger bombs equaled better bombs. A thousand firework competitions wage on Miami Beach. Dads, brothers, cousins, sons, display their firepower to their wives, daughters, sisters, aunts and to the rest of the competing families down the beach.
I have to admit that all the explosions, rockets and screeches weren’t in vain because from my ninth floor balcony I was affected, even if for just a brief moment that it is truly a God blessed existence to be born into a place whose freedoms were fought for and won. It’s so easy in America for holidays to lose their primary meaning, it’s all too common for secondary and tertiary levels surrounding those holidays to take over (like big explosions and pyrotechnic expertise), Christmas would have to take grand prize followed closely by a hotly contested. Easter in the disillusioned holiday contest. Fourth of July is probably a great holiday in Boston. I know I was taken to a different place in time and space when I walked through downtown Boston. I was fascinated by the secret society that comprised the “Founding Fathers” the meetings in the old church, the danger of discovery. I think I could make a film about that, eventually that is.
Pauses in the light show have grown increasingly longer. I think the most impressive thing now is the breeze. A little wind through the hair (a mop in my case) can do wonders. I know these last couple of days as the record gets finished up will be the last peaceful ones for awhile. Pretty soon we will be on the road again and things will be happening rather quickly.
I am thankful for the Lord’s blessing. I just prayed that the Lord would provide something for me where I could be happy each day. The Lord blesses this band everyday. My favorite thing to do is travel and we definitely do that. Music affects me and I love to ride the emotions it can bring on. The world can be a cold callous place but the company I keep is warm and refreshing. There is nothing more important to me than personal relationships. First with Christ, second with family, and third with friends. I am fortunate to have all three. What was it like for you to be 23?
I am guilty of taking my own life for granted. It’s tragic how soon I forget the past in the face of an overwhelming present situation. When I talk to friends about growing up I am faced with calling my experience close to ideal. Never in my life can I remember a shortage of love. I mean how many kids got to “coast all the way home from church” or meet puffer fish face to face? I’ve never met anyone else who has traveled to country in a Grumman camper in the companion of his family and his friend Bogey. I’ve never met anyone whose two little brothers can be so amazingly different and so amazingly alike, so difficult, so stubborn, so out there, so in your face, so talented, so cruel, so caring, so mean and so lovable.
I’ve had Scotty’s Fried Chicken, decadent doughnuts, chocolate covered potato chips, a pizza with gravy potatoes, carrots and peas (yuck), yummy bars, breakfast on top of the Sony building, hot tea with a wonderful grandmother, Matt Carrigan Casserole, freeze dried eggs, and more mashed potatoes than any other 23-year old I know.
I’ve caught lizards, played capture the flag, jumped off the roof into the pool, slept in the camper for months, loved a pug named Wrinkles, swam in countless Western rivers, earned an Eagle badge, acted like a girl in a play, codirected a puppet show with my genius older brother, watched the shuttle launch, rode my bike 170 miles in one day, played on an undefeated soccer team, failed an eye exam, had a girlfriend, lost a girlfriend, owned a VW (thankfully sold a VW), went to a chapel where the median age was somewhere in the 70’s, set up hundreds of For Squirrels concerts, thrown up from many different boats, seen marmots, climbed huge sand dunes, built forts, graduated from college with a film degree (wowsers), helped too many people move, run from the police (it was the Satellite Beach Teenage Harassment Squad), seen a play on and off Broadway, built floats for a parade, cried myself to sleep, shucked oysters, but most of all, I’ve always watched out for bears and stayed away from the edge.
I love the Lord, I love my family and I love my friends.
Happy Birthday, Gramps, your love has always supported me. I love you and hope to see you soon.
Happy Fourth of July 1995 Everyone!
Tim
Mileage = 92,936
The For Squirrels Project was made possible through the generosity of countless individuals who shared their memories, experiences, and stories about For Squirrels and Subrosa. This project is dedicated to the bands we loved, the music that continues to inspire us, and the fans whose passion has kept their legacy alive.
Project by: Chris Shortt and Jim Flynn
Collection of articles written by: Jim Flynn
Collection of articles edited by: Connor Schwake
Photography: Tim Bender, the Bender family, Lance Mercer and friends of the bands
Website courtesy of: Rich Booth
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