Showing Up

It's so funny.  I know that I want to make a blog posting every day now, and for much of each day, I seem to spend time thinking about what I'll want to write about, when I allow myself to get around to writing it.  But of course, when I actually sit down to the keyboard, either those prepared ideas flatten out, or I forget what they were, and I'm left with the familiar writer's dilemma -- how to fill up this blank space. 

It's late.  John and I have just gotten back from an evening in NYC, to meet up with John's younger brother Neil, and one of Neil's work colleagues.  They're here from LA, scouting some possible locations for the TV comedy shows they produce.  We all met on the corner of W. 11th and Greenwich, for dinner, and when we were told there was at least a four hour (!) wait, we decided to go elsewhere. 

The next place had only a three hour wait. 

Finally, after walking up and down Hudson Street for a while, remarking, maybe a little too often about what used to be there and there and there, we picked, more or less at random, a newish restaurant.  You know, where Fado used to be.  Spasso, is the new place, and we lucked into a table for four, as long as we promised to be finished eating by nine, when they needed the table for a reservation.  As it was only seven, we thought we could manage.  I asked them to hang up my leather jacket, as the staff seemed to keep tripping over it. 

The service was great -- very friendly.  Dinner was a delight -- not that we did anything like a survey of the menu -- but I was thrilled that my entree was at least as good as the appetizer, and the dessert was terrific.  I had chocolate and cinnamon gelato, creamier than I'd expected.  We shared a bottle of wine, and after the charming waiter insisted on shaking hands with all of us, we just managed to get ourselves out the door by 9:05. 

Walked the visitors back to their hotel -- the Maritime, which used to be a boys' home,  John and I seemed to recall.  The interior is splendid -- as one might imagine, a lot like a luxury ocean liner.  We might have stayed for drinks, but the trains don't run as frequently on the weekends, and John has to be up early for church services tomorrow.  We tried to get a cab, but ended up taking an uptown A (it arrived as we were swiping our cards!).  And then we found out that we had more time than John had expected, so we sat in the stifling NJTransit waiting room, until our gate was called.  I did a crossword puzzle.  John played games on whatever that electric thing is, that he carries everywhere.   

And now... back home.  John's in bed already.  Haydn is playing on the classical music station.  The white lilies I bought, cheap, at Trader Joe's last week are actually beginning to open, instead of turning brown and falling onto the table.  Their aroma is beginning to build, the way I like.  I've got a glass of apple juice and seltzer to sip while I write.  The cats have been fed, and life feels nice.

Tomorrow, I want to go back out to North Branch NJ, to help out with this new organization I've stumbled upon -- Combat Paper.  It's relatively new, having been started by younger military veterans from the MidEast conflicts, to help themselves and others deal with both the physical and psychological toll these wars have taken on members of the military.  But all veterans are welcome to take part.

What we'll be doing, tomorrow, is disassembling military uniforms that have been donated by these vets, and others.  We take off all the buttons, velcro, nylon drawstrings, and anything else that isn't fabric.  Then, we undo all the doubled stitching, to flatten out each piece of cloth, and then, with a small rotary cutter, reduce these former pieces of military clothing to pieces the size of a postage stamp.  The cloth scraps are then put into a paper pulping mill, where they're mixed with water and then forced through a small channel where a wide, sharp-edged gear, maybe six inches across, reduces everything to pulp.  Because so much of the fabric is synthetic, some cotton or linen is added, as paper needs cellulose to bind itself correctly.

And then, when the pulp reaches the right consistency, it's put into a smaller tub, and then scooped out with a set of forms, which let most of the water drain out, while holding the loose pulp in place.  The tricky part is flipping this thin, wet skin of pulp over onto a leaf of soft synthetic material, where more water will wick out.  When enough new moist sheets have been assembled, the entire pile is then fed through a press, forcing even more of the water out.  Then the sheets are separated, laid out to dry, and -- hey presto!  Paper!

I've only worked with this group three times -- they meet on Sundays currently, and I sing with one of John's choirs at least once a month -- but I've been able to help with the disassembly of jackets and shirts and trousers.  I've make six small sheets of paper myself, with help of course, and I'm thinking of how I can now use this paper, so that instead of being the invisible background of a print or photo transfer, it's truly the center of a piece of artwork. 

But the most important part of what happens, in this communal effort, is the conversations that arise, as we sit around a central table, deconstructing camouflage-patterned garments.  The work requiring so little concentration, we tell our stories.  Some are amusing, some ironic, some horrifying.  As a Vietnam Era veteran, who spent his only overseas tour of duty in Iceland, from May of 1967 to May of 1968.  I have no combat memories.  I think the most significant contribution I made that year, while young men (mostly men) in my age group were being sent into unmapped jungles to fight with ghosts, was keeping a watchful eye out for the golden plover, who'd laid her eggs on a stretch of stony ground near the office where I did my official military duties.  Because plovers don't build nests as such, just scraping some pebbles together, it would be easy for someone, not paying any attention, to go clomping across the field and unintentionally crush on small portion of the next generation of migratory shore birds.  It wasn't what I was supposed to be doing, but it seemed more important than sorting inventory cards and keeping track of the Air Force pilots' flight time.

But in this little group in North Branch, I've listened to women talk about their experiences, in Somalia or Afghanistan, and it's breathtaking, and humbling.  Aside from being convinced that, if anyone found out I was gay, they could pull out a gun and kill me on the spot, the military was actually a generally beneficial experience for me.  So I feel a kind of survivor guilt, that I got off so relatively easy, while these young people are clearly saddled with enormous burdens, that will take years to shake off, unpack and somehow disburse.  Sort of like what I do, I guess, when I reel out the unsettling tales of my family life -- the life that was so rigid and unpredictable, that joining the military was actually a step toward freedom, intellectual growth, and a healthy independence, for me.

So.  I'll drive for half an hour, drink coffee and wield a little seam ripper.  Maybe I'll get to make some more paper.  I don't know.  But in this case -- maybe like this writing? -- knowing ahead of time isn't so important.  What's important, of course, is showing up.