tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19599279478355792152024-03-26T23:37:41.586-07:00Rolling With The Moving WallJerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05708563390207386685noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1959927947835579215.post-65193352939316516322010-08-17T06:53:00.000-07:002010-08-19T06:54:25.907-07:00When The Wall Comes To Town, And When It Doesn't<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">A casino seems an odd place to host The Wall. After all, The Wall is about contemplation, reflection, remembrance, prayer. A casino would seem to have nothing in common with The Wall, apart from the praying, perhaps. Yet, </span><span style="font-size: large;">a few weeks ago, </span><span style="font-size: large;">on the invitation of The Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde, John and Joy schlepped The Wall out to Grand Ronde, Oregon, home of the Spirit Mountain Casino (owned by The Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde). </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7vKHF85m0tVmgUpKe5QGi0nx6PqwpdGrxyvJ9RFNVfV-ReIP0deGtaYpBoVl7yPBQ9uTXMaC9vQy83SoAwa4pmi0lefVCIVDQhIt6I8r-WJCiTWZtqBIxVnWhQ_dHAf9tz9gAUllrr4PT/s1600/legal_header.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7vKHF85m0tVmgUpKe5QGi0nx6PqwpdGrxyvJ9RFNVfV-ReIP0deGtaYpBoVl7yPBQ9uTXMaC9vQy83SoAwa4pmi0lefVCIVDQhIt6I8r-WJCiTWZtqBIxVnWhQ_dHAf9tz9gAUllrr4PT/s320/legal_header.jpg" /></a> </div></div><span style="font-size: large;">I caught up with those weary road warriors in the casino lodge. I had to be in Tacoma the following week, and so I came out to the west coast early to spend some time with them and visit The Wall. As it turned out, the casino, lacking any grassy area large enough to support The Wall, had to re-site it to tribal grounds a couple of miles away in a much more suitable environment – a big open space surrounded by trees, mountains, and a scattering of distant, sleepy buildings. The good news is that there The Wall was able to spread itself on quiet grounds; the bad news is that it was removed from the casino and its ready-made population. </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKM-CtvCCBNX_oI_oGThP02oYn-G3-0aaDFd9eRNQWcKu4axREls9t9xucUoJQmAB4Gf3GgTRePLF6A6Gw69HsWZxa84CPGm7Z2wcV0sq_VMNlcIskgN0ArrDYFWdmstjTauadYNr-gKoo/s1600/IMG_0167.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKM-CtvCCBNX_oI_oGThP02oYn-G3-0aaDFd9eRNQWcKu4axREls9t9xucUoJQmAB4Gf3GgTRePLF6A6Gw69HsWZxa84CPGm7Z2wcV0sq_VMNlcIskgN0ArrDYFWdmstjTauadYNr-gKoo/s320/IMG_0167.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> To their credit, the casino promoted The Wall at every turn, with table tents and posters and audio announcements. They even made available a regularly scheduled casino shuttle for ferrying visitors out to and back from The Wall. I don't know what the shuttle's final numbers were like, but I suspect many a gambler opted not for the free ride but rather to be taken for a ride: time equals money (lost). <br />
<br />
I visited The Wall twice while in Grand Ronde, once on Saturday morning, when I rode over with John and Joy in First Cav, John's daffodil yellow pick-up with its huge first cav insignias emblazoned on each of its front doors, </span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiImxtoIQUbSZ6YJ6WXq4V-uqewi6BodJYrRqGqkV2bJVtWzoMlDaLX209tZEeR3bwDxQh4DKUBabhnuUAFXboGj2VJA8tNHL2HyKGA22TgIRQVm-lWG_2ptI9H_rXIzWkB2sxp7OBhC5v7/s1600/first+cav.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiImxtoIQUbSZ6YJ6WXq4V-uqewi6BodJYrRqGqkV2bJVtWzoMlDaLX209tZEeR3bwDxQh4DKUBabhnuUAFXboGj2VJA8tNHL2HyKGA22TgIRQVm-lWG_2ptI9H_rXIzWkB2sxp7OBhC5v7/s320/first+cav.jpg" /></a> </div><span style="font-size: large;">and then again on Sunday afternoon, by myself. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">On Saturday, John and Joy had gone to polish The Wall, which they do each morning (so do Aaron and Lisa, with The “A” Wall); </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0qSUvhiIue5Rh0Vuv2QFX4lgHWvOkSJ7HsaEi9RqLPqMKNMHj9sw8exlZioP9RanqdYBL305JJkCfMtmVkurEeDvlKaNoCDsx_auPU4nkE2pzJMD-ZhCO2Jr36XfPfjp8bUWlImR4-wm1/s1600/2010_07_181.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0qSUvhiIue5Rh0Vuv2QFX4lgHWvOkSJ7HsaEi9RqLPqMKNMHj9sw8exlZioP9RanqdYBL305JJkCfMtmVkurEeDvlKaNoCDsx_auPU4nkE2pzJMD-ZhCO2Jr36XfPfjp8bUWlImR4-wm1/s320/2010_07_181.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joy and John</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;">I had gone to hang around for the opening ceremonies, and catch the shuttle back to the hotel. <br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> The opening ceremony was modestly attended, and, as one would expect of its hosts, heavily inflected with Indian culture. (Note: While “Native American” seems to be the accepted term of reference these days, the tribe members referred to themselves as Indians, and so then will I). As the color guard proceeded slowly from the parking lot to The Wall's apex, a local tribesman, somewhere in his thirties, whacked a drum with a stick and sang a doleful song in which language and carrying what message I do not know. All that I do know is that it seemed ancient and sacred. Along with the color guard marched five little girls, beautifully decked out in tribal dresses, all five in the running for Little Miss Grand Ronde 2010-2011, a tribal election of no trifling significance: Little Miss Grand Ronde, I was informed, is a much coveted tribal award, on the level of royalty, for which young candidates (and, presumably their parents) compete vigorously. Unfortunately, I had not checked my camera's battery before leaving the hotel and had used up all its juice by the time the girls “signed” a recording of Aaron Neville singing “The Lord's Prayer.” But I did take a picture of them (and a friend) before the ceremony began. You can imagine how cute they looked signing.</span><br />
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<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBe0lBFwRmoCVwiTQF3_AdujgrqHs7BGJ_owj4cuVA8lTPVBTIL7URSPGoddUrmZmDwuBvZcwZPqvH7CowQx8Pkgh3ABfD51JJbv9PorQRP9LEuiZB2WwsJM6KW8EJZ0lc0s3UWKD74UcR/s1600/IMG_0147.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBe0lBFwRmoCVwiTQF3_AdujgrqHs7BGJ_owj4cuVA8lTPVBTIL7URSPGoddUrmZmDwuBvZcwZPqvH7CowQx8Pkgh3ABfD51JJbv9PorQRP9LEuiZB2WwsJM6KW8EJZ0lc0s3UWKD74UcR/s320/IMG_0147.JPG" /></a> </div><span style="font-size: large;">The rest of the ceremony was brief. There was a prayer offered up by one of the tribal elders, a variation of “Hail Mary, Full of Grace,” and a short recounting by one of the tribe's council members of his time in Vietnam. The whole thing lasted about twenty minutes, after which some people hung around to look at The Wall up close, while others stood around chatting, or drifted off to toward the parking lot and their cars. As I had to wait for the casino shuttle, I moseyed over to the information tent, which didn't have much information but which did have an ample supply of cold drinks. As I stood there eavesdropping, I overheard conversations which indicated general familiarity. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. One woman, Siobhan Kelly I think was her name, was particularly outgoing and conversational. She spoke to some of the elder folk in that kind of maternal way a daughter would talk to an aging father, which suggested she was some kind of caregiver. I learned after a while that she worked for the tribal council (she was also married to a member of a tribe), and she impressed me immediately as a true can-do/does-do person. We struck up a conversation and she told me how proud she was to have The Wall in Grand Ronde, pointing out to me that the confederation of tribes had a disproportionate number of vets (from all wars) given the size of its population (six members of the confederated tribes were on The Wall). She then went on to tell me some of the services the council could now provide, thanks to the casino. Physically, there is a school, a health clinic, a culture center and more. The tribes also provide outreach services like food banks, clothes drives, etc. Siobhan told me the casino contributes 6% of its earnings to the community. The Confederation's website reports $5,000,000 as the dollar figure. That's no token amount.<br />
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Clearly, the casino is good for the Confederation, the tribes' overall welfare. But it's a deal with the devil. If you walked the casino's gaming floor, as I did several times, and saw the dull eyes of those who sit hour after hour feeding the slots, you'd know what I mean. </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkmtt9wwLjjJSXsNe07griZoJswiDlHVBvjTlBi1v2OY_FOY2shVku9RaWqia1DPSrWVvjAmetxlEBVnM33vRQTGgWRlaQF9l3NB0TqwFqfSneBxH-f6E53aOyN-8p3JQheVuch1iLbJ2-/s1600/Desktop.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkmtt9wwLjjJSXsNe07griZoJswiDlHVBvjTlBi1v2OY_FOY2shVku9RaWqia1DPSrWVvjAmetxlEBVnM33vRQTGgWRlaQF9l3NB0TqwFqfSneBxH-f6E53aOyN-8p3JQheVuch1iLbJ2-/s320/Desktop.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">that's</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">a </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">story</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> for </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">another </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">day.<br />
</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">On Sunday afternoon I returned to The Wall. It was a bright, breezy day, weather hard to beat. When I got to the The Wall no one was there except for the security guard who was napping in his car. The chairs which had been put out for Saturday's ceremonies had been taken back, and hand been replaced with a handful of benches set back from The Wall. I sat in one.<br />
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After a while a man approached The Wall, alone. Late fifties, early sixties. Gray; pot belly; ill-fitting pants held up by suspenders. Beginning at the far end of the East Wall (the right side panels) he proceeded from one panel to another, somewhat quickly at first, and then increasingly more slowly. After a while, seeing him stand for several minutes in front of a single panel, it occurred to me that he was reading every name.</span><br />
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<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-nZQS3mf-BN7SYhO_aF-PkSJTEtRgFV4IgcggJA6kp-lTsC_dBi9tKRSMlO627tC21YhnmTkUWQtlFWQlXYIw_q-sZHnXgarwa26KyQvdb_WR9NZbkE58iVsJbwhYM7F9nsC37ewEtnW9/s1600/IMG_0159.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-nZQS3mf-BN7SYhO_aF-PkSJTEtRgFV4IgcggJA6kp-lTsC_dBi9tKRSMlO627tC21YhnmTkUWQtlFWQlXYIw_q-sZHnXgarwa26KyQvdb_WR9NZbkE58iVsJbwhYM7F9nsC37ewEtnW9/s320/IMG_0159.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I wondered if he was planning on reading all 58,253 names (Note: 6 names were added on May 31st, which will added to The Moving Wall when it retires to White Pine for the winter), whether that was even possible, and if so, how long it would take. </span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"> After a while a car drove up and two middle-aged couples got out, wearing casual, summer vacationing on the road type clothes. The men appeared more fit than the women, and the t-shirts they wore boasting of some road-race may have been part of the reason why. From where I sat I could see that they were unfamiliar with The Wall. They approached the The Wall tentatively, not really sure what to do with it. Starting at the far end of the east panels, they scanned some names at random and moved along down the line. The four drifted apart and found solo spots across The Wall's expanse. One of the men, however, didn't make it that far. He stopped a few panels past the panel where the pony-tailed man stood, seemingly fixed, and oblivious to now being scrutinized. The newcomer was clearly curious, curious why the other man was standing there for so long, curious what he was seeing. The newcomer looked at the panel in front of him, as though perhaps he, too, could see into The Wall that which the other man was seeing. He could not. So he returned his gaze to the solitary man and continued his wondering. Eventually he drifted off to meet up with his party. Crossing the field back to their car, they cast confounded glances at the man still standing before The Wall. Their car doors slammed and they drove off.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> After another five minutes or so, the lone man stopped his reading and abruptly walked away. Why then? Why so decisively? I couldn't know. He just left.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> And so I sat there, alone, just me and The Wall. And why not. It was a beautiful day, and peaceful. I knew that when I returned to the casino, I would be forced to exchange this peace for hubbub. So I lingered.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Another car door slammed and I turned to see the security guard heading toward me. I had recognized him as the skinny kid Siobahn had been fawning over yesterday at the information tent. Brad, I think. At the time he confirmed that, yes, he has served in Iraq, medical support, and that he would be returning in January. As he approached me on the bench I couldn't imagine that rail of a young man, unable to fill out even the rent-a-cop uniform he was wearing, filling out the role of warrior. But then again, he was on the healing side of things.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Hello, sir,” he said. He stood a few feet away with his hands in his pockets.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Hello,” I said from the bench. I got the sense that, seeing me sitting alone, he thought I might need some help, that I might be struggling.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Where you there?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “No,” I said. “I missed the draft by a year.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> He nodded. He didn't suggest that I could have volunteered. To which I would have said what?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “My father was there,” he said. “He came to see The Wall yesterday. We saw it together. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Did you ever see it before?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “No. Neither of us.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Not the one in DC, either?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “No sir.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “That must have been pretty powerful for you two, then. What was it like? What was it like to see The Wall with your father?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “We didn't talk much. We were mostly quiet. But it's pretty easy to tell when a grown man is crying.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I nodded. “You're shipping off to Iraq in January,” I said, changing the subject.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Brad lit up. “Yes! How do you know that?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I overheard you talking about it yesterday after the opening ceremonies.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I was going to say, news travels fast!”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Well, thank you for serving. And stay healthy.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I will, sir. I will try.” He smiled, and headed back to his car. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I sat for a second wondering how we will honor and remember those who have died and will die in Iraq and Afghanistan. What will be their Wall?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> * * *</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><span style="font-size: large;"> John Devitt's a pretty quiet guy, with a live and let live philosophy. Perhaps because he has traveled so much and come across so many people he has developed a tolerance for things that would unhinge less well-grounded people like me. Take gambling, for instance. If asked, I'd come down hard on it, get all kinds of righteous and judgmental. John, I suspect, would just shrug. Which is not to suggest that he doesn't care or have an opinion, rather it's more like, if no one's getting hurt or hurting anyone else, let it go.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> There is one way to get him going, however: get him started on the “fake” walls, the handful of Moving Wall knockoffs that have emerged over the years, purportedly to do the same thing The Moving Wall has been doing and continues to do -- to bring The Wall to vets who might not otherwise get to see it. <i>Bile</i> is the only word I can use to describe what rises in John when talk turns to the “fake” walls, as bile is what then fills him. I saw the bile building as he, Joy, and myself were having a drink at the Legends bar in the casino. I never before saw John's face scrunch into a sourpuss, especially when sipping a Jack/splash/Coke, but there I did. Somebody close by ordered a Coors, and John grimaced He then told me of the time way back when, when he first started trucking The Wall, and how it had come to the attention of Coors, and how they wanted to sponsor The Wall on a national tour. John said great, so long as you play by my rules, meaning, no self-promoting or commercialization. Coors at first said okay, but then reneged, and that was that. Until, a year or two later, when Coors came out with its own wall, strikingly similar to The Wall that John had designed, and sought to take it around the country under the Coors banner. In true David and Goliath form, John took Coors to court for some kind of legal infringement (I can't remember which), and though the corporate flacks likely thought they would make mincemeat of John, in fact John produced an affidavit that dismantled the Coors case at every turn. John and The Wall eventually won, but it cost him a ton of money to beat the brewing behemoth. Victory was sweet, but the cost of that victory left a bitter taste in John's mouth, a bitterness even his Jack/splash/Coke couldn't wash down. </span></div></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMer-L0OaSDH3m7ahyZdmlHge5tfc2DU71jhGLgwmNClTd5dp2h8sgOqXLzRLXeTHjQT1G6G2jCBbrs0IfVRX1lDLQO-6ovs-u8cNSsGPyytvG_1FXY8N47xJMJL1V2yRYirw2YN1-347f/s1600/anti+coors.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMer-L0OaSDH3m7ahyZdmlHge5tfc2DU71jhGLgwmNClTd5dp2h8sgOqXLzRLXeTHjQT1G6G2jCBbrs0IfVRX1lDLQO-6ovs-u8cNSsGPyytvG_1FXY8N47xJMJL1V2yRYirw2YN1-347f/s320/anti+coors.jpg" /></a> </div><span style="font-size: large;">For John, the dynamics of The Moving Wall have always been simple: arrange a time and place, contract with the hosts that The Wall is not to be exploited or commercialized in anyway, set it up and let it do its thing. Though John has never said so outright, I think he sees The Wall's “thing” as bordering on the religious, as in some way creating a chapel for contemplation, remembrance, atonement, and so forth. There is also its healing effect – some have dubbed it “The Healing Wall” – because of the sometimes mending effect it can have for vets and their families. In order to heal, one must be hurt, and when hurting, one is vulnerable. Therefore, anything which interferes with the sanctity of that chapel, The Wall and its surrounding area, is not just a pollutant but a sacrilege. And anything which seeks to take advantage of the vulnerability of visitors through self-promotion or the hawking of wares is shameful. For John, the fake walls now in circulation compromise the simple integrity upon which The Wall was founded and stands: quietly honoring the sanctity of loss and life. Dignity Memorial, a nation- wide network of funeral providers, has a wall,</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9gZyfgFN03S5iJsjtTID7m3esfpRvDuujJ25yUmDfrdnhlY2v3vCZTUpxQ_VangV6JsSrHRI3nZt7nALYnkARI1VFcV3xfXZp925SHEIxPIh2o0-Up6wn75gXzmKyCLlRFBWB728qY8qf/s1600/dignity.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9gZyfgFN03S5iJsjtTID7m3esfpRvDuujJ25yUmDfrdnhlY2v3vCZTUpxQ_VangV6JsSrHRI3nZt7nALYnkARI1VFcV3xfXZp925SHEIxPIh2o0-Up6wn75gXzmKyCLlRFBWB728qY8qf/s320/dignity.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">at which they hoist a Dignity Memorial logo flag. </span></div></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNAiesFaB7SxH_mg_svt13HR6l1_F1SV2j-ZL_AM7HfXsZQFwD3fM_aNLAGYIhIpuZrEOS39H92uqcH26TrqOrWGMvOYWb-aSebfmpg5lDKWcpX0eOEtjTt-Gk8PLLIkCbqSwV_ERuKzDT/s1600/dignity2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNAiesFaB7SxH_mg_svt13HR6l1_F1SV2j-ZL_AM7HfXsZQFwD3fM_aNLAGYIhIpuZrEOS39H92uqcH26TrqOrWGMvOYWb-aSebfmpg5lDKWcpX0eOEtjTt-Gk8PLLIkCbqSwV_ERuKzDT/s320/dignity2.jpg" /></a> </div><span style="font-size: large;">Some would see nothing wrong with that. I do. The cynic in me can't help wondering whether, as funeral providers, Dignity isn't hoping to curry a relationship with the graying Vietnam vets to whom Dignity coincidentally offers a burial “discount” (it offers a discount to all military vets). After all, there are about 8,000,000 living Vietnam era vets and within the next decade or two a lot, if not most of them, are going to need burying. It may be that Dignity is truly motivated by the purest of intentions, but my suspicious mind can't avoid thinking that there isn't a business motive behind their wall: to forge a relationship with vets so that they can then bury them. And it's the flag which gives me cause for that suspicion; it's as if their wall is a vehicle for product placement, for selling Dignity Memorial while not seeming to. Sometime this fall Dignity Memorial's wall will be on display in my hometown of Huntington, New York, and I plan on visiting it. I will have a better sense of it then, and will post an apology if I have been unfair.<br />
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Then there is The Vietnam Traveling Memorial Wall out of Florida. They sell their own merchandise (hats for $25/$30; golf shirts for $55). </span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0nb6BG9PaedYlAVwpOH8wwry1Xn8EYE3RLevDX5zG-y5vZnXw_b2X3jPvTnSE_Q0pCGLiWdO9jmFy0_4Om0aKfmiNLRgCOQOF0rW6JABrnZiN0vrTCMAWowmwVHkukT4kCK_erfIR9APg/s1600/Vietnam+Traveling+Wall+Memorial.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0nb6BG9PaedYlAVwpOH8wwry1Xn8EYE3RLevDX5zG-y5vZnXw_b2X3jPvTnSE_Q0pCGLiWdO9jmFy0_4Om0aKfmiNLRgCOQOF0rW6JABrnZiN0vrTCMAWowmwVHkukT4kCK_erfIR9APg/s320/Vietnam+Traveling+Wall+Memorial.jpg" /></a> </div><span style="font-size: large;">This memorial is operated by The Vietnam and All Veterans of Brevard, a non-profit group. On their website they claim to provide a color guard and rifle team for local events, as well as “support a transitional housing facility” for vets. These are admirable pursuits. Whether or not their organization is non-profit and uses its proceeds to fund noble causes is besides the point. If the Brevard group uses their wall as a way to generate income for those causes, than it is exploiting The Wall for financial gain, even if that gain is without profit. <br />
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The American Veterans Traveling Tribute has a Moving Wall knock-off as well, </span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7s7wCi8IUFEPZHLjTeNSLdVVayHL0MFu-ITKeiekXz2DhSqhBzfdm3_73I0a6h0XUWsI2emWOxpPIPD580z5utcByL_GE2Q4hHY0fcYfmZkIOZqZeEwOxp53Lim3L6sm0EfLXV-8C14lr/s1600/vn_wall._tm.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7s7wCi8IUFEPZHLjTeNSLdVVayHL0MFu-ITKeiekXz2DhSqhBzfdm3_73I0a6h0XUWsI2emWOxpPIPD580z5utcByL_GE2Q4hHY0fcYfmZkIOZqZeEwOxp53Lim3L6sm0EfLXV-8C14lr/s320/vn_wall._tm.jpg" /></a> </div><span style="font-size: large;">only they look to capture all wars, not just The Vietnam War. And not just wars. 9/11. The shootings at Ft. Hood. And all the nation's commanders-in-chief. It seems like a three ring memorial circus. As for merchandise, they sell hats, coins, pins, patches, stickers, posters, photos, and a coffee table book. What most separates this wall from The Moving Wall is its agenda. It pushes patriotism, which takes their wall to places neither Maya Lin's design nor John Devitt's replica of that design were ever intended to go. This is not to say that Lin or Devitt are unpatriotic or opposed to patriotism, but only that once The Wall is used as a vehicle or fulcrum for purposes outside itself it is no longer The Wall. It becomes an attraction and medium for other ends.<br />
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John conceived and designed The Moving Wall to replicate for vets and visitors the experience of DC. He did not want to [further] politicize it or imprint his own political views upon it. In keeping with his hands-off demeanor, John wanted The Wall to do the talking, or more accurately, the whispering. Whatever it said to those who visited, that is what they'd hear. And nothing else. This is what the knock-offs seem not to get. And this gives John grief. <br />
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There's another problem with these copycat walls: they crowd the field, and water down the experience. When I was in Lynbrook a few months back some of the organizers were concerned because another memorial (I think it was the Dignity Memorial) was scheduled for later in the summer somewhere further east on Long Island. They feared that visitors might put off Lynbrook for the later display. With so many walls to choose from, there's no urgency to visit any of them. <br />
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A week later, when I was in West Hartford and talking to a stern-looking vet, he told me of having seen The Wall before, and when he mentioned the town and year, I knew it wasn't The Moving Wall. I told him that it wasn't this wall, The Moving Wall we were standing in front of, but rather one of its imitators. He looked at me in a kind of square-jawed military way and wanted to know, “What's the difference? As long as the vets get the experience of it, who cares whose wall it is?”<br />
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On the one hand I get that sentiment: it's the effect on the vets that counts. And yet, maybe because I know John and Joy, and I know the history of The Moving Wall, and I believe that people should be recognized for their work and achievements, that simple sentiment doesn't wash with me. John, and now Joy, have made The Moving Wall their life, and for the past 26 years he has devoted himself to bringing The Wall to vets and their families all across America and beyond. Long before these knockoffs hit the road trumping this or trumping that, John was trucking The Wall over tens of thousands of miles. He's sacrificed his life for The Wall. He, and The Moving Wall, deserve to be recognized and appreciated appropriately. To claim that one wall is as good as another is just wrong.<br />
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But I also think my criticism of the knock-offs goes beyond my sense of loyalty to John, Joy, and The Moving Wall. It has also to do with cheapening memorializing and remembering in general. As more and more walls circulate around the country, the less special each single display becomes. As visits become less special, more regular, and perhaps someday even routine, the spiritual power of all the walls will continue to leak away. At some point too many walls will deaden our sense of awe at what The Wall represents. Much as we become numb to an over exposure of suffering, so too, may communities become numb to ritual remembering. <i>Ho- hum, it's just another wall again.</i> Its meaning and power to draw us in dissipate with familiarity. </span><span style="font-size: large;">With wall after wall popping up here, there, and everywhere, what was once special becomes mundane, and may, eventually, become unexceptional to the point of beyond unnoticed.</span><br />
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One final comment. Lynbrook's concerns were really about critical mass, and would they reach it given the other wall's scheduled appearance. When I say critical mass, I mean a critical mass of people. Reaching critical mass is not only an achievement of a community but is the living symbol of one. In the case of Lynbrook this could mean community of a specific township and its neighboring towns, but a critical mass of community can also grow out of relationships more loosely formed, self-identified not by location but by purpose. <i>Here we come, from far and wide, to pay our respects at The Moving Wall.</i> Part of being in public at such times and places as memorial events calls us to, is to bear testimony to each other that we share in the honoring, respect, gratitude, remorse, and whatever other spirits brought us to that place. Our presence affirms the sentiments captured in and reflected by the memorial and what it symbolizes. When we are with others we not only confirm those values in others but have them confirmed in our selves. And to the extent that we experience these rituals surrounded by others is the extent to which our experience as a community: our experience is made stronger. A “weak” turnout weakens us. And so if there are several walls overlapping each other in time and place, vying for the same visitors, not only will each of the walls lose, but so too will the prospective community of visitors. This inability to draw a strong, self-aware community represents a loss not only for the living, but for those whose names fill The Wall. For above all else, they fought for and died for their communities. To see their communities robust and thriving vindicates their sacrifice in a way that pockets of visitors here and there cannot. <br />
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</span></div>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05708563390207386685noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1959927947835579215.post-25802402032843708042010-06-15T06:42:00.000-07:002010-06-22T06:21:22.217-07:00"Welcome home, brother." (Day 1)<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Welcome home, brother," Frankie said from behind the folding table, extending his hand as I entered the pavilion at Greis Veterans' Park. Frankie wore a big smile, and like so many of the other men in the pavilion, a gray embroidered "Vietnam Veterans of Nassau County" golf shirt.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> I was wearing a white t-shirt commemorating the 25th anniversary of The Moving Wall as it was celebrated last year in its hometown of White Pine. The shirt bears The Moving Wall logo with the silhouette of a chopper sitting atop it, and a bunch of lettering. </span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6_QMzoj0CDZeknZ-GjVByvu_ZLbn1826L18vcEbHIHh31R5mWqpa1RhO8NsCRkafUlqgIsyTtsXSJK1lj3e44QMoC7LF9cMRWflyAGQGDVwtdHoYQSNDfIIGlvDoLfMFYxpuTi38GQXai/s1600/the+shirt.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6_QMzoj0CDZeknZ-GjVByvu_ZLbn1826L18vcEbHIHh31R5mWqpa1RhO8NsCRkafUlqgIsyTtsXSJK1lj3e44QMoC7LF9cMRWflyAGQGDVwtdHoYQSNDfIIGlvDoLfMFYxpuTi38GQXai/s320/the+shirt.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I wore the shirt to signal my connection with John Devitt, The Moving Wall, etc. I was unaware in wearing it that the logo -- based upon the ribbon given to those who served in the war -- would suggest that I was a Vietnam vet. (Of course my advancing age was a corroborating signal.)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> So when Frankie said, "Welcome home, brother," I knew that choosing this shirt was a big mistake, but I was shy about correcting him.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> I was at Greis Park, in Lynbrook, NY, this past weekend to see The Wall. Google maps lists Lynbrook as 3 hours and 26 minutes from my hometown of Warren. With the way I drive, I figured it would be closer to 4 hours. I didn't plan on mistaking Merrick Ave for Merrick Road in the directions, however, which added another 45 minutes or so to getting back on track and to the park.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> When I arrived Friday afternoon around 2:30 there were a few minglers at The Wall. A single loudspeaker played spiritual and patriotic recorded music from high up on a stand. I walked past it and the gazebo bunted in red, white, and blue, and into the park's spacious pavilion.</span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfAwTQubPn3Un0vHS2H0mx1iHvXOgUYquP8YTZp5sLxQ08PMidg0ofBzy0JrnHNNe8fIsoDX2_bBxgxTxAqiu33NnmgaCSHU8QEopEeqwTeQfAAZLug3wbPpC46Jnphaq2B_WD_oHRkfOP/s1600/IMG_0019.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfAwTQubPn3Un0vHS2H0mx1iHvXOgUYquP8YTZp5sLxQ08PMidg0ofBzy0JrnHNNe8fIsoDX2_bBxgxTxAqiu33NnmgaCSHU8QEopEeqwTeQfAAZLug3wbPpC46Jnphaq2B_WD_oHRkfOP/s320/IMG_0019.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">That's where I was welcomed as a brother. It's where the vets congregated, educated, pontificated, (re)told war tales, some funny, some tragic, and generally relaxed in the warm bathwater of guys who understood them as no one -- not family or friends -- could understand them. That's what it means to be a brother. Your bloodline extends back to Vietnam. Only those who spent time there are of the family. The rest of us, regardless of affection or intention, are outsiders.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> After I let go of Frankie's hand and my unease, I asked if Nick was around. "Nick" is Nick Camarano, the guy spearheading things in Lynbrook. I told Frankie that Nick was expecting me, that I spoke with him on the phone the night before when he told me to find him once I got to the park. And so that's what I was doing. Frankie told me Nick should be around, and yelled out for other vets in the pavilion, "Where's Nick? Anybody seen Nick?" "He went home. He'll be back soon," somebody answered. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Somethin I can help you with?" Frankie asked. I told him that I studied The Wall, and that I just had some questions for Nick. I said I was in no hurry. that I could wait. "Make yourself comfortable," Frankie said. "Have a look around."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And so I did. The table Frankie sat behind was at one end of a series of tables all of which exhibited Vietnam era military paraphernalia, neatly arrayed, from ammunition of all types, to six different rifle models, to explosives such as hand grenades and Bouncing Bettys, to military attire from helmets to boots. There were c-rations, apparently vintage surplus from World War II. </span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzpSO8ZeqVhIFglZWWZW9jWU30wgD7RdJpZ2Ss66-wx6SgBVDVxqrcW2uFdeDkOS23HSKA_ik9qRvmoJ9py_yEemAwglP2RShSMJorLZl2PYtySAfXJXRHjBqDPoD-y5j1Cj5LSNq4Sg8E/s1600/IMG_0024.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzpSO8ZeqVhIFglZWWZW9jWU30wgD7RdJpZ2Ss66-wx6SgBVDVxqrcW2uFdeDkOS23HSKA_ik9qRvmoJ9py_yEemAwglP2RShSMJorLZl2PYtySAfXJXRHjBqDPoD-y5j1Cj5LSNq4Sg8E/s320/IMG_0024.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">There was a thicket of bamboo sticks whose tops had been cut at an angle to produce very sharp points: No mystery what they were for. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Scary as some of it was, for a variety of reasons, it was all pretty interesting, and a couple of teenagers were clearly mesmerized by it all, especially by the firearms. I later overheard two vets who had been manning the exhibit: "These kids know everything, what every piece is." "Yeah, they learn it all from video games. They probably know more than we do."</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> I continued to look around the room. There was a small cart with a bamboo cage atop it, a cage no more than a few feet long, wide, high. "That was home to a POW," one of the vets told an elderly couple, part solemnly, part bitterly.</span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh3iyyzcWW7xypvDHGSpg-BbDWVCHmmlk-mgc1zkTc5TFPVPcQyk_wHFm97vpEngp9y0qXczI_5c50xU4qNgWiMbzY3MMWMAW69XDC5F8Z12TSbJgXGYhXLCE1QDAzUEwi0vy5gS68E4-M/s1600/IMG_0027.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh3iyyzcWW7xypvDHGSpg-BbDWVCHmmlk-mgc1zkTc5TFPVPcQyk_wHFm97vpEngp9y0qXczI_5c50xU4qNgWiMbzY3MMWMAW69XDC5F8Z12TSbJgXGYhXLCE1QDAzUEwi0vy5gS68E4-M/s320/IMG_0027.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">There was an information table about Agent Orange, manned by a vet who though suffering from its affects seemed to be in good spirits at present.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> A video/music montage put together by a local guy played on a large TV which showed gritty footage from the war set to rock music from the era.</span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYT-tyq1EWeW2CE-AsGz6c5TbhNYIsgI0x4x6yKfYX2McezM3YQmFKPCHFzg7QUabxOh-jHIBl0MynehknqevgYnEIMsFMdcO9pM_QZaN8KF27ikGVx-_O6RVS6jBkIVH_DlDhm8ebSPGA/s1600/IMG_0028.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYT-tyq1EWeW2CE-AsGz6c5TbhNYIsgI0x4x6yKfYX2McezM3YQmFKPCHFzg7QUabxOh-jHIBl0MynehknqevgYnEIMsFMdcO9pM_QZaN8KF27ikGVx-_O6RVS6jBkIVH_DlDhm8ebSPGA/s320/IMG_0028.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Three easels each held a framed collection of faded black and white photographs of soldiers and locales whose significance remained anonymous and unclear.</span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fd-0CsgMqsrMMZRhfA44D5XswhG5KZzVg-Yh84rBEq8z6m_EHx6F_B6Bsj4cgV1B2cauvL9JeiwztO1n3zDf9d42brL8n_mF0_oM8ZenYop54gcUzG2y0mymrWB_GxYlKUspULOhJ-oj/s1600/IMG_0030.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fd-0CsgMqsrMMZRhfA44D5XswhG5KZzVg-Yh84rBEq8z6m_EHx6F_B6Bsj4cgV1B2cauvL9JeiwztO1n3zDf9d42brL8n_mF0_oM8ZenYop54gcUzG2y0mymrWB_GxYlKUspULOhJ-oj/s320/IMG_0030.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And of course, there were two computer stations, on loan from the library, for searching The Virtual Wall's database to locate a name on The Wall, panel number and line.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8-YO1Y9wKEaWDEf6sKl7ni-DTP0HAB-FmJ1jkC0KBCQWZsAHpx9Tp1_WwP7QW8umfT2UPfYrLWdPH5REF95XeLoBS3s8JRHVs91YVwPz25DbzBPBoj-gALhwx77NN7cAUlCGcGX6ZGdit/s1600/IMG_0029.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8-YO1Y9wKEaWDEf6sKl7ni-DTP0HAB-FmJ1jkC0KBCQWZsAHpx9Tp1_WwP7QW8umfT2UPfYrLWdPH5REF95XeLoBS3s8JRHVs91YVwPz25DbzBPBoj-gALhwx77NN7cAUlCGcGX6ZGdit/s320/IMG_0029.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">A mostly disinterested library employee sat watch over the computers, but was quick to assist visitors in using them. The employee also guided visitors to the collection of books on Vietnam the library housed in its stacks, placed on special display in the pavilion for this occasion. </span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHjIuYdwvqbfBmtVc0ZUJLnroFZD4oznTTdrCEu3n70dB6TgbYXhl-isiQg6mXFWmxU6LU4l0JBBhwwNWP0POHZyCQ5hZAiTy2ZUa18zWMwX22EON7576fRgK856frAFX0WXlip2EFrMW7/s1600/IMG_0031.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHjIuYdwvqbfBmtVc0ZUJLnroFZD4oznTTdrCEu3n70dB6TgbYXhl-isiQg6mXFWmxU6LU4l0JBBhwwNWP0POHZyCQ5hZAiTy2ZUa18zWMwX22EON7576fRgK856frAFX0WXlip2EFrMW7/s320/IMG_0031.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">All in all, the organizers did an outstanding job outfitting the pavilion with an educational mix of learning materials and curios.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> After a while I went outside and stood on the pavilion's patio, further look over the grounds while I waited for Nick. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFv5OgM6LCmC_qPQzAjWgQVk766eCV0Zz8OCKR_7QmkhZYn1gDXmc4S928QyuLQpfHaFICJe4PTbi00W2xekpxXcie4G5fTQhV0bn6sK7gGZkLP_mxTmv4_BsBTQmF-y6LvIu68TgHi56P/s1600/IMG_0032.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFv5OgM6LCmC_qPQzAjWgQVk766eCV0Zz8OCKR_7QmkhZYn1gDXmc4S928QyuLQpfHaFICJe4PTbi00W2xekpxXcie4G5fTQhV0bn6sK7gGZkLP_mxTmv4_BsBTQmF-y6LvIu68TgHi56P/s320/IMG_0032.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">At the sound of footsteps I turned and saw a guy, 45 or so, approaching in desert fatigues and a blue beret. He was about my height (5'8") and about equal his height across the shoulders. He was a walking slab of granite. "You looking for Nick?" he asked as he approached. </span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> I said yes. </span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> He glanced at my shirt and held out his hand. "I'm John O'Dougherty," he said crisply, "I'm co-coordinator with Nick. Anything I can help you with?" I was relieved he didn't call me "brother." But I think he might have said, "Thank you for serving," or something like that. Again, I didn't correct, and I downed another big gulp of guilt because of it.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> I explained that I had spoken to Nick the night before, and that I was supposed to look him up when I arrived. "Let me see where he is." John O'Dougherty, or "Johnny," as I later learned, opened his flip phone and pushed a button. His hand was speckled with Irish freckles, down to the fingernails. "Yeah, where are you?" he said into the phone. "You're in the parking lot. Well there's a guy here -- what's your name? --"</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> "Jerry."</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> "-- Jerry, who says he's supposed to meet with you. Okay." Johnny snapped shut the phone. "He's in the parking lot. Right over here." </span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Johny lead; I followed. We turned the corner around the pavilion onto the parking lot. "There he is," Johnny said, alluding to a bald six-footer walking across the parking lot toward a side entrance. "Be right out," Nick said, holding up his index finger. </span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Johnny and I stood outside and waited. We chatted awkwardly, as two people do who are waiting on a third.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> "How's it going so far?" I asked.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> "Great!" he said, we opened last night and had a real nice ceremony. Today we had like 300 school kids come. It was fantastic. Got to explain things to them, you know, about The Wall and what it means. And patriotism. Sunday is our big day, the closing ceremony. Rocky Bleier is gonna speak. </span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhihRmE5qYXz0PQG2HmjhSX6HJswPK5BTfC2VdZw3piU7xH1wQ6bgriaC2SITUMSWSXgwJJM9tr9RMb_UySeImlgXzv3h05PFbm0MOjlKx8wITEW47-DVU3x_5MjM5HZDEdrqxD__ALaqE4/s1600/rocky+bleier.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhihRmE5qYXz0PQG2HmjhSX6HJswPK5BTfC2VdZw3piU7xH1wQ6bgriaC2SITUMSWSXgwJJM9tr9RMb_UySeImlgXzv3h05PFbm0MOjlKx8wITEW47-DVU3x_5MjM5HZDEdrqxD__ALaqE4/s320/rocky+bleier.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwEe50s_grE_1uCwSqaN-w5YfgyUJpFkqnRvmj0uECs4ApLoL_FaQZSZj-3v-EaSsdMxUUUtAnSOUrBFFE1T8fDp8teIJxB3mjbnqUkDdUB1NycW_0D4qaTkrZb1T6llIxz_xjAptMexrB/s1600/michael+amonte.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwEe50s_grE_1uCwSqaN-w5YfgyUJpFkqnRvmj0uECs4ApLoL_FaQZSZj-3v-EaSsdMxUUUtAnSOUrBFFE1T8fDp8teIJxB3mjbnqUkDdUB1NycW_0D4qaTkrZb1T6llIxz_xjAptMexrB/s320/michael+amonte.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And Michael Amonte is going to sing."</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I remembered Rocky Bleier, a Vietnam vet himself, as a pretty good running back for the Steelers back in the 70s, but I hadn't ever heard of Michael Amonte. Though it was clear to me by the enthusiasm with which Johnny mentioned his name that I should have.</span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Then Johnny told me about some of the military hardware which would be coming to the site over the next couple of days. He referred to them in military jargon and so I didn't know what he was talking about. I did pick-up the word "humvees," but that was it. (I later discovered that he was talking about two new-generation, "up armor" humvees each with mounted guns. As I would come to learn, Johnny was on active duty, having returned not long ago from a stint in Afghanistan, where he rode in these new humvees and could attest, from first hand experience, their war-worthiness. "The doors weigh 475 pounds a piece. Took a direct hit by an rpg [rocket-propelled grenade] while I was driving one day. Sucker barely made a dent.")</span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCgfsHSI3IQKNlsvBEs9dktNubck165JoUaXV8jUCjOqGwc2GRn6H76n0gjPoGxQFthBvTkAv47FVsfO3ecyhMk_-7eGUY1yVfZt_zLYjWE14FpXUPj9d_pg2tUd4z88Q4HB9s0gMMKdH3/s1600/1228932166846_Armored_Humvee.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCgfsHSI3IQKNlsvBEs9dktNubck165JoUaXV8jUCjOqGwc2GRn6H76n0gjPoGxQFthBvTkAv47FVsfO3ecyhMk_-7eGUY1yVfZt_zLYjWE14FpXUPj9d_pg2tUd4z88Q4HB9s0gMMKdH3/s320/1228932166846_Armored_Humvee.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Johnny was real military, real marine. I wondered just how much of a sissy I would have appeared to him had he not confused me with someone who served. Not just me, but anyone who isn't marine.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> "Yeah, those closing ceremonies Sunday are gonna be somethin. We've also got this vets parade -- not just vets from Nam but vets from any war. We did a lot of reaching out to various posts to get a good showing. I think we will.You going to be around Sunday?"</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> "No. I take off back for Rhode Island Sunday morning."</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> "Too bad."</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> I suddenly felt there was something weak about going back to Rhode Island Sunday morning.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> After a few more minutes of idle chatter Johnny voiced what we both were thinking: "Where the hell is Nick?" Then: "C'mon, let's go find him."</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Johnny lead me in the pavilion's side entrance and we looked through the sea of gray golf shirts. "There he is. C'mon" </span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> We approached Nick and stood by a few seconds while he was conferring with one of the volunteers. </span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Nick is ex-marine, maybe in his sixties, and he, too, presents a formidable bulk, though gravity is catching up with his. He's bald in the way you want to be bald (if it can ever be said one wants to be bald): not a follicle on top and full around the sides and back.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Then he broke off, shook my hand and glanced at my shirt. "You made it."</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> "Yes, though I confused Merrick Ave with Merrick Road and ended up way the hell out of the way. Took me forty-five minutes to get back."</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> "Ouch." He glanced at Johnny, but said to me, "Johnny been filling you in?"</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> "Sure has. He told me about last night's closing ceremony and the closing ceremonies Sunday. Sounds like quite an event."</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> "I'm telling you," Nick said, shaking his head as if he still couldn't believe it, "the support around here has been tremendous. From the city council on down the line. Anything we've needed we've gotten, and generously."</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Nick chimed in. "That's absolutely true. So much stuff has been donated to us -- and I don't mean just the plants and wood chips and stuff -- but labor, too. The electricians who put in the lights for night viewing? All donated labor. It's been amazing." </span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> I remembered having seen The Wall outside of Boston last year, where I met John and Joy for the afternoon. They told me all the union work - the lights and everything else -- had all been donated. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And then, remembering back to when The Wall came to my town of Warren, how its beautiful landscaping there was all donated. Indeed, The Wall seems to invoke a spirit of giving.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"C'mon, let me show you around and introduce you to some of the boys."</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Johnny said, "I'm going to head home for a little while. Be back in an hour."</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> "No hurry," Nick said.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> "I'm probably going to be gone by the time you get back. Any chance I can interview the two of you tomorrow?" </span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> "Fine by me," Johnny said, a little flattered, I believe, to have been asked.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> "Yeah. Me, too," Nick said.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> "How about 12:30?"</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> They nodded. </span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> "Great.Thanks."</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Leaving, Johnny shouted a couple of marinisms to the guys who shouted marinisms back.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Nick introduced me to a number of guys, each of which looked at my shirt and shook my hand. Thank god not one of them ever asked me a question that would out me as a mere civilian. You know, where were you stationed? What outfit were you in? Etc.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> At one point Nick and I were back on the patio outside the pavilion, talking with a bunch of vets. Thinking that I was one of them, or perhaps not caring whether I was or wasn't, they fell back into military speak, where everything is a nickname or a combination of letters and numbers. I had no idea what they were talking about. Happily, I hid it well. No one seemed to notice. Then a little light opened up on their conversation and I came to understand that they had secured a military helicopter (Huey?) to fly in for the closing ceremonies. A genuine Vietnam era helicopter. The only problem was, no current military pilot knew how to fly it: it was too old. </span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPgbO1ylP77xONgTLRJnmeYQ4s5FJ3FLfNqVfMCiLVz27WrK50D4FqmWUIWEQB0SjOF4vkjRNMHkDahiokNdE0GGW0QUeigxKdQ2Bz9xbNSObdZEaet7ZWAe8fnpfzt2nuj6bD9k75Hpg9/s1600/786px-Uh-1_vietnam.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPgbO1ylP77xONgTLRJnmeYQ4s5FJ3FLfNqVfMCiLVz27WrK50D4FqmWUIWEQB0SjOF4vkjRNMHkDahiokNdE0GGW0QUeigxKdQ2Bz9xbNSObdZEaet7ZWAe8fnpfzt2nuj6bD9k75Hpg9/s320/786px-Uh-1_vietnam.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Maybe you'll fly it!" some guy said to me, pointing to the helicopter on my shirt. "We've got our guy right here!"</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> I laughed and babbled something and decided I had to get out of there and out of that shirt. I said my goodbyes, see you tomorrows, and headed for the parking lot. Though I hoped to visit The Moving Wall many more times in the months and years ahead, this day, June 11, will be the day I stopped wearing the 25th Anniversary shirt during any future visit.</span></span>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05708563390207386685noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1959927947835579215.post-40707171201718618422010-05-18T13:34:00.000-07:002010-05-20T10:36:05.289-07:00The Things They Left Behind<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK831BrYuF9J3_j3t1t06QFIBofuipmjg0FjvoAMZW1n-cjOM11R34DeLXXCWu1hvGuAu-dxtDZCjXSzRDsBJWUuv_FnN1lMXLzByaXYgHJFTzFSUwQfaLNX46xG_lXmI4nazb9ndJiBFS/s1600/112-1260_IMG.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK831BrYuF9J3_j3t1t06QFIBofuipmjg0FjvoAMZW1n-cjOM11R34DeLXXCWu1hvGuAu-dxtDZCjXSzRDsBJWUuv_FnN1lMXLzByaXYgHJFTzFSUwQfaLNX46xG_lXmI4nazb9ndJiBFS/s320/112-1260_IMG.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Stacked and jammed on metal racks in the shop at White Pine are taped cardboard boxes of every size. Each is identified in magic marker both by location and date: Rockford, IL 07/01-07/04 1989; Bossier City LA <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">10/05 - 10/11</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"> 1994; Warren RI 10/11-10/17 2004. And a thousand more. These are the things they left behind, the things visitors to The Wall deposited at its base in remembrance of somebody on the panel looming above. As part of the contract to host The Wall, site organizers collect these left behinds and send them to Vietnam Combat Veterans, LTD, the organization John Devitt begat as the legal parent of The Moving Wall. </span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8fLp0k6EKRR7uwTbxCawfvhn-luA2FW8QNIgTU8wCOcCHCvSsvz9G2cf_GGJieI4Sc6FC7-PRyHt4CylL51H_r4PE-UhM3391W4GPwQcv39p1AXJrTboWTrWQmD2b9FhpXcjuAtuPF44m/s1600/TMW-LOGO_TM.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8fLp0k6EKRR7uwTbxCawfvhn-luA2FW8QNIgTU8wCOcCHCvSsvz9G2cf_GGJieI4Sc6FC7-PRyHt4CylL51H_r4PE-UhM3391W4GPwQcv39p1AXJrTboWTrWQmD2b9FhpXcjuAtuPF44m/s320/TMW-LOGO_TM.jpg" /></a> </div><span style="font-size: large;">For better than a quarter of a century local sites have been sending their boxes to VCV, LTD, and now better than a thousand of them cram the racks. </span></div></div><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">In a way, these things they left behind are only half way home; White Pine is just a stopping point, and John is simply their custodian. He hopes to one day find a permanent home where they can be unboxed and properly displayed. For now though, they wait. </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">While I was in White Pine I snooped through a few of the boxes, four or five. Some of the things I found therein are familiar, likely to be seen wherever The Wall sets up: 5/6 of a six-pack; artificial flowers; teddy bears; boots; little flags. </span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF9RUqdHR5lwb54u8STvT5l49DdklAtxHCyAjDl6d4ylDxM3052mtOYy1q0plnslH-LV-Ulo17ZyP8CRZQxbITifBILgbk8bpk8SGy_yHE-FKwtPKq5wHQUcXiMhuJ0Tss25frCyE-hIkA/s1600/112-1294_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF9RUqdHR5lwb54u8STvT5l49DdklAtxHCyAjDl6d4ylDxM3052mtOYy1q0plnslH-LV-Ulo17ZyP8CRZQxbITifBILgbk8bpk8SGy_yHE-FKwtPKq5wHQUcXiMhuJ0Tss25frCyE-hIkA/s320/112-1294_IMG.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Other items are more personalized: a dog biscuit and a champagne cork in a plastic bag; funeral service cards; photocopied telegrams from the Secretary of the Army; </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">MIA bracelets; </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">photocopied yearbook photos; t-shirts from class reunions.</span></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdHTgvhdz5FJV2Tm5QtBogfd1VZDhMBJCQuoM8hcKWrzufHvYxC0vUa6AYmJC7ZvDWdM-1uLN1UmE4PrekiKOdqdXTUn_6jFiwwYycG1R7UXA4Qc_MC1t3Ooo10bA6TwcMJ0t80XlesSTW/s1600/113-1367_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdHTgvhdz5FJV2Tm5QtBogfd1VZDhMBJCQuoM8hcKWrzufHvYxC0vUa6AYmJC7ZvDWdM-1uLN1UmE4PrekiKOdqdXTUn_6jFiwwYycG1R7UXA4Qc_MC1t3Ooo10bA6TwcMJ0t80XlesSTW/s320/113-1367_IMG.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And then of course, there are the letters.</span></span></div></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0PFpSSuKhOE0-uRuTzEe5vt7OKDqqDTulfQksNO2VU-wSk5HVx8uc-wA8ohEbor6ZH80QR4Hnt851AasF1oWVskXLYPo5LGTBolg1jPmJGiYSTIQoIw24Sd1XM-Xq2mufYvB2Ls_lpUYK/s1600/Moving+Wall+Memoribilia+Exhibit+038.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0PFpSSuKhOE0-uRuTzEe5vt7OKDqqDTulfQksNO2VU-wSk5HVx8uc-wA8ohEbor6ZH80QR4Hnt851AasF1oWVskXLYPo5LGTBolg1jPmJGiYSTIQoIw24Sd1XM-Xq2mufYvB2Ls_lpUYK/s320/Moving+Wall+Memoribilia+Exhibit+038.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Sometimes for all to read; sometimes sealed. Some have carefully been thought out, written slowly late at night on the kitchen table. Others scribbled in the moment, inspired by the encounter of a name. The letters tell a lot, and in a later post I will transcribe some of those public letters (ensuring the privacy of both addresser and addressee), and discuss in greater detail some of what I think the letters tell beyond what's contained in their words. But that's down the road. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The boxes also revealed that, apart from the individual ways that people communicate with those on The Wall (as well as with others who go to The Wall) -- for, to be sure, everything left behind is a form of communication -- there are ways communities collectively symbolize paying tribute. In the Anchorage, AL, box, for instance, I found a good number of white crosses, each with a veteran's poppy stapled to the front, that some visitors had written on and others not, which presumably got staked in the ground below the panel of someone remembered. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">In the Mountain View, AR, box, I found a completely different way of organizing community expression: Mountain View appeared to printout profiles of area casualties from the online site The Virtual Wall</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><a href="http://www.virtualwall.org/" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><http: www.virtualwall.org=""></http:></a></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">> with </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">panel number and row number</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> where to locate each name on The Wall.They included many profiles from nearby Missouri and Oklahoma, as well as occasional profile from New York, North Carolina, etc. I hypothesized that these were sons and daughters not native to the area, but rather spouses to those who were. But who knows.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I suspect that if I looked through other boxes, I would discover yet other unique ways that host sites established for remembering the dead.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">There is much that those boxes could reveal, and much to be studied and learned. Even in the few boxes I looked through I discovered deep sockets of sadness, regret, guilt, love, loss, camaraderie, humor, appreciation, pride, and more. And that from only about 1/200 of the total collection. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Do the things they left behind deserve a permanent home and permanent display? I'd argue yes. To give you what a well-designed display might do, and to see how through the artifacts in the glass cases we are offered windows into the past as well as present, take a look at what Gail Blummer did.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Gail is General Manager of the Orland Park (IL) Civic Center and Recording Secretary of the Orland Park Veterans Commission, and long-time friend of The Wall. Convinced that the boxes contained valuable artifacts, she persuaded John to let her take some of those boxes -- I think it may have been 100 -- back to Orland Park in 2008 to create an exhibit, and to share with her community some of the things they left behind. Below are just three display cases she and her colleagues created. [Note: you can zoom in on any of the images by clicking on them twice, and then using your mouse as a magnifying glass to navigate the image.]</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Everything left behind is a mystery; everything a clue. Each is part of the historical mosaic we as a nation are still trying to piece together. For those who fought in Vietnam the mosaic tries to tell the story "What we lived through." For those who weren't there the mosaic tries to tell the story "What they lived through." Same pieces; different story. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The things they left behind aren't just shrapnel stories of love and loss in Vietnam, however. They are local edits of The Moving Wall. For a quarter of a century The Wall has crisscrossed the United States providing local citizens to contribute to its telling of the Vietnam narrative. It is a single narrative repeated 58,260 times: "Here is .... who made the ultimate sacrifice in Vietnam." That's all The Wall can say. But when a thing gets left behind it says, "But wait -- there's more," and at that point one of the 58,260 becomes unique. Not better, just unique. The Wall tells the story that they all died; the things that get left behind tell the story that in life they were all unique. And when this Wall retires, at it someday will, and is put on permanent display as it surely should be, these things they left behind will need to become part of the display, too, because each is the second half of a story, of one of those 58,260 stories. And because each serves as testimony to the significance of this mobile tribute and its endless pursuit of those who needed it.</span></span>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05708563390207386685noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1959927947835579215.post-87283285241622601102010-05-09T08:01:00.000-07:002010-05-09T08:16:31.327-07:00Seamen on the Poopdeck<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Co2gUns0AX2mrtslWJZvoapof8JKLdaS7GeKM8vIh58EAzjkr399MHNFIElzxrwQBKZ67fwoqi88hJGjTwo37Xd1Mji4BsydpydIA93T62HH-Fz88d-e7w-R4n8UX_uaQlOqhGK9hyphenhypheneD/s1600/abraham_lincoln1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Co2gUns0AX2mrtslWJZvoapof8JKLdaS7GeKM8vIh58EAzjkr399MHNFIElzxrwQBKZ67fwoqi88hJGjTwo37Xd1Mji4BsydpydIA93T62HH-Fz88d-e7w-R4n8UX_uaQlOqhGK9hyphenhypheneD/s320/abraham_lincoln1.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">In his first inaugural address, Abraham Lincoln coined the phrase "mystic chords of memory" referring to the history all Americans shared, irrespective of their significant differences. It is a lovely phrase. <br />
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At this point in the arc of this blog, for me a less poetic but more descriptive phrase would be "mystic shards of memory" or even "distant shards of memory." Lincoln may have heard harmonious chords echoing from the past; I'm trying to pick up the pieces from a time not long ago. It's been about two months since I left White Pine and the mental images of it, and the impressions I formed there, are not quite so vibrant as they had been, and certainly not so coherent. Still, I will keep on keeping on until even the shards seem shattered.<br />
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Over the few nights that I was an adoptee of the American Legion Hall Post 462 I got to see first hand the affinity vets feel for each other, especially those of the same or similar branches. John engaged with several other combat vets to share their wartime experiences, but even more, to share the good-hearted tag-team ribbing of those non-combat vets, even those who may have served during war time though removed from the action. As far as the military pecking order goes in Post 462, Marines top the heap, followed closely by the Army, but a distant third is the Navy (I'm not sure the Air Force shows up at all). A oft-repeated laughline was "there's seamen on the poop-deck" which I also suspect got its yuks from the identical sounding "semen", and what "semen on the poopdeck" might mean. In any event, John and other land-based vets got many a good chuckle repeating that phrase. <br />
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I was, to be sure, an outsider there. Not only was I a foreigner, all the way from the east coast, but more distant still was that I had never served in the military -- not even in the Navy. However attentive I may be as a listener, no amount of listening was going to get me remotely close to actual military, and even more exclusive, combat experience. I know this and I accept it. I also understand it. <br />
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A world I could not know. It was explained to me several years ago when The Wall had traveled to my home town of Warren, RI. I had just become acquainted with John and Joy, and John was gracious enough to let me hang around while he chatted with some local vets. While it was a source of kibitzing in White Pine, I discovered there is a real, felt distinction between those vets who have seen combat and those who haven't. Not pronounced, but it exists. There is even a little bit of animosity from those who fought in Vietnam toward those who simply served during that period (stateside, in Germany, Korea, etc.), those who call themselves "Vietnam Era" vets, as though they are trying to land a place in a heroes' parade for which they haven't really paid their dues. But that is another issue.<br />
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While I eavesdropped on John's conversations with his Vietnam "brothers" I came to find out what an extraordinary thing combat is -- how on the one hand it can be the ultimate, terrifying rush, and on the other hand the greatest source of human bonding men can know. John and others made it pretty clear to me that, if they bought Washington's rationale going in, once they got to Nam the scales fell from their eyes. The war was a bungle, run by incompetent officers who, if you didn't watch out for them, would get you killed. Maybe hindsight is 20/20, but I got the sense that many a vet did not believe in the story they were told about our being there -- to stop communist aggression, etc., and came to measure victory simply in going home alive. They felt lied to by their government. But while they felt little loyalty to an untrustworthy government they felt great loyalty to each other. The G.I.'s mission in Vietnam was not to fight for "America" but rather to fight for your brother, to keep him alive. For the guys firing the guns, the war was not a series of speeches or geo-political abstractions. It was bullets and artillery, and how not to get hit by them. Survival was the name of the game, and survival was, in Nam, a team sport. Survival meant interdependence, and interdependence meant trust, valor, watching each other's back. It was just too easy to die there. <br />
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While The Wall was in Warren, I spoke with a vet who walked me over to his truck to show me something. There, on the front seat, were scattered several small clear plastic bags. Inside each was a photo of some smiling soldier in dress uniform, and an accompanying page of information. The information included the soldier's name, date of birth, hometown, etc. The information also listed the date the soldier landed in Vietnam, and the date he was killed, because all the soldiers on the front seat of that truck were killed in action. It was shocking. Most of those killed, that I saw, died within a few weeks of having arrived. Several were killed within a few days. The greatest enemy was ignorance; the greatest killer, innocence. I gleaned from those plastic bags, and from bits and pieces of conversation, that if a soldier could get through the first few weeks "in country" there was a good chance that he would outlive the war, because, after a few weeks he would have learned how not to get killed, and how to count on his brothers as he would have them count on him. Knowing this, in a way, I can understand some of the immediate furor over Maya Lin's original design of The Wall, and why the issue of amending The Wall with the sculpture of the three soldiers was so important: </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoSir0iImz8GRNgJf2QZO3B-qtIWH1BSpfJxhioRZvYLK5JlLF3QavV4AL1TIPngYUK_Wb08IpN8RSztFO_cbauFgC98tj2mUAaCPrJ7_CRvYUX_Jo1MAjgKmEnwumpTkhroyjUy2bTcv-/s1600/three-soldiers-vietnam-memorial.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoSir0iImz8GRNgJf2QZO3B-qtIWH1BSpfJxhioRZvYLK5JlLF3QavV4AL1TIPngYUK_Wb08IpN8RSztFO_cbauFgC98tj2mUAaCPrJ7_CRvYUX_Jo1MAjgKmEnwumpTkhroyjUy2bTcv-/s320/three-soldiers-vietnam-memorial.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The Wall can only address the failure to return home alive of those whose names it bears; the three soldiers speak to the comradeship and brotherhood that got those whose names escaped The Wall home alive. Perhaps honoring the dead wasn't enough to memorialize about the war; perhaps honoring, and in a sense reliving, the self-sacrifice and spirit of camaraderie that existed among those who dodged the bullets, or took them, and fired them, is something to be cherished and remembered, not by people like me who weren't there and couldn't know, but by those who were, and need to have something substantial to fix their pride and appreciation to. <br />
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The statue of the three soldiers may have been necessary for just that reason; to honor not only those who were lost in the war but those who survived it. The Moving Wall seems to accomplish both aims, despite the fact that there is no replica of the three soldiers (nor of the nurses statue). As it is brought to towns largely by vet's groups -- and it is for the vets more than anyone than John has been toting The Wall all these years -- it can be argued that those same vets are its primary audience, providing a place for them to come and gather, trade stories, and thank their stars, the names on The Wall, and each other they're alive. Collectively as well as individually The Wall enables them to appreciate not only the sacrifice of their fallen brothers but also the commitment of those grizzled old men who, thanks to the common yet uncommon bonds of soldier to soldier, have lived all these many years, to grow from skinny high school kids to men with paunches, jowls, bald spots, and watery tattoos, to men with wives, children, grandchildren, and maybe even great grand-children. Men with full-lives. The Wall reminds them of the time, that there was a time, when life's longevity was a crapshoot.<br />
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Lincoln spoke of the mystic chords of memory. For the vets who come to visit, The Wall plucks those strings, strums those chords. Vietnam was a horrifying yet mystical time for those who survived it. It is right and fitting that they have some common ground to celebrate their mutual survival, and the surviving memories of those less fortunate.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipVU0P9PLkUOifcE-xARtpYH-M5-W2ehN2la6pUHsSDkAIIZL6Tcb1Z-NX6AoRX5f6K_VFQ35P5n64BdLxWY37MOpoLtPZTEjb8dO2EYy73En80Dj0SCzlG95agWu_av4kBEl6zPTN57zw/s1600/VietnamWall5.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipVU0P9PLkUOifcE-xARtpYH-M5-W2ehN2la6pUHsSDkAIIZL6Tcb1Z-NX6AoRX5f6K_VFQ35P5n64BdLxWY37MOpoLtPZTEjb8dO2EYy73En80Dj0SCzlG95agWu_av4kBEl6zPTN57zw/s320/VietnamWall5.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05708563390207386685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1959927947835579215.post-53763883797295055132010-04-17T10:28:00.000-07:002010-04-20T06:59:26.778-07:00Veterans' Benefits<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Following a successful day of printing, and a successful evening of celebrating that successful day, we closed up shop around 9:00 or so and headed over to the American Legion Hall for pizza. As I stated in an earlier post, the American Legion is one of two public places to socialize in White Pine, the other being the bar at the Konteka. With a population of 250, that means in White Pine there is a watering hole for every 125 people. I don't know if that per capita figure is high or low by national standards, but the choice of two saloons seems rather limiting to city slicker me. On the flip side, with only two places to go, you're pretty much assured of a crowd at either one. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We rolled up to the American Legion Hall, an indistinct white one-story building whose most notable feature was the full-sized military tank parked on its front lawn. If White Pine ever went to war with Silver City or Bergland, White Pine would kick ass.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">John, Joy, and myself walked into the hall and while they were greeted with "Hi"s I encountered unsaid "Who's this guy?" and accompanying stares. Not hostile or anything. Just curious in the way a town of 250 people located in the middle of nowhere who likely don't see many passers through might be. I immediately closed rank behind John and Joy to affirm that I was with them. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Joy and I plopped ourselves on barstools while John went to shake somebody's hand. The bartender -- a friendly, middle-aged woman on the short side -- swung by with a Bud Light for Joy and a JsC (Jack splash Coke) for John. When asked what I'd like to drink and seeing none of the la-di-dah microbrews that both entice and confuse me back home, I asked for an Old Style.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Not bad. Could be worse.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Joy ordered up two or three pizzas, as we were expecting Aaron and Lisa and a couple other people from the shop to be joining us. The pizzas were pretty simple affairs. Prepackaged and frozen, they were slid (after the plastic wrap had been removed) into a teeny-weeny electric pizza oven (more like a big toaster flipped on its side) to cook until done, about 15 minutes. </span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBq7M3bYx6cjkm0GqfGW5DY4q-Uuf6Nb2Zpwokmm279OVgn8HDv17p3GckyxvE4eDECpH_HQA10nTPeKGRQSVjHp_edlqj0kLrnwscBNEYkj80rH2xKCef82xnQdE_bj5gLOS6XlpXZ7a5/s1600/pizzz+max.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBq7M3bYx6cjkm0GqfGW5DY4q-Uuf6Nb2Zpwokmm279OVgn8HDv17p3GckyxvE4eDECpH_HQA10nTPeKGRQSVjHp_edlqj0kLrnwscBNEYkj80rH2xKCef82xnQdE_bj5gLOS6XlpXZ7a5/s320/pizzz+max.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> I had been nibbling constantly while we were in the shop and so I wasn't as hungry as I might have been, but the sound of something more substantial than taco chips and dip did fire-up my appetite some. Now that I had some time to kill before the pies arrived, and my celebrity had kind of lost out to unfinished cigarettes, drinks, and conversation, I had a chance to snoop around a little. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">For as dull and indistinct as the hall is outside, it shines with craftsmanship, creativity, and civic pride on the inside. </span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTSiKcvWENc78Fi7vHjQrGDzprTKHEoLFfTraQOJ3PDykquW-Pb3pNMbkMOT7VNUIawldaRT_G0HTkQROnUQ-QmpdJBe1rLiVb-ALpM8aQ244X2Hu4uBOZO8hCjAvAmYhYrQvfAoBSyjiS/s1600/113-1308_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTSiKcvWENc78Fi7vHjQrGDzprTKHEoLFfTraQOJ3PDykquW-Pb3pNMbkMOT7VNUIawldaRT_G0HTkQROnUQ-QmpdJBe1rLiVb-ALpM8aQ244X2Hu4uBOZO8hCjAvAmYhYrQvfAoBSyjiS/s320/113-1308_IMG.JPG" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvRObGco6Ux9llDfWIpGAVW2NFmni2ay1wGZq7hlGlQwURUT2owDBamYTfsGRHrs07ArhMITk834TWiWhwYnKE18HgXFgB1-dIYpAQgNWHY9xq9lmBI2UYb0URK4uXY6RjNyDZdXbn9w9l/s1600/113-1304_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvRObGco6Ux9llDfWIpGAVW2NFmni2ay1wGZq7hlGlQwURUT2owDBamYTfsGRHrs07ArhMITk834TWiWhwYnKE18HgXFgB1-dIYpAQgNWHY9xq9lmBI2UYb0URK4uXY6RjNyDZdXbn9w9l/s320/113-1304_IMG.JPG" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I haven't been in a lot of American Legion Halls or VFW halls, but those I have been in have traded off a sense of dreariness with functionality: they were nothing to look at, but they worked. That is, they provided a welcome gathering place and served decent drinks at better than decent prices. White Pine's American Legion Hall, on the other hand, was bright, clean, and chock full of local chatchkas and memorabilia enough to fill the place with spirits even when no one was there. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">How to begin? First, we have to start with Jim, the quiet, shaggy master carpenter who stopped by the shop earlier that day to have a beer and observe the printing process. Jim, as I mentioned in my last post, mills his own wood, and as it turned out all the sparkling white pine boarding that made up the walls of the hall were turned by his hand. Beautiful, angled tongue-and-groove white pine. </span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU8yP3KmC5Bcc0w3lTAMWuWHWQr1TCLwQlMgNAY9raalSWujfrPlsQxPZk9WzRzHA2SatIvwt93pW1HOBRHGga4VbwHWJX71baadatckfsikGbzPbIEy9dQ7YEQjskZpEsGAV6AfU2fjHD/s1600/113-1309_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU8yP3KmC5Bcc0w3lTAMWuWHWQr1TCLwQlMgNAY9raalSWujfrPlsQxPZk9WzRzHA2SatIvwt93pW1HOBRHGga4VbwHWJX71baadatckfsikGbzPbIEy9dQ7YEQjskZpEsGAV6AfU2fjHD/s320/113-1309_IMG.JPG" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The bar, shaped like a shepherd's staff imaginatively blends White Pine's military past with its industrial past. The length of the bar features patches, post-cards, and period photos of local of White Pine's service men and women (playing it safe here: I don't recall having seen a picture of a servicewoman) stare up from beneath a several inches thick layer of clear laminate. </span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Dgb1mH9pkGTDk9amxK-sz8RvC_lFkBgq6u5h-F-8cnf0a0RBrnjZ_RWILiZguj3eOhyQwyDEAzXqCL0lUePR8_qJN7ecocdchNjQek4SyNVlQMh5RAQPA5wjl7a34P18MNjUTuK9DiEu/s1600/113-1315_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Dgb1mH9pkGTDk9amxK-sz8RvC_lFkBgq6u5h-F-8cnf0a0RBrnjZ_RWILiZguj3eOhyQwyDEAzXqCL0lUePR8_qJN7ecocdchNjQek4SyNVlQMh5RAQPA5wjl7a34P18MNjUTuK9DiEu/s320/113-1315_IMG.JPG" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJw-WEt6b0oGjHbBTwjMdyYcUIBrnNAOxSAbkDfHEQ5sj_2MG9R7HJvyLGIH6eDnZGoUGrNAA26mpNTw9m-WRBddwN89MklS3LTa0n2ExzQ-LZd_WWtG1szw9ereBV4ckmlMsG3ARpYSqA/s1600/113-1317_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJw-WEt6b0oGjHbBTwjMdyYcUIBrnNAOxSAbkDfHEQ5sj_2MG9R7HJvyLGIH6eDnZGoUGrNAA26mpNTw9m-WRBddwN89MklS3LTa0n2ExzQ-LZd_WWtG1szw9ereBV4ckmlMsG3ARpYSqA/s320/113-1317_IMG.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyicmxY4udrFg7BpXuuwK-DE-S6Fz00TIEhaRErOpDWOjikZqxb7NmAVLZ0IBthw8l9FS-qk0r09oZkyiw5-ZdSvYiyPlckfS2R6VuatKBxETDqwm7wpWkCmwLLTWem1eeGxVlhwqYwuaI/s1600/113-1313_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyicmxY4udrFg7BpXuuwK-DE-S6Fz00TIEhaRErOpDWOjikZqxb7NmAVLZ0IBthw8l9FS-qk0r09oZkyiw5-ZdSvYiyPlckfS2R6VuatKBxETDqwm7wpWkCmwLLTWem1eeGxVlhwqYwuaI/s320/113-1313_IMG.JPG" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Some were photos from World War II but most were from more recent conflicts. It surprised me that such a small town (even when it was big) had produced so many vets. Whatever its per capita rate for saloons may be, its per capita rate for townspeople who've served is surely off the charts. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Sprinkled between the photos like chocolate shavings on a cake are shining copper slivers harkening back to White Pine's mining days. Maybe the bar and the young-ish faces looking up from it have become old hat to members of the hall, but I found the history locked in that laminate fascinating, and the simple idea of it brilliant. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">There are four finger bars, </span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3wu-Wsz3UPO9dtKzp6gGk2iAKaU2nO5or6AsOhLGMbDtteRFubVd1E3nUJl72mM84xsBmBSbKhaZ-v-0Fg-15ieALa9aMnhucMP2vLFhXv6RnjprAOoEq7KNP_AyqYjsSTMSgle8cSZW8/s1600/113-1303_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3wu-Wsz3UPO9dtKzp6gGk2iAKaU2nO5or6AsOhLGMbDtteRFubVd1E3nUJl72mM84xsBmBSbKhaZ-v-0Fg-15ieALa9aMnhucMP2vLFhXv6RnjprAOoEq7KNP_AyqYjsSTMSgle8cSZW8/s320/113-1303_IMG.JPG" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">constructed and decorated consistent with the main bar, what with photos and copper slivers, but each finger bar has its own theme. One is dedicated entirely to fixing in memory copper mining and the industry it brought to town. Aerial views of the mine, the refinery, etc. Another finger bar displays photos celebrating The Moving Wall's 25th year when it returned home to White Pine in July of 2009 and went on exhibition there. </span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp9owJ01f2v8qh7me-4HCgr70ScXqJMcOxPaVYz5vkipvG-jtKxSUXRCFMlE0BcCi08qSG1ZxigF7IfnboHoiHAs5Oj13roza_37HHXKRMLpqPdCqUB-pQYkyNgDrdJeKKzY-EtBnLwdAc/s1600/113-1303_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp9owJ01f2v8qh7me-4HCgr70ScXqJMcOxPaVYz5vkipvG-jtKxSUXRCFMlE0BcCi08qSG1ZxigF7IfnboHoiHAs5Oj13roza_37HHXKRMLpqPdCqUB-pQYkyNgDrdJeKKzY-EtBnLwdAc/s320/113-1303_IMG.JPG" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">(I forget what the other two finger bars concerned themselves with)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Of course, there are other ways to look than down, especially in this hall. If you look up, you will see a patchquilt of ceiling tiles, </span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2AsEvVpOjxc-A1K8WLVjycciVmwBd3xMlEeiCkG5HJVZQmUZHsFFWbrV2i8DFYglQ6PKCDcpSAAlKe9BVgq34NHcmbjgj3sNyAQMRG5vgRSVRL3uDuSX-MkS-_wzSajXxBPZa-DO9NsU8/s1600/113-1308_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2AsEvVpOjxc-A1K8WLVjycciVmwBd3xMlEeiCkG5HJVZQmUZHsFFWbrV2i8DFYglQ6PKCDcpSAAlKe9BVgq34NHcmbjgj3sNyAQMRG5vgRSVRL3uDuSX-MkS-_wzSajXxBPZa-DO9NsU8/s320/113-1308_IMG.JPG" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">each individually painted to honor a military unit, to bookmark one's tour of duty, or to remember a lost family member or comrade. </span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6yb_MPMuKo4OCHjJVH4W3qJY_tD_WFZZcsL3GGzg84XLFelRy4HevS6fnJCneXTt4xyEg4JEmjPX3C4jJFYs_3yqu_msgSATKNWU5jCflKLD804teirWPy0isYSktRm4Aut3aCEIsy27Z/s1600/113-1311_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6yb_MPMuKo4OCHjJVH4W3qJY_tD_WFZZcsL3GGzg84XLFelRy4HevS6fnJCneXTt4xyEg4JEmjPX3C4jJFYs_3yqu_msgSATKNWU5jCflKLD804teirWPy0isYSktRm4Aut3aCEIsy27Z/s320/113-1311_IMG.JPG" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Much like one can spend a good bit of time moseying down the bar, poring over it like one big photo album, one can also walk around the open floor, head tilted back, reading the ceiling and learning a good bit about White Pine's military contributions, some of whom have gone heavenward.</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQqrDjK0VhyjrngrBu6imhEHpB3aAgo5Um6FscKc1wclixbmoG4BPwv-49Xb7nNIhnxgd4ssHPufHhRLoyehU7vuenUiU9ZilEn0Jy3wSN8k68xer_z4UfG6shx9s94GijG8-rJ_pIDKUe/s1600/113-1305_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQqrDjK0VhyjrngrBu6imhEHpB3aAgo5Um6FscKc1wclixbmoG4BPwv-49Xb7nNIhnxgd4ssHPufHhRLoyehU7vuenUiU9ZilEn0Jy3wSN8k68xer_z4UfG6shx9s94GijG8-rJ_pIDKUe/s320/113-1305_IMG.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">***</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The pizzas arrived, </span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFfDCp_xgRd7JqCLksOt7IjNvZhb82gPnQ2qrqcLpV0NbQHj49sgLNLWg83QmmYxLBvNvj9JK-A41olklbnH1GSMn-kD5gIS47RhwswqQ4Vk9mYRAzW8WDeLt6YSmFWDJW5THzttNI8kV5/s1600/pizza.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFfDCp_xgRd7JqCLksOt7IjNvZhb82gPnQ2qrqcLpV0NbQHj49sgLNLWg83QmmYxLBvNvj9JK-A41olklbnH1GSMn-kD5gIS47RhwswqQ4Vk9mYRAzW8WDeLt6YSmFWDJW5THzttNI8kV5/s320/pizza.jpg" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">and while I can't say they reminded me of pizza as I've grown up knowing pizza, they were hot, and cheesy, and generously offered by Joy. I certainly had my fill.</span></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">*** </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">After this, my first full day in White Pine, I began to reflect upon what it might be like living there. To an outsider from densely populated Rhode Island, at first glance there doesn't seem to be much to do, nor many people to do it with. To an outsider, it looks, in a word, boring. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">But, outsiders never really see what insiders see, or live, and so I suspect that my initial impressions probably do not faithfully represent life in White Pine. Yes, they don't have a movie theater or a mall, no nearby arena or sports teams, but maybe White Piners don't need that. Maybe they find enough entertainment in the woods. I don't know. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As for socializing, I wonder what it's like knowing that wherever you go -- of the two places to choose from (the Konteka and the American Legion Hall) -- you are going to know everybody there, and will have likely seen them the night before, and the night before that, on back to the beginning of time. On the one hand, that may produce a sense of social claustrophobia, as though you're cooped up with the same people day in and day out. And yet, I suspect there is another way to look at this rather small and tight circle: that because you do see the same people day in and day out, you form stronger bonds with them than you might among a larger pool of acquaintances, that you get to know them more intimately than you would in more transient communities. This is not to say that everyone loves everyone else in White Pine. I'm sure they don't. But I suspect that everyone knows everyone in White Pine far far better than, say, someone like me, who knows next to nothing about my townsfolk (even my neighbors), in Warren. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My point: White Pine appears very still, very quiet, not much going on or holding it together. I suspect that a number of townspeople might agree with me. But as John is attempting to show in the shop, and as Jim and Kevin and all those whose faces peer up from the hall's bar or whose panels hang down from its ceiling, little White Pine can muster up some tank-sized pride. </span></span></div></div>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05708563390207386685noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1959927947835579215.post-81068734807757927222010-04-10T09:59:00.000-07:002010-04-10T11:08:53.993-07:00It Takes A Town to Raise This Wall; It May Take This Wall To Raise A Town<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It is around one in the afternoon when I make it to the shop. John stands by the work table stirring a spatula round and round in a styrofoam cup filled with with what looks to be white frosting or glue. </span></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxIRi4WhV0UBElEwWIB1GJ7S-JivQZIe7pbhZkdUVcK9N9LuedGw1UxYlqKFN8yLL8z1CsNGL024ipvPNQXEOMF3NDYPlu8O9y3_Z7wWgO2oUWwn_cDjiK7clx4gjCAzEBe0m1agPs8jud/s1600/111-1183_IMG.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxIRi4WhV0UBElEwWIB1GJ7S-JivQZIe7pbhZkdUVcK9N9LuedGw1UxYlqKFN8yLL8z1CsNGL024ipvPNQXEOMF3NDYPlu8O9y3_Z7wWgO2oUWwn_cDjiK7clx4gjCAzEBe0m1agPs8jud/s320/111-1183_IMG.JPG" /></a></div></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">“So, that's the paint,” I ask. <br />
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“<i>No</i>,” he says, with the slightly lost patience of one who's been asked the same dopey question a million times, “it's <i>ink</i>,” he corrects, still stirring, “We're printers. Not painters.”<br />
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<i>Oops</i>.<br />
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And so my first lesson of the day devoted to demonstrating just how The Wall gets silkscreened is to learn that silkscreening is printing of a sort. I suppose in part it's the duplicability of it which makes it printing and not painting. Andy Warhol's original <i>Campbell's Soup Can</i> may have been a painting, </span></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkDMTGsG9jU5QMqxMCOd1p6LTfqeQ_kxuHuOTHkACZBxmoQ2SmpOYXsI-6M_rLxTBQIBhcir9dNUDKCL16ahiPNG-UlcbrhBvhqttSfWOj7ED86Je_LOQJYKvaRgOR9ce8RnoQQlBzBvtq/s1600/campbells.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkDMTGsG9jU5QMqxMCOd1p6LTfqeQ_kxuHuOTHkACZBxmoQ2SmpOYXsI-6M_rLxTBQIBhcir9dNUDKCL16ahiPNG-UlcbrhBvhqttSfWOj7ED86Je_LOQJYKvaRgOR9ce8RnoQQlBzBvtq/s200/campbells.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">but every silkscreen after that was a print.</span></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Ltpu_jZ4SS-hR8LfouFz4PjjLYIUY9lDMelfkrSxE278lFInH_SxPFjkUh2A-qgwfAwsBxma4Zj8AYhWHZCzP2mbfjOtwmquAgkAaTFC-s3TjPYGtF4tF7554yb5ouj_heJMoNrjIXpz/s1600/92122947_c28fadd66b.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Ltpu_jZ4SS-hR8LfouFz4PjjLYIUY9lDMelfkrSxE278lFInH_SxPFjkUh2A-qgwfAwsBxma4Zj8AYhWHZCzP2mbfjOtwmquAgkAaTFC-s3TjPYGtF4tF7554yb5ouj_heJMoNrjIXpz/s320/92122947_c28fadd66b.jpg" /></a> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> I get it.<br />
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As part of his invitation to the community, to share with them what he and his crew do inside the cavernous warehouse each winter to ready The Wall for yet another summer on the road, John had announced informally around town that anyone wanting to drop by today to see the silkscreening process was welcome to. John's demeanor also suggests that he neither expects anybody to show, nor will he make fanfare if anybody does. <br />
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As John mixes the <i>ink</i>, Aaron, Joy, and Lisa ready the panel to be printed. This means that they choose the panel to be silkscreened, freshly coated in a durable, high gloss black finish, and lay it flat on the table. Depending upon what panel they are preparing (it could be any one of 140; 70 West panels and 70 East panels), they will unroll the photographic transparency taken of the corresponding panel on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, carefully align it for margin, edge, and header consistency with the other of The Moving Wall's panels, and then tape the transparency precisely in place onto the panel. This they do. </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ2U1tzRYc6PhvZw-RWYZ9P_UQtozkH3lKErSTLChnvXQp_TNws7QV4dfqo3bCDnEhhOZJb1R2mclm4JapROdO_97WEyef7uVx5R7Ikd0McaEtE2bTfaPTAucbQ0gwGYGVWluUjFjR3cmQ/s1600/111-1197_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ2U1tzRYc6PhvZw-RWYZ9P_UQtozkH3lKErSTLChnvXQp_TNws7QV4dfqo3bCDnEhhOZJb1R2mclm4JapROdO_97WEyef7uVx5R7Ikd0McaEtE2bTfaPTAucbQ0gwGYGVWluUjFjR3cmQ/s320/111-1197_IMG.JPG" /></a></span> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Now that the transparency is secure, they can align the actual silkscreen – whose names will be <u><i>printed</i></u><i> </i>on the panel, with the names on the transparency. <br />
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To make this alignment, they slip white paper beneath the transparency and the panel, so that the black names on the transparency show against the white background of the paper. </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC8wGwXPSYFg8sRadHZhYsMw_Qc8RC5KsXIIloImxWP2T9tvgeqq8izaXc0oGx2Ekp3sVFwlSpQw4nexpZGf3J6GlmWn97UmXgOuR-3bICIgOBYMcwtvh52r9WnknXAuvbKAEH7btRS_YQ/s1600/111-1198_IMG.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC8wGwXPSYFg8sRadHZhYsMw_Qc8RC5KsXIIloImxWP2T9tvgeqq8izaXc0oGx2Ekp3sVFwlSpQw4nexpZGf3J6GlmWn97UmXgOuR-3bICIgOBYMcwtvh52r9WnknXAuvbKAEH7btRS_YQ/s320/111-1198_IMG.JPG" /></a></span> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Then,by means of clamps and hinges, they swing over the the aluminum-framed silkscreen until it sits flat on stacks of metal spacers, an inch or two above the panel (there has to be a space between the screen and the panel; I forget the actual reason why, though I guess it's because they have to apply pressure to the silkscreen, and if it lays atop the panel the result will be more abstract art than Moving Wall). They then press down on the silkscreen in various spots and eyeball the names on the silkscreen with those of the transparency. </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Using sawed off ax handles and rubber mallets, they lay the handles flat on the table and jockey the panel back and forth with a series of horizontal and vertical taps to the the panel's top, bottom, and sides, so that the names line up perfectly. </span></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyf95dW5FCvKCfB5X6ULY55TeKyvKv9Xly7w0jvhf7NJvZwmW0u9Njl0hbqKu9vALdxF6_-Gfnn9KOJcHEqTZVaD3vQiDvFs6jGfxepeGlfBtr5TqhmfSU0wtrDi8BOvjZRiN8lEcdZcyq/s1600/111-1193_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyf95dW5FCvKCfB5X6ULY55TeKyvKv9Xly7w0jvhf7NJvZwmW0u9Njl0hbqKu9vALdxF6_-Gfnn9KOJcHEqTZVaD3vQiDvFs6jGfxepeGlfBtr5TqhmfSU0wtrDi8BOvjZRiN8lEcdZcyq/s320/111-1193_IMG.JPG" /></a> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">That done, the silkscreen is swung back up. They secure the panel in place on the table, and remove both transparency and paper, leaving the bare panel.<br />
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Enter John the Inkman. Ready to print, he puts the ink down for the moment and lowers the silkscreen back over the panel, checking the surface for irregularities (such as a warp) that could produce an irregularity in the print (faintness, blotchiness) if not corrected. He spots a warp, and instructs Joy to apply CPR-like pressure to the panel to get it to lay flat. <br />
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John then picks up the ink and pours a thick strip of the goopy ink across one end of the silkscreen.</span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4QbbqWw2oYEiZLxXkh2lXS7v2vOZXQejro3BqyAEfuO2FSAWEEG-HvNO1sKH-sKSWtHvPbv2b3Hu27Xk3vFm-mZjnm1JTBgK0n2MvNuDEDyZrvLfsT1y90SuIPhw6nb54rrQKmAh-puXY/s1600/111-1183_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4QbbqWw2oYEiZLxXkh2lXS7v2vOZXQejro3BqyAEfuO2FSAWEEG-HvNO1sKH-sKSWtHvPbv2b3Hu27Xk3vFm-mZjnm1JTBgK0n2MvNuDEDyZrvLfsT1y90SuIPhw6nb54rrQKmAh-puXY/s320/111-1183_IMG.JPG" /></a><br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Again putting the inkpot aside, he picks up a two or so feet long, flat stick whose one end he offers Aaron and the other he keeps for himself. He and Aaron then lay the stick flat against the silkscreen just above the ink and, spacing their hands evenly across the stick, and with what seems like quite a bit of downward pressure, they slowly drag the stick the length of the panel, squeegee-like, in so doing forcing the ink through the free spaces of the silkscreen and onto the panel.</span></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsRKFNpyJpUQbLqUKaFLe2HiA-dC3J6KzfS1mZY5EKljQRdG_DodZyQh_t_i53Bt3GOhHgYnND95XNbNfvSkOsrquE8Kiuzq-ilUwJ3yygu-875rPkkVJQn0CmeWyfZdukW1t_Djz9mSdQ/s1600/111-1187_IMG.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsRKFNpyJpUQbLqUKaFLe2HiA-dC3J6KzfS1mZY5EKljQRdG_DodZyQh_t_i53Bt3GOhHgYnND95XNbNfvSkOsrquE8Kiuzq-ilUwJ3yygu-875rPkkVJQn0CmeWyfZdukW1t_Djz9mSdQ/s320/111-1187_IMG.JPG" /></a> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">By the the end of the inking they are a little winded, but when the silkscreen is lifted up for a peek, <i>voila</i>!, a printed panel.</span></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjplWfxLgfFb5Auf0XFqQSLMCBdyRW179_-qsAUDbp5ceQlGxL1xO0rQXaPLteDZ9gLaLXry-TO4t1flOFtx-Wzub_F6mpP8aVCS9bWPA86_wziy6k52uip0YhT1bLKXgOVV2A4C9_O8jfK/s1600/111-1188_IMG.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjplWfxLgfFb5Auf0XFqQSLMCBdyRW179_-qsAUDbp5ceQlGxL1xO0rQXaPLteDZ9gLaLXry-TO4t1flOFtx-Wzub_F6mpP8aVCS9bWPA86_wziy6k52uip0YhT1bLKXgOVV2A4C9_O8jfK/s320/111-1188_IMG.JPG" /></a> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I don't know if the ink is expensive, if John is frugal, or if, like me, he is simply conscious of waste (maybe it's all three), but after each panel has been printed, all hands grab the frame and hold tight as he squeegees the stick back and recaptures every last bit of excess ink from the printing and returns it to the cup.</span></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY07xDnUuhyphenhyphenM6JjGioofC7epJ4lft7paBGkvykgY_vBiAF5sbhnLYO_ZCjMqnfj8BV9jZDkrXrZ44GJmcmTiH6l9oejE3F09RGDE5r1pqMfnFt4dKVm7zYiz1q4PNy7JVzS39mXikrInj5/s1600/111-1195_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY07xDnUuhyphenhyphenM6JjGioofC7epJ4lft7paBGkvykgY_vBiAF5sbhnLYO_ZCjMqnfj8BV9jZDkrXrZ44GJmcmTiH6l9oejE3F09RGDE5r1pqMfnFt4dKVm7zYiz1q4PNy7JVzS39mXikrInj5/s320/111-1195_IMG.JPG" /></a> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When the excess ink from this panel is back in the pail, they stand the silkscreen up on its side and lean in to inspect the panel more closely. Because the transparencies are old from which the silkscreens are made, and some damaged, whatever imperfections exist on a given transparency will appear on the printed panel. Therefore, there might always be a bit of touch up – dots that are gibbous or crescent but which should be full – which call for a fine paintbrush and a steady hand. On this day Jeff, Lisa's son, takes up this responsibility, and indeed the crew points out a number of spots for Jeff to touch-up.</span></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsirAeTw3gFMZYb72z18RK-768plQ1pA73TJnYaGZcIIQG_TznUu-zDEFj1-cWcfTIxXrn3x2GvDZZssjhbYmTCLy0pTEvKHnUZ9KkseNCY_Uuj_jeXSAj2f8VxSjqGOtJElwHRrjAdFgk/s1600/112-1266_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsirAeTw3gFMZYb72z18RK-768plQ1pA73TJnYaGZcIIQG_TznUu-zDEFj1-cWcfTIxXrn3x2GvDZZssjhbYmTCLy0pTEvKHnUZ9KkseNCY_Uuj_jeXSAj2f8VxSjqGOtJElwHRrjAdFgk/s320/112-1266_IMG.JPG" /></a> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> As each panel bears two columns of names, a blank panel such as the one they have just printed would need to go through the whole process again to print the second column,</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBHtOrDGbk1srMUHDFRP74mzhwO41SXdsstzUuOldwby2v2pNrPTGg6XV0alx5ezIdQpKQRXySENOe2b31s2BBwPHfMB5LKIKe4RTZLD2HzOmI6ZQQXMVBE8ZUTt96SnPFbeN_CeVEeRrq/s1600/112-1253_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBHtOrDGbk1srMUHDFRP74mzhwO41SXdsstzUuOldwby2v2pNrPTGg6XV0alx5ezIdQpKQRXySENOe2b31s2BBwPHfMB5LKIKe4RTZLD2HzOmI6ZQQXMVBE8ZUTt96SnPFbeN_CeVEeRrq/s320/112-1253_IMG.JPG" /></a> </div><span style="font-size: large;"> but before the second column of names can be added the first column's ink has to cure and harden. Bake, actually. And so following the just completed printing and touching-up, Aaron carries the heavy, steel-framed panel over to the makeshift walk-in oven John had concocted that has been heated up to between 250 and 300 degree, in which the panel will bake until “done,” about forty-five minutes to an hour.</span></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6PlJhQMB5OPhy6GMrQ1UaIR1BrMVG6w8KWejqtDBVvYnyE2uf_ocSK3MwaMqhS7kmsb14YiVHw-sQVqxMNCLjVY5amRIAWABq7ItnBCi-d2-cIgfAxRkDfJvgSdOV9nQKe0YpTcC0d-Cl/s1600/111-1189_IMG.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6PlJhQMB5OPhy6GMrQ1UaIR1BrMVG6w8KWejqtDBVvYnyE2uf_ocSK3MwaMqhS7kmsb14YiVHw-sQVqxMNCLjVY5amRIAWABq7ItnBCi-d2-cIgfAxRkDfJvgSdOV9nQKe0YpTcC0d-Cl/s320/111-1189_IMG.JPG" /></a> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The last step of the process (for now) sees the framed silkscreen unclamped from the table hinge and carried over to a shower stall shrouded around with reddish shower curtains. There, donning a mask and a squirt bottle, Jeff sprays the screen thoroughly with bleach, the red from the silkscreen dissolving and washing away as he does.</span></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit7FXjYPlm06VSNUnC4W92IWeUJUHZO9CnkFbu6254p_t6PC7-VVsjc_b2d5ZzN6nI4_poSH4IXeWtgg0f8BVUdLOggFiPY2XKr3b23Pax7v6itPQc4lOexRC1IK7GqPuW0Recjk7ll-xP/s1600/112-1279_IMG.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit7FXjYPlm06VSNUnC4W92IWeUJUHZO9CnkFbu6254p_t6PC7-VVsjc_b2d5ZzN6nI4_poSH4IXeWtgg0f8BVUdLOggFiPY2XKr3b23Pax7v6itPQc4lOexRC1IK7GqPuW0Recjk7ll-xP/s320/112-1279_IMG.JPG" /></a> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Once cleaned and dried, that screen will be able to be shot with the image of another panel. Tomorrow's demonstration.<br />
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Several other panels are printed that day, probably three or four in all. Because the work is so exacting, it is also quite slow. This isn't any assembly line. It is, if not art, than at least artistic.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">***</span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Throughout that process, which took much longer to complete than for you to read about, I was busy taking pictures, asking questions, generally getting in the way. And so I can't say how many White Piners actually took up John's invitation. Several people came in and out, though how many of them came to see the printing, and how many just dropped by to say hi, I could not tell. I did notice one guy – Jim – who dropped by and hung around for a while. Jim, a master carpenter (he mills his own wood), sat quietly in a chair by the table, drinking a beer and watching from afar. </span></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7DrNLj1vVTYhrTIvsOK3t7_eQY-Zuwt_j99-qevV9Wq_FvW6ItO0KHNsyocbWSvuNJVIDAduz5msJa7J214H55mWLdowVBEvvn7ikQ2vTAdPsG1ua-gsSIr7AVRHZU82ZGRJwSjrdfg3L/s1600/111-1199_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7DrNLj1vVTYhrTIvsOK3t7_eQY-Zuwt_j99-qevV9Wq_FvW6ItO0KHNsyocbWSvuNJVIDAduz5msJa7J214H55mWLdowVBEvvn7ikQ2vTAdPsG1ua-gsSIr7AVRHZU82ZGRJwSjrdfg3L/s320/111-1199_IMG.JPG" /></a> </div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When the last of the panels had been printed and placed in the oven – around 4:30, we all gathered round the table to have a beer ourselves and wait for the panel to finish baking. Jim, bearded and shaggy haired under a baseball cap, a man obviously more at home in silence than in speaking, quietly said, “I had not idea it was so involved,” and took a sip.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">That was all John wanted to hear. “That's my point. Not enough people know what we do out here. If they'd only come out and see, I think they'd get a better appreciation of The Wall, and what it takes to keep this thing going.” He took a sip of his Jack-splash-coke and then stared into the glass. “We've seen what happens when The Wall isn't kept up,” he said, leaning back, looking up. “A few years ago we retired the B wall and donated it to Pittsburgh State University, who built up this really nice memorial to house it permanently. I mean, they spent some money on the design and construction of the site, and we were kind of blown away. I mean, it's really nice. Has all these walkways and such. They must have spent a tone of money on it. But then they put up The Wall and just ignored it. Just left it to the elements. Well, it didn't take long for the Kansas weather to kick the crap out of it. Now, the panels are all kind of gray, and the names, you can barely see them let alone read them.</span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLKjgktBhhPSSn-VlbXRFLC59cvvlmQxQnwUzpi7Lux-wV5P5VvJOeOWi2BvJnzK105EAqQ7_T-8RLol0i0cIOhcQFgbZg6iOwtiDNwq6WFu4xT4uci4bYWRjrBOmspWhzEOzVV-SmvpnI/s1600/IMG.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLKjgktBhhPSSn-VlbXRFLC59cvvlmQxQnwUzpi7Lux-wV5P5VvJOeOWi2BvJnzK105EAqQ7_T-8RLol0i0cIOhcQFgbZg6iOwtiDNwq6WFu4xT4uci4bYWRjrBOmspWhzEOzVV-SmvpnI/s320/IMG.jpg" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So now, they're trying to raise all this money to restore them, somehow. I think they're going to try to remake them in granite or something, something I guess they can make and then ignore.”</span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEptrAHhuGoty3jLtHovw-nZ9F9tcRo_Ix46SoHcXSUf7MfSx2RkiYJspSalcVbulq6rIgBEkZWBREPbsBRdAzYdtc5fYJFXNXDlRQeJOf3mwQfeffpBRxJQeZd3Zl2gveomRF96n_xlxt/s1600/PSST.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEptrAHhuGoty3jLtHovw-nZ9F9tcRo_Ix46SoHcXSUf7MfSx2RkiYJspSalcVbulq6rIgBEkZWBREPbsBRdAzYdtc5fYJFXNXDlRQeJOf3mwQfeffpBRxJQeZd3Zl2gveomRF96n_xlxt/s320/PSST.jpg" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">John, by nature, is slow to criticize, but his expression this moment does little to hide the dissatisfaction he feels toward the way The Wall has been treated out in Kansas. He says no more about it, but clearly he has more to say.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Jim leaves after a while, and other townsfolk come by, sometimes to stay for a beer, sometimes just to check in. Soon, George Thorogood's “Gear Jammer” (my pick) blares from Shanghai Kelly's jukebox, chips and salsa sail onto the table and fly off again almost immediately, and the workshop is on its way to becoming a playroom. </span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Drinking my beer, listening, watching, like a slow developing picture it's becoming clear to me what this shop means to White Pine, and what John wants it to mean to White Pine. By his design, the shop is as much social space for White Pine as it is workspace for The Moving Wall, and the relationship between the two, between social space and work space offers a kind of symbiosis: each breathes life into the other. Seats around the table are open to any who want to occupy them. The jukebox will play to any who want to push its buttons. The refrigerator opens to any who wants to pop a beer or chill a six. But so too, The Wall employs, in fact, </span><i style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">proudly </i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">employs, about ten White Piners, making it one of the towns </span><i style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">largest </i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">employers. And while I know that John isn't just going to hand out cash, I do get the sense that if someone is legitimately looking for work John will, if able, find a way to put them to work, even if for only a few hours a week. That someone who works on The Wall also sips beer at the table is natural; that someone who sips at the table might also work on The Wall is also natural. Chicken or egg.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Maybe I'm romanticizing, becoming melodramatic, but within just one day I got the sense that the shop was to White Pine what levies are to a slowly rising river. That throughout White Pine the tides of misfortune are mounting – lost jobs, lost property values, lost people, an overall lost sense of fortitude, of promise, of pride. Inside its door and walls, the shop holds back those tides. It doesn't erase them, but it doesn't admit them, either. Instead, the shop is kind of a refuge. In it, White Piners, gather in small numbers, and talk and laugh and play music and drink beer and dribble salsa down their sweatshirts, and for the time they spend in that warm chamber, perhaps themselves getting slightly baked, they are not cured of what ails them but their symptoms are chased away for a while. </span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">In a sense, I suspect that what The Moving Wall is to the thousand-plus communities it's visited over the past quarter century, the shop of The Moving Wall is, or is becoming, to the community of White Pine. I will come back to this idea.</span></span>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05708563390207386685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1959927947835579215.post-72370629718789088802010-04-03T07:08:00.000-07:002010-04-03T07:19:46.269-07:00The Shop (Part 1)<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijHBrNoRX5tnacdBa0GTVW6F4cMe9VKkXwCoNJ7pMYj7YiuCN6mtaHkOc1F8mw5eUwPVBRnFsxWj0ZN4b2gRJ95NfNXQNv3szenp3Y7BjlHgLDY70i1NnXod0_N7a6NkU8Jx2xMqmPShqr/s1600/shop_0001.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijHBrNoRX5tnacdBa0GTVW6F4cMe9VKkXwCoNJ7pMYj7YiuCN6mtaHkOc1F8mw5eUwPVBRnFsxWj0ZN4b2gRJ95NfNXQNv3szenp3Y7BjlHgLDY70i1NnXod0_N7a6NkU8Jx2xMqmPShqr/s400/shop_0001.jpg" /></a> </div><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I decided to give John and Joy a call before settling into Rm. 115 at the Konteka. I picked up the room phone, dialed 9, and then their number.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Joy answered.<br />
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“Hey Joy. I'm here.”<br />
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“Hey. Do you want to come to the shop?”<br />
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I hadn't actually anticipated going there so soon, but, why not? “Sure. I'd like that.”<br />
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“Okay. So you need directions, ā? Wait...”<br />
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I waited.<br />
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“John says he'll come and get you.” <br />
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“Great. I'll be waiting outside.”<br />
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A few minutes later I was standing in the Konteka's potholed parking lot when a cream colored Chevy pick-up, a relic, turned into the lot and gently rolled up to me. I hopped in the cab and John and I exchanged great-to-see-yous! He looked the same as when I saw him outside Boston this past summer, perhaps a dash more salt to his beard, perhaps another inch or so to his braided ponytail. But still the easy manner, the quick smile and laugh, even after a UP winter.<br />
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Between how ya doins I scanned the truck and was impressed by its near mint condition, especially for a truck its age, whatever its age was. <br />
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“This is some truck,” I said, “What year?”<br />
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“'87.”<br />
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“Damn. It's in great shape.”<br />
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“Yeah, it wouldn't normally be out this time of year. They dump so much damn salt on the roads that it just eats through metal. But we've had this warm weather, and it's melted all the snow. So I decided to take it out.”<br />
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“Sweet.”<br />
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“Yeah, back in the day I towed the Wall around with it.”<br />
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“You've really kept it up.”<br />
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“Yeah. I'm kinda proud of it.”<br />
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I nodded. Soon I would come to know that John was proud in many ways – not boastful, but proud.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> * * *</span></div><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Minutes later we rolled onto the property dominated under White Pine Electric, the old and soon to be decommissioned coal burning power plant. </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGDvdEBRTk0vAWzsYK1TQoaROfipyifXyYdJxekPYyMaVswHg_ZnWDHkJCkaWOx1EnchPY-mucxw8zkXkN1SRufEZ05Ccx0huIU3BoBeZUmYZkOTZM85ANyEM7e_Bzu_KOgFyBrXhZnkPI/s1600/WPEP_PLANT.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGDvdEBRTk0vAWzsYK1TQoaROfipyifXyYdJxekPYyMaVswHg_ZnWDHkJCkaWOx1EnchPY-mucxw8zkXkN1SRufEZ05Ccx0huIU3BoBeZUmYZkOTZM85ANyEM7e_Bzu_KOgFyBrXhZnkPI/s320/WPEP_PLANT.jpg" style="clear: both; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px;" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The plant lords over a complex of mostly abandoned cinder block and metal-siding buildings, some of its own, others independent of it. I guess you'd call the site an industrial park, but at this point it's more the ghost of an industrial park. <br />
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John pulled the Chevy up to a huge, blue, almost windowless building, with the trademark logo of The Moving Wall/Vietnam Combat Veterans emblazoned across a garage door. A handful of trucks were parked outside.</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioZoGGhY-XAs8n-UBh_k9Gyq2xyhbjgRIcTqlROg7yssNw-eEjVcZ_HeSlJnPRhZApUqeUQDYaWOiGKTmdti_mIqoXzCDbQ3UjMFcleP8lqw16GEXxR55tK-OpUPZMfz4KH9lTiFW5WYcY/s1600/111-1178_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioZoGGhY-XAs8n-UBh_k9Gyq2xyhbjgRIcTqlROg7yssNw-eEjVcZ_HeSlJnPRhZApUqeUQDYaWOiGKTmdti_mIqoXzCDbQ3UjMFcleP8lqw16GEXxR55tK-OpUPZMfz4KH9lTiFW5WYcY/s320/111-1178_IMG.JPG" /></a> </div><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I followed John into the building and was instantly struck by the size of it and the richness of it. Its ceiling must have been thirty feet high, and whereas everything leading up to the building, including its exterior, seemed so austere, barren of color, of vigor, inside, seemingly every square foot of floor space was busy with activities – some in progress, others in waiting. For instance, as soon as you step inside the building <br />
you bump up against a recently acquired pool table, covered, not yet in service, but soon to be. Pan left: just beyond the old truck, much much older than the '87, </span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6lZynpyNBQFmdRsNdeJS8CspA_zp3cKJHsAPJD4eAEel8Ktah_JlVyiZcPNF99cE8zVtbzQIzQw5RFxrwNU6ZvJF9jYI0vTfWdWho7NsbY1RqGjEH4FbSkEzYon0Cj4ttzShhOTDKRf0d/s1600/112-1259_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6lZynpyNBQFmdRsNdeJS8CspA_zp3cKJHsAPJD4eAEel8Ktah_JlVyiZcPNF99cE8zVtbzQIzQw5RFxrwNU6ZvJF9jYI0vTfWdWho7NsbY1RqGjEH4FbSkEzYon0Cj4ttzShhOTDKRf0d/s320/112-1259_IMG.JPG" /></a> </div><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">stand steel racks, two across by two deep, which hold the hundreds and hundreds of boxes of all colors and sizes The Wall has collected along the way over its 26 years on the road. These are the items which visitors leave behind – letters, flowers, cans of beer, medals – all sorts of stuff.<br />
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I approached the racks and John followed. “Jesus,” I said, closing in on them, “I knew you had some stuff, but I had no idea you had that much stuff.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, It's quite a bit. The sponsors at each stop collect the stuff and send it to me, but I can't really do much with it right now. So, I just hang onto it all. Someday, I hope to find a proper home for it all, someplace that will display it properly, like it deserves.”</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglFkZSCe-QAZH_C3Tc7rU5SSiTdYLeojG6wsM1I7snhHl_AqSuC9RANoIcKpRzxyr7UAGpuhF5hDkhfpWBbbNgBW6_t9vt6zi7PvodzcdXqwD18WNbmdLSeZSV8Z8zkDifxfqu18Jf2jtr/s1600/112-1260_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglFkZSCe-QAZH_C3Tc7rU5SSiTdYLeojG6wsM1I7snhHl_AqSuC9RANoIcKpRzxyr7UAGpuhF5hDkhfpWBbbNgBW6_t9vt6zi7PvodzcdXqwD18WNbmdLSeZSV8Z8zkDifxfqu18Jf2jtr/s320/112-1260_IMG.JPG" /></a> </div><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I came to White Pine to sift through some of those boxes, but standing before the looming racks of left behinds, each identified by date and location, I realized there was months and months of solid work to be done there. Identifying, cataloguing, contextualizing, and more. (I can imagine <br />
that all sorts of academics would be interested – anthropologist, psychologists, historians, to mention just a few – and of course, people like me, rhetoricians.)<br />
<br />
“I can see already I’m going to have to come back,” I said, looking over to John. Then I spotted something, and he followed my eyes. To the left of the racks, lining a wall, were about a billion beer cans, neatly bagged, which if ever redeemed at a dime a piece, will catapult John and Joy into <br />
a higher tax bracket.<br />
<br />
“We really do need to cash those in,” he said, “it’s a small fortune, there. And they’re getting in the way. It’s not as bad as it looks.”<br />
<br />
“Sure it isn’t,” I said.<br />
<br />
He walked me away from the rack and the aluminum mine and showed me the office, whose walls were chock full of plaques and declarations and photos and clippings and on and on. </span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwSQMI9RnmI545zEriS0U3_xZlup2qvdsHE44EnCOCa6dEIvs860UgQI0oMZROUKaxwugOHHovQPPxJyV7-Nxc-2FTAHPVV2jizEmxEBS1l4l0FZ8704wMaV_V01ujsSjEoRzhLjJurDgL/s1600/112-1227_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwSQMI9RnmI545zEriS0U3_xZlup2qvdsHE44EnCOCa6dEIvs860UgQI0oMZROUKaxwugOHHovQPPxJyV7-Nxc-2FTAHPVV2jizEmxEBS1l4l0FZ8704wMaV_V01ujsSjEoRzhLjJurDgL/s320/112-1227_IMG.JPG" /></a><br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlBGEdIeBeCa10WZBwSiP1YWNDUIBUIJsapbp1wVM93NaD7IHvzmlXo-HjcYQTHkroAegyGquXv9NrrgSIdyNSr-VIjG2Cw-Yo7m1tVRNCxtf5bRX8AKC20rw7LZShD0-M-wb2FPRMfZae/s1600/112-1236_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlBGEdIeBeCa10WZBwSiP1YWNDUIBUIJsapbp1wVM93NaD7IHvzmlXo-HjcYQTHkroAegyGquXv9NrrgSIdyNSr-VIjG2Cw-Yo7m1tVRNCxtf5bRX8AKC20rw7LZShD0-M-wb2FPRMfZae/s320/112-1236_IMG.JPG" /></a></div></div></div><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Oh, I can see I’m going to have to spend some time in here,” I said. <br />
<br />
“C’mon, let me show you to the crew.” <br />
<br />
On the way into the inner room we passed a woman, slight, in a red sweatshirt and red baseball cap, working intently, touching up a silkscreen. <br />
<br />
“This is Joyce,” John said.<br />
<br />
Joyce looked up to me briefly to say hi, and then returned to her work. <br />
<br />
John then lead me through an opening into an even larger room. In it, a number of people were seated around a table, imbibing. </span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfzdddyzv6kB4fIR8AlMEjMH8iut_5vlU9UePOz6PGXl7PFe8rwcLvgHmYT2HnrtgfLi4PpeNsiHqbJT-I3p4kw2GGEbX4LOlFPWmrGujBuZfnK9RGK31N8OmPOdG4okiGnxhw-HuuxE5n/s1600/113-1301_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfzdddyzv6kB4fIR8AlMEjMH8iut_5vlU9UePOz6PGXl7PFe8rwcLvgHmYT2HnrtgfLi4PpeNsiHqbJT-I3p4kw2GGEbX4LOlFPWmrGujBuZfnK9RGK31N8OmPOdG4okiGnxhw-HuuxE5n/s320/113-1301_IMG.JPG" /></a> </div><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “There he is,” someone said.<br />
<br />
“We’ve been waiting for you,” said another, indicating the method by which they’d been occupying their time. “It’s all your fault.”<br />
<br />
“Okay,” I said, holding up my arms in surrender. “Guilty as charged! I thought I’d be here much sooner.”<br />
<br />
Joy, a woman of seeming endless energy, came bounding up to me. “You made it, ā?” she said with a hug and a smile. <br />
<br />
Joy was a true-blue yooper, and she sounded to me more Canadian than American.<br />
<br />
“I miscalculated,” I announced. “Thought Marquette was much closer than it is." <br />
<br />
“You must need a beer then, ā?” Joy deduced.<br />
<br />
“Why yeah, sure, I’d love one.”<br />
<br />
“Or a drink. You want a drink? We’ve got other stuff to drink. A lot of stuff left over from our wedding.” (John and Joy had gotten married the year before, in the shop. Big party.)<br />
<br />
What the hell, I thought. “Got any scotch?”<br />
<br />
Joy disappeared and quickly reappeared with about half remaining of a 1.75 bottle of Dewar’s.<br />
<br />
“How about this, ā?” She showed me the label.<br />
<br />
“That’ll do just fine. Maybe too fine.”<br />
<br />
She darted away to pour me a find a glass and ice, and the rest of us swapped introductions. There was Lisa and Aaron (they’re married), two Rons, Jeff (Lisa’s son), and Linnie.<br />
<br />
“You’re the author,” one of the Rons said, and, not clear on the technicalities and wanting not to misrepresent myself, I corrected him.<br />
<br />
“Not an author. But I am a writer.”<br />
<br />
“What’s the difference?” he asked.<br />
<br />
“I think author refers to some one who’s published something. I haven’t published anything – yet – so for now I’m just a writer.” <br />
<br />
Still, author or writer, whatever I was changed the chemistry of the room. <br />
<br />
I don’t know how many self-confessed authors/writers have passed through White Pine, but not so many that I wasn’t looked upon with curiosity, perhaps even a little suspicion. Clearly alien.<br />
<br />
Lisa asked me a question, which I don't remember. I only remember her response to my answer I answer: a polite but vacant expression. I got the sense from her expression that I might have been speaking Chinese. It wasn’t Chinese, but coming from New York, and speaking fast, it might as well have been. I’d have slow down my speech a bit, not be in such a hurry.<br />
<br />
Joy returned with my drink, poured just how I like it, right up to the brim.<br />
<br />
“Thanks,” I said, looking around. This room was twice the size of the first room, and equally as interesting. Apart from the actual silk-screening equipment, there were photos of soldiers and a huge thank you banner hanging on the wall that separated this room from the garage.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMHET39_qWjS9WkhBfY2IpTQhmcc1TF_P1kSNucBFXTp7y6Xg1ftK40bFbtjPchIu-AJj6WsyWetFVX0QYvnRj1r9NsQTGD2_nfk9xbOUeJ9m3OkM8sA2PCBNiRxh03Y2m6ACFxwKTQ80B/s1600/112-1247_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMHET39_qWjS9WkhBfY2IpTQhmcc1TF_P1kSNucBFXTp7y6Xg1ftK40bFbtjPchIu-AJj6WsyWetFVX0QYvnRj1r9NsQTGD2_nfk9xbOUeJ9m3OkM8sA2PCBNiRxh03Y2m6ACFxwKTQ80B/s320/112-1247_IMG.JPG" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> <br />
There were yet more framed photos of the Wall from around the country crowding the room’s vertical surfaces.</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwt3TlduBiqS27eMju4CE3LbXRqMcnFpOFHk97-2LA-4zY51V-BfVwez-r0U7bL8v2DdJKv58YS6JA_6OvmkIQBu9dJY0jllMwRaAHgkzsKpvfPE-NZFTThqmR34C3uDFJSEwZup1gHD0S/s1600/112-1245_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwt3TlduBiqS27eMju4CE3LbXRqMcnFpOFHk97-2LA-4zY51V-BfVwez-r0U7bL8v2DdJKv58YS6JA_6OvmkIQBu9dJY0jllMwRaAHgkzsKpvfPE-NZFTThqmR34C3uDFJSEwZup1gHD0S/s320/112-1245_IMG.JPG" /></a> </div><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Then I heard music, and looked to its source. It was coming from a room behind the table. “What’s that?” I asked John, who returned with a fresh Jack-splash-coke. <br />
<br />
“That?” he said laughing, taking a seat at the table, “That’s Shanghai Kelly. Take a look.”<br />
<br />
I stepped inside the small, windowless, cinder block room out of which the music was bopping. John named it Shanghai Kelly, though one might mistake it for Shangri La, especially in White Pine, Michigan, 2 1/2 hours from Marquette.</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifb_EXa-YGdNVFviwKtNz0a-DB0sQr2SUvDrFoW3wk9QfPPaIVH9PDoN0tXinWDHOhhD5lbcraEIHfX1rLwhclxSg1gNEjybdHG5JsaCnggZBudxt1uLkM8lOcRQ4UOIjrn1HS8ZOGnfn1/s1600/111-1200_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifb_EXa-YGdNVFviwKtNz0a-DB0sQr2SUvDrFoW3wk9QfPPaIVH9PDoN0tXinWDHOhhD5lbcraEIHfX1rLwhclxSg1gNEjybdHG5JsaCnggZBudxt1uLkM8lOcRQ4UOIjrn1HS8ZOGnfn1/s320/111-1200_IMG.JPG" /></a> </div><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> John and Joy converted that small room into their own “private” (more on this later) bar, and it is about the most interesting and aesthetically invigorating bar in the world. Lit entirely by string lights tacked overhead, the room was buttery and warm. Much care was given to adorning the walls (each with its own theme), </span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtqeeqCydTP9mZwD6I5f67hbv-o4dR4nkaN0xAC1OXeGv_HWlbDqsMpjbS35EC4wTLXPfddmzRPuNQOY2hZeUSDA-pawvahi_2hp1F0KtdJegq-njjLZxVi5iv6-yQHhk0BFMghm4gE2x6/s1600/112-1203_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtqeeqCydTP9mZwD6I5f67hbv-o4dR4nkaN0xAC1OXeGv_HWlbDqsMpjbS35EC4wTLXPfddmzRPuNQOY2hZeUSDA-pawvahi_2hp1F0KtdJegq-njjLZxVi5iv6-yQHhk0BFMghm4gE2x6/s320/112-1203_IMG.JPG" /></a> </div><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">and the ceiling (baseball caps from all over America hung between the rafters), </span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaEBFQc681stcuRzmgU5YnRZrq0PCYhcE3D0hPdJZWisEzCY3dIy1fl-8m8ir-jRBl478L62bcimylgMQNLaDGelExn3piyI3Bu0wwEqIU6tre5PrXmfjVCZVboKCWuS7zLahpkEGOHXxY/s1600/112-1207_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaEBFQc681stcuRzmgU5YnRZrq0PCYhcE3D0hPdJZWisEzCY3dIy1fl-8m8ir-jRBl478L62bcimylgMQNLaDGelExn3piyI3Bu0wwEqIU6tre5PrXmfjVCZVboKCWuS7zLahpkEGOHXxY/s320/112-1207_IMG.JPG" /></a> </div><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">and the back bar, loaded with all kind of doo-dads and chatchkas, that Shanghai Kelly was itself an exhibit of sorts. </span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihY77SGahuJw-7foKMYj60kJ6rIgezPuqeD-CY2TnGjNS5H-ToufMG-aawDLX4y7ecd_NLRage2dtw65Kw8vtiXYAl3f7OQzGkWd4rRbsm_ElH2rb2GeAi5uEjJFtbqvoO6fmIxo_3-CaD/s1600/112-1202_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihY77SGahuJw-7foKMYj60kJ6rIgezPuqeD-CY2TnGjNS5H-ToufMG-aawDLX4y7ecd_NLRage2dtw65Kw8vtiXYAl3f7OQzGkWd4rRbsm_ElH2rb2GeAi5uEjJFtbqvoO6fmIxo_3-CaD/s320/112-1202_IMG.JPG" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> And then there was the juke box, </span></div></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhApduzL6wsQ2uvf_1_qaZBFQecbphmZZbkufBUIG5SqO8JnkNgXgJG_D_DC8mW6ulnnlndFjiVO7wlNFpk2KdNiuTMKtTxVHM8PJO2AGOOjWkFRmO7HM-mOj2eHzKfkufqSzoxHQQMIa6j/s1600/112-1204_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhApduzL6wsQ2uvf_1_qaZBFQecbphmZZbkufBUIG5SqO8JnkNgXgJG_D_DC8mW6ulnnlndFjiVO7wlNFpk2KdNiuTMKtTxVHM8PJO2AGOOjWkFRmO7HM-mOj2eHzKfkufqSzoxHQQMIa6j/s320/112-1204_IMG.JPG" /></a> </div><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">a real live jukebox, with hundreds of the greatest songs to come out of the greatest musical era in American history: the sixties. Buffalo Springfield; Steppenwolf; Creedence; Sly; The Stones; Motown – a jukebox to make The Big Chill jealous. But also: Johnny Cash, George Jones, Willie Nelson, Patsy Cline, and Elvis.<br />
<br />
It rocked.<br />
<br />
I emerged from Shanghai Kelly’s kind of ga-ga, and asked John, “This is the best bar I’ve ever been in. Why would you ever leave?”<br />
<br />
He smiled, but didn’t offer a reason. My guess is he couldn’t.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">* * *</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">We spent the next several hours chatting, listening to great music, and yes, drinking. I was able to dial back my New Yorkese from 45 rpm to 33, and was much better understood as a result. I learned a little bit about everyone there; that Aaron and Lisa were road stewards to the A wall, and have been for several years; that one of the Rons was Lisa's half brother; that Linnie cooked at the Konteka and would be making my breakfast come the morrow (if I saw it); that Aaron had served in the Gulf War; that these were all genuinely nice, down to earth people. I also learned a thing about John that night. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">"You know," he said, taking a sip from his Jack-splash-coke, "It really pisses me off that no one knows what we do here." [Note: it's inconceivable that anything really <i>pisses </i>off John -- he's just too much on an even keel to get knocked into <i>pissed </i>off. I believe, though, that he can become peeved.]</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">He continued: "No one around here has any idea what we do. They think we take the Wall on the road, bring it back here, pack it away, and spend the winter drinking in the American Legion. They don't know the work we put into the Wall, into maintaining it."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">He took another sip. "<i>That's</i> why I've been trying to get people to come out here, to see what we do, because if they did, they wouldn't believe it. My goal is to have everyone in town come out here to see what we do, to see the whole process. Then they'll know."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">John offered the town of White Pine a standing invitation to come out to the shop and see what goes on. By word of mouth he lets it be known when he and his crew will be doing what process, though the door to the shop is always open for anyone to drop by and just grab a beer from the fridge, or play Shanghai Kelly's juke box (it's free). John hopes that the social atmosphere he's created in the shop will spill over into a greater interest in, and understanding of, the winter Wall. Tomorrow, for instance, he has scheduled printing panels at 1:00. A few people have said they'll drop by, and others will likely drop by unannounced. By the end of the night, I got the strong sense that this shop was much more than the winter home of The Moving Wall. I wasn't sure what that <i>more</i> was just yet, but I trusted that the next few days would make that clear to me. </span></div>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05708563390207386685noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1959927947835579215.post-70096203973121115552010-03-29T13:20:00.000-07:002010-03-29T17:36:39.303-07:00The New Frontier<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">As I mentioned in an earlier post, I went to White Pine in search of The Wall. I didn't anticipate that White Pine itself would be of interest to me, but it is. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Why? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I have long known what The Moving Wall has meant and means to people across the country; but once in White Pine, I began to realize that The Moving Wall holds increasing meaning for its immediate neighbors, and that, too, is a story worth telling about this structure, so simple in design, so complex in effect. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Beginning with this post, then, I will toggle between writing about The Wall in its winter home and all that envelopes it in the shop, and then how it exists outside, within the larger community of White Pine. In other words, some posts will live within the walls of the shop; others will stretch their legs out into the streets of White Pine. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I should also say that if the connections between The Wall and White Pine aren't yet apparent to you, join the club: they are not yet apparent to me, either. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">But I also trust, and I hope you will, too, that in the working out of the observations, impressions, and details, the connections will become more apparent to us both. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">And, for whatever it's worth, let me be frank: I am a writer, and part of my personal interest in writing this blog is to bump up against my limitations in the execution of it, and then to overcome them if I can. If you have suggestions how I might do that, feel free to include them as a "comment." I won't say that I will revise to suit every comment, but I guarantee that I will at least read every comment.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">So, let me begin today by telling you a little about The Konteka Inn, where I stayed during my time in White Pine.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">***</span></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The drive from the airport in Marquette, MI, to The Konteka Inn in White Pine took about 2 ½ hours, not the 1 ½ hours I (mis)calculated.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmAKpWlgGFrj8ZFM_0-FJGnmw8vQ0gm03svqMpYxN2BxpHASINgVx0SgAorsDnQ1l9f7NInTSJfPcS45j3Pk9hFjv_DqYdL94b7ecDBxwdFk2DRjbKKDskN39D3k7KDw8VfpDS1DE3sadk/s1600/IMG_1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmAKpWlgGFrj8ZFM_0-FJGnmw8vQ0gm03svqMpYxN2BxpHASINgVx0SgAorsDnQ1l9f7NInTSJfPcS45j3Pk9hFjv_DqYdL94b7ecDBxwdFk2DRjbKKDskN39D3k7KDw8VfpDS1DE3sadk/s400/IMG_1.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> That meant an hour more of pine trees and cut logs and long stretches of road with only me on it. It also meant another hour of trying to dodge Christian radio in search of secular stations: no easy task in the UP. <br />
<br />
Arriving successfully unconverted, I pulled into White Pine and The Konteka Inn (officially The Konteka Black Bear Resort) and its big barren parking lot. </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaX6s5r1CZoUkW7rn3BmjgBPYfOX2qfTXFL180MQlkhNLKIfKLGWwHaUtbjrgBqGghMFIWwxVSvtxyhISaeEOXsCM1QSKBGCzqSAkuW5BWJQrXT5QCpOcIFl8wIcVMDMF357CruClyBexZ/s1600/113-1344_IMG_2.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaX6s5r1CZoUkW7rn3BmjgBPYfOX2qfTXFL180MQlkhNLKIfKLGWwHaUtbjrgBqGghMFIWwxVSvtxyhISaeEOXsCM1QSKBGCzqSAkuW5BWJQrXT5QCpOcIFl8wIcVMDMF357CruClyBexZ/s400/113-1344_IMG_2.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">A smattering of cars scattered around the mud and potholes. The Konteka's website boasted the ability to accommodate trucks and and their snowmobile trailers,</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRxekvG1HjRYCKlYp2bakzvHZmJ7nucMxJMSnn3mMuTVLTHFk3mhsUzK_GezAqDsgMOMrqy6fNRQXD6k22YJvFg2LXu3vJvlKuAyX3qReAYZ6WFWRD0ZyEpOfv6mbD5PcMK5ILdSTj4-6E/s1600/konteka_parking_2_copy_36uv.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRxekvG1HjRYCKlYp2bakzvHZmJ7nucMxJMSnn3mMuTVLTHFk3mhsUzK_GezAqDsgMOMrqy6fNRQXD6k22YJvFg2LXu3vJvlKuAyX3qReAYZ6WFWRD0ZyEpOfv6mbD5PcMK5ILdSTj4-6E/s320/konteka_parking_2_copy_36uv.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">but none were to be found, as was not the case only a week or so earlier, when the yooper snows were deep. But a spate of warm weather had all but laid bare the forest floor, and the snowmobilers who might have come from far and wide stayed far and wide. <br />
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Bad for Konteka. Fine by me.<br />
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I climbed out of the Dodge Caravan I had rented and took a quick 360. The Inn was a bit more rustic than pictured on its website, and smaller. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">As I walked into the combination front desk/restaurant/bar/gift shop/bowling alley, a couple guys were having a quiet beer, naturally ignoring the chattering TV head in the bar. I saw no one else. I rang the bell on the registration counter, but no one hopped-to. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Assuming that eventually someone would come my way, I passed the time looking at the den of slightly blurred framed photos of black bears which populated the walls. I am not a bearologist but even I could tell that these photos were not of the same animal. The bear were clearly of different sizes and weights. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The biggest, standing tall and looking straight at me, curiously, not ferociously, wearing a "Well, gee, who are <i>you</i>?" or "Well, gee, what are <i>you </i>dong here?" expression, had a daffodil yellow dot the size of a quarter in each ear, and I thought the adornment quite complimentary. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">There were also photos of bears dining at what looked to be the edge of woods that I could see through the Konteka's dining room windows. </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBs5rs5I1ZPCN7mJhSRuqcRbFwBa27-1CSi0sBf9UySgIUx_cQH4zZ-s4n3ZqlxGzwe4xZg-olNNPOsVmRJrxo-je2ar7wDQBpHu8zzbkhT2EHy402f_yL-v7BD6rVlgeukEDXJHdjnBKD/s1600/kontake_bear_viewing_3_copy_w2m9.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBs5rs5I1ZPCN7mJhSRuqcRbFwBa27-1CSi0sBf9UySgIUx_cQH4zZ-s4n3ZqlxGzwe4xZg-olNNPOsVmRJrxo-je2ar7wDQBpHu8zzbkhT2EHy402f_yL-v7BD6rVlgeukEDXJHdjnBKD/s400/kontake_bear_viewing_3_copy_w2m9.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">These weren't just any old bears, then, they were local bears. The photos were family portraits. The Konteka's kids.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">After a moment or two a young woman approached in black pants and shirt (bear chic?) who seemed a bit frantic. She apologized; she was all "alone." I gathered that she wore a number of hats for the Inn, though given the absence of any customers or guests, I wondered what they might be. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">She stepped behind the check-in desk which reminded me of an empty jeweler's case. I told her that I had a reservation, that my name was Blitefield, and that I had requested the quietest room possible. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">She returned a quizzical look but even as I said it, I understood that look, and agreed, feeling a bit foolish about that last part, given what 'd seen with my own eyes. This wasn't some spring break <i>get-to</i> with Girls Gone Wild going wild. It was an empty hotel. Still, she humored me and said “Room 115. Our quietest,” she said, handing me my key – not a card, not some other kind of modern entry gimmick – but a regular key, and told me that, as things were quiet, the owner might have locked some of the accesses to the parking lot, and that it would be best if I grabbed my things and went to my room via the bowling alley, which I did. </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjagJ5q7ydtvpTp9FPjrMCsb1A0b2IkYRiNNUDC9o6AGxf__jvN1MhC6M4VQnnYcG0O335WUajmjxdsvkyz7pkzVrFeoqUFXDOSfOp9G0E9Yk_L79M6Sbz6etbcLwyL-dJjVM1UXr3-4sJ6/s1600/konteka_alley_copy.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjagJ5q7ydtvpTp9FPjrMCsb1A0b2IkYRiNNUDC9o6AGxf__jvN1MhC6M4VQnnYcG0O335WUajmjxdsvkyz7pkzVrFeoqUFXDOSfOp9G0E9Yk_L79M6Sbz6etbcLwyL-dJjVM1UXr3-4sJ6/s320/konteka_alley_copy.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I don't know why they called my room “115”, unless there had once upon a time been more floors to The Konteka, or that some distant plans were in the making for adding some. As the rooms were on one floor, why not just “15”? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Anyway, I walked down the single dark hall toward my room passing rooms 101, 102, 103, etc., many of which had the European sign for no-smoking affixed to their door. Despite the signs, or perhaps in defiance of them, the hall smelled of deep-soaked cigarettes nonetheless. (Michigan hasn't yet caught up with the rest of the country regarding cigarette smoking, and so smoking is pervasive.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Room 115 was at the end of the hall on the left, just before the coin-operated washing machine and dryer, which were just before the “spa” (jacuzzi). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Room 115's curtains opened onto the woods behind the Konteka (as did all the odd numbered rooms; the even numbered rooms look on to the parking lot and the Mineral River Plaza.) Indeed, the room was quiet, as I had requested, though there was always the possibility, and hence, my fear, that some night owl or yooper yahoo might decide to do laundry at one or two in the morning, no doubt drying a coat with a heavy metal zipper or hard buttons. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Rm 115 was non-smoking but had obviously absorbed undertones of cigarettes. It was also, by the Gucci-goo standards of the east coast, worn, a bit shabby. But it was neat, mostly. It's furnishings were serviceable. A boxy, sharp edged (circa '?0s?) wood laminate dresser and night table, probably standard of a mountain lodge, stood at the ready for the contents of my meager suitcase. </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNp5WmWtlAoY9ClafZs0ejfsIGItKIAjjiHdODwjoab7URko-npFR7dOpfFv7QkvGVOo_TLZs-5lTJ0sBMts9601Lnt3KeRWFme7x9URMP63Yzxil1m38lwZaMJHAN53dBz7he2m3g9mlT/s1600/motel2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNp5WmWtlAoY9ClafZs0ejfsIGItKIAjjiHdODwjoab7URko-npFR7dOpfFv7QkvGVOo_TLZs-5lTJ0sBMts9601Lnt3KeRWFme7x9URMP63Yzxil1m38lwZaMJHAN53dBz7he2m3g9mlT/s320/motel2.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The TV was ten or fifteen years old but not so old as to be pre-clicker, and giving it a test run I found that it worked well enough for the amount of viewing I was planning to do (zero).</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The mattresses of the twin queen beds had colorful polyester covers, but mattresses were tired and soft.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_epDJ2MmTDyyhmcYViOPE1pbaXTZHbqGkTkrLQdIB5oRT_4LEUlTfK4HXO8QzbykUDYFstBUtDP-n3Wfp446m7UuUImlGL_1FhoZwargk3nFKaNd8RLvSBC4tO-_dH62GCSktqRaW3Yyc/s1600/motel1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_epDJ2MmTDyyhmcYViOPE1pbaXTZHbqGkTkrLQdIB5oRT_4LEUlTfK4HXO8QzbykUDYFstBUtDP-n3Wfp446m7UuUImlGL_1FhoZwargk3nFKaNd8RLvSBC4tO-_dH62GCSktqRaW3Yyc/s320/motel1.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Rm 115, in other words, was a basic room, comfortable but not cozy; the very muted and zest-free room which comes with a $54 nightly rate. One thing stuck out, though. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">In the bathroom, on the wall above the toilet, a flourish of creativity, of design, of personal touch, maybe even wit: a towel rack had been stocked with descending, drooping boughs of towels of increasing sizes and length, beginning with a stack of face cloths at the top, and concluding with bath towels at the bottom. A sort of white pine of cotton. </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibjFtgD7ojUHAS1j42K6kdqlAsUT-yCRdAJtzJ0M8gxF3xW5euMv8EM_Wr05sUqxoE7Sm1qZ63QlNLgazzYkIdadKPsGENv9ulClQp3Dg2a_BapNwCUFnPL9YsDk686P5YGsyU06fHz4Eb/s1600/111-1177_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibjFtgD7ojUHAS1j42K6kdqlAsUT-yCRdAJtzJ0M8gxF3xW5euMv8EM_Wr05sUqxoE7Sm1qZ63QlNLgazzYkIdadKPsGENv9ulClQp3Dg2a_BapNwCUFnPL9YsDk686P5YGsyU06fHz4Eb/s320/111-1177_IMG.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">So, initial impressions of The Konteka: quiet, simple, smokey, and essential. A place proud of its bears, proud of its bowling alley, bar, spa, and gas pump; a place where some creative housekeeper is proud of her work.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">My next post will resume back in Rm 115, but only so long as it takes me to make the <i>I'm here!</i> phone call to John and Joy, and make my way over to The Wall.</span>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05708563390207386685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1959927947835579215.post-46925531904541895742010-03-25T14:43:00.000-07:002010-03-29T17:44:10.330-07:00The Moving Wall: Hardware, worn hard.<style type="text/css">
</style><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">John returned to California jazzed. Despite the controversy surrounding the Vietnam Veterans Memorial's design, he was less concerned about the memorial as a proper tribute than he was about the power that that memorial, proper or not, exercised on Vietnam vets. Two things he learned: </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">the power of simply seeing a name;</span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibeDxfS82OL_Clt9yMpgI_r12wPIJN62lFnLerJ3Vvbvn8_flscpf1vlC2ILkaN8YS57IZ1cx-ZK41JyeckIiiuLtj4PCWwKEMQxkXliSart_ktCpWfI3uOAtgxzDRUZugy5Nm90VO05AC/s1600/A+Name.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibeDxfS82OL_Clt9yMpgI_r12wPIJN62lFnLerJ3Vvbvn8_flscpf1vlC2ILkaN8YS57IZ1cx-ZK41JyeckIiiuLtj4PCWwKEMQxkXliSart_ktCpWfI3uOAtgxzDRUZugy5Nm90VO05AC/s320/A+Name.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">the power of being in community with other vets. </span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKRJX5EoxUh42QWUw4KvvKFG2RDl6U0G5667vYJCqk0kug19lGto032ZgtPVts_LBeMQkCdmkO796YlCZjf2onU4-hMXVLwOYi8gVfZNuvmnqocnXai18mCoWOnrGkQomoGwMmB4soFGYY/s1600/embrace.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKRJX5EoxUh42QWUw4KvvKFG2RDl6U0G5667vYJCqk0kug19lGto032ZgtPVts_LBeMQkCdmkO796YlCZjf2onU4-hMXVLwOYi8gVfZNuvmnqocnXai18mCoWOnrGkQomoGwMmB4soFGYY/s320/embrace.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">One could precipitate</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">a sense of plunging;</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBT0XU15-sZl_TUHfiHR0JEt7TMqundooePbJ_l65Z8pAj2d3ZVmaDsXcgTCTb0Gsd_u3-VnexdQLIpuUIsLQISX2MCQXems0eX2m2zTybiR7B4UQn3ckBPkZdneooDdakvB-ZFQY5YFHF/s1600/The+Things+He+Carries.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBT0XU15-sZl_TUHfiHR0JEt7TMqundooePbJ_l65Z8pAj2d3ZVmaDsXcgTCTb0Gsd_u3-VnexdQLIpuUIsLQISX2MCQXems0eX2m2zTybiR7B4UQn3ckBPkZdneooDdakvB-ZFQY5YFHF/s320/The+Things+He+Carries.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">the other,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> of raising up.</span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUTD9SJeYsg77WWc0NCMbU_6ZA-_Zs6x8Kgl2dd-IdwH3Xlmk9HedFXI-t0dHzDC5iFqnzLskCg5il9bw4tG-QlXzWrGWaeLTkK6j2CXao-DD4L_uTU6H-zSR1XIx0DLWdu2KJsCPgWkBl/s1600/Arms.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUTD9SJeYsg77WWc0NCMbU_6ZA-_Zs6x8Kgl2dd-IdwH3Xlmk9HedFXI-t0dHzDC5iFqnzLskCg5il9bw4tG-QlXzWrGWaeLTkK6j2CXao-DD4L_uTU6H-zSR1XIx0DLWdu2KJsCPgWkBl/s320/Arms.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">For John, The memorial wasn't important for what it <i>was </i>but for what it <i>did</i>. </span></span></div><br />
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Powerful as the memorial was, it wasn't powerful enough. It couldn't give legs to the amputee; couldn't enable the blind to see; couldn't put dough in the pockets of the indigent; couldn't put vacation time on the calendar; couldn't provide travel for widowed wives and fatherless kids, sonless parents and brotherless siblings; couldn't shrink the distance between here and there; it couldn't do a lot of things for vets and their families desirous of going to The Wall in DC but who were physically, financially, or emotionally unable to do so. John felt the huge gap between what The Wall could do, but also what it couldn't do, and he felt the need to remedy that, to close that gap for all vets and their families. To provide them the experience that he and his brothers had in DC.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">When he returned to San Jose he and a couple of friends decided to replicate the experience. They made a makeshift memorial of names that they planned on exhibiting in a few towns in the San Jose area. Their efforts were more symbolic than sturdy; I believe he said that those first panels were made out of cardboard.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">They took their memorial out into the area, and what they found there was overwhelming, a response far greater than anything they anticipated. The generous outpouring of gratitude and support from those local communities confirmed in John the suspicion that the power of the Wall wasn't anchored in the granite of DC but rather was anchored in the ghosts of memory evoked by it. John realized the Wall was a medium; properly duplicated, those ghosts could be exorcised anywhere. It was then that John got the idea to go farther, much farther than San Jose.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">His idea: to replicate The Wall, in miniature, just as it appeared in DC, and take it on the road. With the help of friends he scrambled to find funding, but did. A couple grand. Then, with help from the the Vietnam Veterans Memorial fund, and, with the permission of the National Park Service, in 1983 he returned to Washington and photographed, with great precision, each of The Wall's 140</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOYaT8nsvcTNQGZDIxYyEoIm-6rDXP1jXE4xY8q0JZZOImHCasRI0WWhze2kZ4zGwM-p7v-nKmR-jXtxqglzu3ttQvoaV-r2rXXD1JcPiTIWDjc134LjcU-pQEuNZz55T-DXBHFvwSKorM/s1600/the+wall.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOYaT8nsvcTNQGZDIxYyEoIm-6rDXP1jXE4xY8q0JZZOImHCasRI0WWhze2kZ4zGwM-p7v-nKmR-jXtxqglzu3ttQvoaV-r2rXXD1JcPiTIWDjc134LjcU-pQEuNZz55T-DXBHFvwSKorM/s320/the+wall.jpg" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> panels. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When he returned to San Jose he worked with Norris Shears, an area silk-screen artist and former Vietnam vet himself, and Gerry Haver, to have the photographs converted to silkscreen transparencies. With the generosity of local businesses, he also had made black plexiglass panels, six feet tall where the two wings of The Wall met (1E and 1W), </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBY-1k5gc9dwWYTEzFmKRjiRHFicrAjnBr6u0vpsa7P9SjbRLt6cj4WedgJkaAOAA9b-8f2QoWodiEj7stMhJmmAXVMwyn0a-FEaV4tlC_Gp124DPq8cwqGe4JJcsyOAy38ojMpMotdiS_/s1600/101-0177_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBY-1k5gc9dwWYTEzFmKRjiRHFicrAjnBr6u0vpsa7P9SjbRLt6cj4WedgJkaAOAA9b-8f2QoWodiEj7stMhJmmAXVMwyn0a-FEaV4tlC_Gp124DPq8cwqGe4JJcsyOAy38ojMpMotdiS_/s320/101-0177_IMG.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">gradually winnowing down to a few feet at the wings' extremities (70E and 70W). He and his crew then carefully silk-screened in white letters the names on each panel, exactly as they appeared in DC. The Moving Wall had been created.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">That first year, 1984, John set up The (Moving) Wall in four locations; the following year, it hit eighteen stops. In 1987, a second “B” Wall was added to handle the overwhelming demand. A “C” was added in 1989. In 2000, its peak year, John and his colleagues trucked the Wall(s) to sixty-six municipalities, from Angel Fire, NM, to Whittier, CA; from Alaska to Texas; and from Maine to Hawaii. Coordinating the three Walls proved to be too much, though, and in 2001 John retired the “B” Wall. In 2002, he donated the “B” Wall to Pittsburgh State University (KS) who turned it into a permanent memorial.</span><a href="http://www.psuvetmemorial.org/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPFKhLXOULmISc_vriHeX8x-rxLb4hNnvg97SvBi2ZDddgqar6PI2UirhupbFRNYQu0RP6dSDDgUVyutfuL9W_pTjBoIlL0oLnixT1YruyoSxvDSzswYtaP103zdMqmYdx_tTn5OSFV2B5/s320/psu+memorial.jpg" style="clear: both; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px;" /><span style="font-size: large;">Aerial View, The Pittsburgh State Veterans Memorial</span></a><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Since it first hit the road, The Wall has been hosted by over a thousand towns across the United States, and even in Saipan and Guam. (If you'd like to see a full list of all the places The Wall has been, go to <span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.themovingwall.org/docs/history.htm">http://www.themovingwall.org/docs/history.htm</a></span> )</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">The plexiglass construction of the early Wall soon proved insufficient to the task. Sun damage, wind damage, scratches, warping, made the Wall impossible to maintain, and by 1986 John had moved to designing a more durable, roadworthy structure. He replaced the plexiglass panels with metal panels, each painted and baked with a black, tough, high-gloss finish. He silk-screened these metal panels just as he had the plexiglass, and The Wall was reincarnated, identical looks, but more muscle.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGRApApKsDA1yc4vkg19yvi7N6OIJnXRVlwfHJNuatUikhfagvdnnE-PPpQ42cAaTawx9LCx-Br8rEkkcFkcSvgzIWYZgNl9A3wRkVh_y3o1ZM06zxiEtvdI3Pe-Jm8M8RED2OwDLH1aQR/s1600/111-1181_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGRApApKsDA1yc4vkg19yvi7N6OIJnXRVlwfHJNuatUikhfagvdnnE-PPpQ42cAaTawx9LCx-Br8rEkkcFkcSvgzIWYZgNl9A3wRkVh_y3o1ZM06zxiEtvdI3Pe-Jm8M8RED2OwDLH1aQR/s320/111-1181_IMG.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And that is The Wall as it exists today. There is still an “A” schedule, now shepherded by Aaron and Lisa, </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Ju-nNrSG7V8knXnnzt0kWm35NND6HBEHU4HGWDz6crbn4wee7K7dEku0eJz8kA7TKmNITFKSYmRW3pn-Ct6kYmMFr7rbn4e4uC5KGDL_m5DsJ3KDU9ypvfIU0XXDHf_b1SWPeElUM36v/s1600/112-1238_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Ju-nNrSG7V8knXnnzt0kWm35NND6HBEHU4HGWDz6crbn4wee7K7dEku0eJz8kA7TKmNITFKSYmRW3pn-Ct6kYmMFr7rbn4e4uC5KGDL_m5DsJ3KDU9ypvfIU0XXDHf_b1SWPeElUM36v/s320/112-1238_IMG.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq7YeFxz0HOy5GUluFyJduLjjvBwZhOh-pqcKb_hUZRyUT5NWHLZSpNp9OGXYgTODYuAbQolSd6mDFo3k-2ytVfJOf8Y1XUL3_zeCz5vidPc-QdPVbjhH9zuPa9IN6q_RXfNMrhDFfNX55/s1600/111-1194_IMG.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq7YeFxz0HOy5GUluFyJduLjjvBwZhOh-pqcKb_hUZRyUT5NWHLZSpNp9OGXYgTODYuAbQolSd6mDFo3k-2ytVfJOf8Y1XUL3_zeCz5vidPc-QdPVbjhH9zuPa9IN6q_RXfNMrhDFfNX55/s320/111-1194_IMG.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">and a “C” schedule, toted by John and Joy, though one can't help notice two things about the two schedules for this 2010 season. The first is that the “A” schedule as many more stops on its calendar than does the “C”, twenty-two to twelve. Also, the “C” schedule is more geographically circumscribed than is the “A” schedule, with most of its stops in the Midwest (Michigan, Iowa, Missouri, etc.). The “A” Wall will span from California to Georgia. When I asked John why that is, whether requests for The Wall had dropped off, he said, “No. I'm just getting tired. Twenty-six years on the road, and I'm looking to stay a little closer to home.” Fair enough.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Regardless of the route each Wall sets out on, all roads, eventually, lead back to White Pine. Once there to bed down for the winter, each panel will be inspected, touched up when possible, </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6HzzWVPlZU9_n5NJ8r2I1-Tk5lrh0VDjkuVGHcQUOmIIRp6UdBLpN8c_GqoeZbC5G0EKBhWfBXa1q0Mm10YPxXQfwAkGlLUgACOcosSMWyS1WmxV0XmmkMNo-qe2cFNXTfMV4jWEYVzKL/s1600/112-1266_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6HzzWVPlZU9_n5NJ8r2I1-Tk5lrh0VDjkuVGHcQUOmIIRp6UdBLpN8c_GqoeZbC5G0EKBhWfBXa1q0Mm10YPxXQfwAkGlLUgACOcosSMWyS1WmxV0XmmkMNo-qe2cFNXTfMV4jWEYVzKL/s320/112-1266_IMG.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">and completely re-silk-screened when not.</span><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFzimkKzmkycO1nSmR1FUhdQS-6HbNBXqWzadfIT4Om_o8uHlLbkPqE-4nN5ooJJb9vZXkZnpsAUmpiOkWgD4C5mY7ZMVom5ylQaetd9fzh0rELMTiJHXtqRfrRRP6R3gUeVJLIJIRCcN7/s1600/111-1187_IMG.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFzimkKzmkycO1nSmR1FUhdQS-6HbNBXqWzadfIT4Om_o8uHlLbkPqE-4nN5ooJJb9vZXkZnpsAUmpiOkWgD4C5mY7ZMVom5ylQaetd9fzh0rELMTiJHXtqRfrRRP6R3gUeVJLIJIRCcN7/s320/111-1187_IMG.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So, when spring rolls around, John will settle for nothing less than perfection as the Walls head out onto the road, not because he is a perfectionist, but because perfection of the Wall is his way of honoring the names on it, and respecting those who'll come before it.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjgwnayMxZg1yt5dOdh9fbMEUCq3hpxLTArI0UAcPyifhKU8CpahK2fhHQJmi1YPl0T7L4FJYVkB5dot8bSRgT9uZ4txNI6fPvqxflrWhccF0jHiQCM2MtFwUj_lCI5THIwfIhQiK9Eh5C/s1600/112-1286_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjgwnayMxZg1yt5dOdh9fbMEUCq3hpxLTArI0UAcPyifhKU8CpahK2fhHQJmi1YPl0T7L4FJYVkB5dot8bSRgT9uZ4txNI6fPvqxflrWhccF0jHiQCM2MtFwUj_lCI5THIwfIhQiK9Eh5C/s320/112-1286_IMG.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05708563390207386685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1959927947835579215.post-79524464571648122232010-03-22T10:07:00.000-07:002010-03-23T06:53:22.450-07:00Some Background on John Devitt, subject to revision<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpQJFdjLDW0FnIBnLnEE8JJVs7c3MMOq1prOoOZ1UQE1CcS4ztXzkFOY8wSY5Qn22LzIZrSbb-kJJ9re2pnyyOyL7ZhJbTzNLISAK2cLuzVMLG9AH3rkQq_8BNotod74TpkmMItqxD4012/s1600-h/Wall-30-John+Devitt5.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpQJFdjLDW0FnIBnLnEE8JJVs7c3MMOq1prOoOZ1UQE1CcS4ztXzkFOY8wSY5Qn22LzIZrSbb-kJJ9re2pnyyOyL7ZhJbTzNLISAK2cLuzVMLG9AH3rkQq_8BNotod74TpkmMItqxD4012/s320/Wall-30-John+Devitt5.jpg" style="clear: both; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">First, let me tell you a little </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">about John Devitt, upon whom </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The Wall hinges. (Note: In general, The Wall refers to the Maya Lin memorial in DC. However, while in White Pine, everyone there referred to The Moving Wall as “The Wall.” Henceforth, I will also use “The Wall” when referring to The Moving Wall, and when necessary I will refer to the memorial on The Mall as “The DC Wall,” or something to that effect.”)</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">John was born and raised in California, not too far from San Francisco. He was a good Irish Catholic lad, and was accorded a good Catholic school education. When he was of age, he went to a residential Catholic high school where he was on track to become a priest. As he tells it, his hormones got in the way of his vocation, and opting for confections over confessions, he dropped out of that school and completed his then secular education at a public high school. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">In 1966, at the age of eighteen, John volunteered for the Army, thinking it better to enlist than to be drafted. I'm not clear how that calculation worked out for him, but the result of it landed him as a helicopter door gunner. Consequently, he was, in the parlance of the time, not only “in country” but also, “in the shit.” </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNNU8Ohj5fVaf9ufIiMPbvqoXYLithWc8AGu-1V_GnDrKAcrs7ktSBm1Yug870tdyzWk498RMJh5DHxs9449jlR6sVor0orvpQJr72B3_47VwosZ5w5R92qWy6dgYwq_cP-A-La1qySies/s1600-h/113-1351_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNNU8Ohj5fVaf9ufIiMPbvqoXYLithWc8AGu-1V_GnDrKAcrs7ktSBm1Yug870tdyzWk498RMJh5DHxs9449jlR6sVor0orvpQJr72B3_47VwosZ5w5R92qWy6dgYwq_cP-A-La1qySies/s320/113-1351_IMG.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">After a year, when his tour was up, he considered his options and what awaited him back home in the States. Not much, was his conclusion. And as the area of his unit's assignment had largely been “pacified,” John believed that if he extended his tour he could ride it out in relative quiet (relative for Vietnam, that is). So he decided to extend, and no sooner had the ink dried on his contract then he was reassigned to a zone the fighting was heavy. I suspect that he must have had some buyer's remorse with that second tour. Still, he managed to stay alive, and in 1969 returned home to California. </span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As John tells it, a Vietnam vet's return was a bitter affair. Having survived two years of hostilities in 'Nam, John, and others like him, had hostilities of a different sort to survive stateside. By 1969 the war was hugely unpopular. In February of 1968, front pages around the country published </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Eddie Adams' photo of South Vietnamese </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Gen. Nguyen Ngoc Loan</span></span> <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">publicly executing a suspected Viet Cong lieutenant</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">. The following month, the My Lai massacre occurred, later permeating then dominating the media with accounts of soldiers run amok, leading to allegations of Pentagon cover-ups, further calling into question the morality and justification of the war. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbLGBQmsAKso_BVJPaXgf66LDFS_8w_pkFdndg8a-9N4pWnMoekYnWgd0qpG79G0UBlAW6ORho2suFfI4zQe1h2wiXmhBAHUo-DA0z5Tkkl_mwXZYmvRvARTJHIjXWzBwdcWI__QDbPjH4/s1600-h/my-lai-page-a1---half-page-15ec9996b53962ae.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbLGBQmsAKso_BVJPaXgf66LDFS_8w_pkFdndg8a-9N4pWnMoekYnWgd0qpG79G0UBlAW6ORho2suFfI4zQe1h2wiXmhBAHUo-DA0z5Tkkl_mwXZYmvRvARTJHIjXWzBwdcWI__QDbPjH4/s320/my-lai-page-a1---half-page-15ec9996b53962ae.jpg" style="clear: both; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Because of My Lai and other incidents of military psychosis, the generic American soldier fighting in Vietnam had -- unfairly -- been fitted into an amoral, murderous stereotype. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As John tells it, when a combat vet returned home from 'Nam, he kept his mouth shut about his service. He lived incognito. If interviewing for a job, he hoped he wouldn't be asked the question, “Ever serve in 'Nam?”</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Those first years back were very isolating for John, very painful, as they were for many vets. Americans reviled the war, and by extension, those who fought it. Only those who were there, who themselves were in the shit, could understand the true nature of the conflict. The idea of fighting for one's country an illusion swiftly lost, in that any soldier who managed to survive the first few days under fire quickly learned that those who were trusted to run the war were inept. The first order of business for soldier in the shit wasn't to defend South Vietnam from Ho Chi Minh and communism, it was to stay alive. It was to help others stay alive. For John, and for other vets, that's what the war was about.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As time wore on, John sought out and established contact with other vets in the Bay area. Long before support groups would be named such, John and others had formed one. It didn't remove the bitterness, but it did make it bearable.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Flash forward, circa 1982. News of the soon-to-be dedicated Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington had been circulating some time. From the moment of its inception the design for The Wall had mired in conflict. Maya Lin's design was seen as renunciation of patriotism, of American honor, of human sacrifice and the glory that should be accorded it. On more than one occasion it was referred to as “the black gash of shame.”</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP-wZWpXI2s67BF1Q-brEZvxsLdNdWD2T6eor_5WoGm-1GZPK2NaGNcI7NJkRK3H18NyCAMIZlNohROuLURIw8KvVty7vrZoXtOYR6M26njTg_cJH5GspBJC-j5GUAvt9b7IMf5EyCzCzh/s1600-h/windowslivewritervietnamveteransmemorial-19cdmap5b3800e94532.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP-wZWpXI2s67BF1Q-brEZvxsLdNdWD2T6eor_5WoGm-1GZPK2NaGNcI7NJkRK3H18NyCAMIZlNohROuLURIw8KvVty7vrZoXtOYR6M26njTg_cJH5GspBJC-j5GUAvt9b7IMf5EyCzCzh/s320/windowslivewritervietnamveteransmemorial-19cdmap5b3800e94532.jpg" style="clear: both; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And so it was with feelings of ambivalence toward the memorial that John headed toward Washington in November of 1982, toward The Wall's unveiling. He wasn't sure what he would feel about The Wall once there, but he was sure that he wanted to be among his other Vietnam brothers to dedicate it. For John it was less the occasion of the dedication and more the occasion of reconnecting with former comrades, known and as-yet unknown, that propelled him three thousand miles.</span><br style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And then it happened. He saw The Wall, and saw his comrades, and saw what The Wall meant to his comrades, what it was doing to them, and he knew it was right. He knew that despite the controversy, The Wall was right. It allowed John and the others to be who they were, with all their histories, and to be with each other openly, unashamedly, perhaps even proudly, in a way disallowed them everywhere else in America. To grieve, to howl, to honor, to breathe, to exhale. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDKO-ZajGTQc44W_ZGifWfZxB89fY5QOL4X3r4YS3gFhguyQIKt6mnB6LCGt293DuxKq4bsvUbIH9hMkmSkRokIwdFWFu0MDqRnbpjW1qBAPkTaORso5q-kYTRuJdCgvnWvFtZYQKoPF31/s1600-h/dedication.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDKO-ZajGTQc44W_ZGifWfZxB89fY5QOL4X3r4YS3gFhguyQIKt6mnB6LCGt293DuxKq4bsvUbIH9hMkmSkRokIwdFWFu0MDqRnbpjW1qBAPkTaORso5q-kYTRuJdCgvnWvFtZYQKoPF31/s320/dedication.jpg" /></a> </div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">John was moved tremendously by The Wall and what it enabled. And on his return to California, he began thinking how he might replicate the experience for other. That will be the subject of the next post.</span></span>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05708563390207386685noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1959927947835579215.post-65220679610282644202010-03-19T07:59:00.000-07:002010-03-22T06:57:36.462-07:00Damn the NEH -- full steam ahead!<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The NEH summer stipend I had applied and hoped for fell through, and so without funding my original plans for rolling with The Moving Wall this summer have, for now, stalled. The </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">MV</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> will be close-</span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">ish</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> to my home in Rhode Island on two occasions this summer, once while in </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">Lynbrook</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">, NY (6/10-6/14) and then in West Hartford, CT (6/17-6/21), and I should be able to spend a good bit of time at each of those sites and report on them. Separated by only 125 mil</span></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">es, </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">Lynbrook</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> and West Hartford are not especially geographically distinct sites, and so I will also try to find my way out to some of the more far-flung locales the </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">MV</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> will visit this summer, perhaps Reno, NV (6/17-6/21. knocking out West Hartford) or </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">Grande</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">Ronde</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">, OR (7/15-7/19). (Go here for the full schedule: </span></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="http://www.themovingwall.org/skeds/10/index.htm">http://www.themovingwall.org/skeds/10/index.htm</a></span></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial;">For now, though, I am just back from a four day trip out to White Pine, MI, the winter home of The Moving Wall(s). White Pine is the most remote place I have ever been. To get a sense of just how out in the sticks White Pine is, consider this: the nearest </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">Wal</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">-Mart is about 45 miles away; the next closest store is in </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">Houghton</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">, about 70 miles away. As a point of reference, 20 Wal-Marts are thrumming within 30 miles of my 02885 zip code. (Their website store finder wouldn't respond to my request for a 50 mile radius.) </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">Konteka</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Black Bear Resort, </span></span><img alt="" src="file:///C:/DOCUME%7E1/JBLITE%7E1/LOCALS%7E1/Temp/moz-screenshot.png" /><img alt="" src="file:///C:/DOCUME%7E1/JBLITE%7E1/LOCALS%7E1/Temp/moz-screenshot-1.png" /><img alt="" src="file:///C:/DOCUME%7E1/JBLITE%7E1/LOCALS%7E1/Temp/moz-screenshot-2.png" /><img alt="" src="file:///C:/Documents%20and%20Settings/jblitefeld/Desktop/konteka-banner_37uw.gif" /><img alt="" src="file:///C:/Documents%20and%20Settings/jblitefeld/Desktop/konteka-banner_37uw.gif" /><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">where I lodged, has, apart from sixteen guest rooms: the town's gas pump; convenience store; largest of White Pine's two restaurants; only <i>public </i>saloon (there is an American Legion Hall, but it is for members only); spa (i.e., jacuzzi); tanning bed; and sole source of (legal) indoor recreation, an eight-lane bowling alley. I don't think it's a stretch to say that The </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">Konteka</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> is the social and economic hub of White Pine, though it's also clear from my time spent in this hub that White Pine is an awfully quiet place.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial;">The </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">Konteka's</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> restaurant ably handles the needs of the White Pine "</span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">yoopers</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">"(upper peninsula-</span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">ers</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">). </span></span><img alt="" src="file:///C:/Documents%20and%20Settings/jblitefeld/Desktop/konteka-banner_37uw.gif" /><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq3-Yc1o0ztkUCOLN71P3J-eAPidHM5r6im_1w08DASh6mTUja2RCfeD08jyeAtHusFhOdmsJ98cXJRA_u-YWTWikVyBnGzj8C2QUYc6aU7iN3evj6TBhChdFihpaymW6NJGTQRhaCyvz4/s1600-h/113-1324_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq3-Yc1o0ztkUCOLN71P3J-eAPidHM5r6im_1w08DASh6mTUja2RCfeD08jyeAtHusFhOdmsJ98cXJRA_u-YWTWikVyBnGzj8C2QUYc6aU7iN3evj6TBhChdFihpaymW6NJGTQRhaCyvz4/s320/113-1324_IMG.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">During the two br</span></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">eakfasts and one lunch I had, I was the sole diner in a room that could have handled a hundred (In fact, apart from Karen, who served me, and Linnie, who cooked my food to the sounds of country western radio, I suspect I was the only person in the entire inn). This wasn't always so, however. Everyone I met over these past four days remembers the White Pine Copper mine, when it was blasting away and employing 4000 hungry, thirsty men. Then, I was told, the </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">Konteka</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">, would serve upwards of 600 lunches a day, 400 dinners, and surely a lot more breakfasts than one. But the plant shut down about fifteen years ago, and since then the kitchen's been a whole lot quieter.</span></span></div></div><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br />
<span style="font-family: arial;">White Pine hasn't only suffered from the closing of the mine. Everyone I met over the past four days shook their head over the recent closing of the </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">Smurfit</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">-Stone paper mill twenty miles away in </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">Ontonagon</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">. When it finally closed its doors in 2009, gone were another 150 area jobs. And soon the power plant is going to shut down, though at this point it employs but a few people to do what work no one seems to know.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial;">Let's put it another way: when the mine was yielding up its copper veins White Pine had a year-round population of around 1500. Today, that number is 250. When times were flush, White Pine had both an elementary school and a high school; now it has neither. The Mineral River Plaza<br />
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<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjVCPKXalygD-3REQD5MbjBifRjefsVzUzcTBx28yLO0bJKTG1MD-LOtECzPSi2tQi_-0yQK6nG3QyF4EBHkES5nXiFOn1nLpw4irsx-O642iy6eMQEhelY0T-mgLsJ7eRBMH374eGE9EN/s1600-h/113-1333_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjVCPKXalygD-3REQD5MbjBifRjefsVzUzcTBx28yLO0bJKTG1MD-LOtECzPSi2tQi_-0yQK6nG3QyF4EBHkES5nXiFOn1nLpw4irsx-O642iy6eMQEhelY0T-mgLsJ7eRBMH374eGE9EN/s320/113-1333_IMG.JPG" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">-- the single ugliest mall to ever have blighted a landscape -- once upon a time had a market and liquor store, a hardware store, a medical clinic, a barber shop, a laundromat, and other businesses whose storefronts long ago shed any identifying markers; today, the mall is home to the post office, the bank, the tiny library (which got booted when the high school was "sold" -- more on that later), and Antonio's Italian Restaurant and </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">Pizzaria</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">, White Pine's other restaurant. Whatever White Pine was before, it ain't what it used to be.</span><br />
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<div style="font-family: arial; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 130%;">***<br />
</span></div><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br />
<span style="font-family: arial;">Why that detour into White Pine when this blog is supposed to be about The Moving Wall? Because with so much collapsing around it, White Pine's relationship with The Moving Wall is becoming increasingly vital. In a town that has little left to hitch its culture to, and its pride, The Moving Wall's summer embarkations, and its winter hibernation, provide not only a rallying point for White </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">Piners</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> but jobs for them as well.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHstzGc_d8rN5p58yW2fxAq49IZ1RHSuNg5WslazJ5X0R_MT0gYUDrU_1AYH-6j7YIfZHs60HDPO7mOWL9t8y9nysmI1MzOgJR-n8XZU-U4NuzOAB6cBe1I4iR1fc3JvWHSrdLOYL0ed2X/s1600-h/111-1178_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHstzGc_d8rN5p58yW2fxAq49IZ1RHSuNg5WslazJ5X0R_MT0gYUDrU_1AYH-6j7YIfZHs60HDPO7mOWL9t8y9nysmI1MzOgJR-n8XZU-U4NuzOAB6cBe1I4iR1fc3JvWHSrdLOYL0ed2X/s320/111-1178_IMG.JPG" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The Black Bear, which is indigenous to the UP and White Pine, spends its hibernation sleeping. Not so with The </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">MV</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">. It spends its hibernation restoring, rejuvenating. It spends the winter months getting a makeover to ready it for the harsh conditions of yet another summer season of days baking in the sun, or shedding pouring skies, or standing tall to buffeting winds, not to mention the thousands of miles they spend jostling on the back of a trailer as they carted around the country.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial;">In short, when The Moving Wall heads back to its winter home in White Pine, it isn't to remain boxed up and poised for next season's schedule. Instead, each panel is inspected, and, when necessary, refurbished. And some of what makes the refurbishing necessary is that contrary to what many of us might assume, the information on The Wall in Washington is not static but is subject to change. Names are sometimes added if a recently departed's death has been attributed to injuries sustained in battle; the status of names already there sometimes need to be updated (if a soldier's status changes from MIA (missing-in-action) to confirmed dead, the cross alongside the name indicating MIA status is changed to a diamond, indicating death confirmed). In 1982, there were 57,159 names on The Wall; to date, it's been amended over 300 times. As the National Park Services makes these changes to The Wall in DC, so too are the changes made to The Moving Wall.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial;">So, my trip to White Pine was to see what John </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">Devitt</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">, Joy (his wife and traveling partner),<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU9-AgjwqjG3VOGqhD0U3qX8yspXYQgjO_QYDn5Cg7N7crURcL8HU1mjsjAYQely3WA74wRw5AXaUjujHrZWhALsVquu4HfUnUMndIaRwYelV97q5H6pf7q-yCRv_s1SpaqHQ9z1pxcwlx/s1600-h/102-0285_IMG.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU9-AgjwqjG3VOGqhD0U3qX8yspXYQgjO_QYDn5Cg7N7crURcL8HU1mjsjAYQely3WA74wRw5AXaUjujHrZWhALsVquu4HfUnUMndIaRwYelV97q5H6pf7q-yCRv_s1SpaqHQ9z1pxcwlx/s320/102-0285_IMG.JPG" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">and the rest of the White Pine crew do to get The Wall ready to hit the road come summer, and to snoop around the shop to get the fullest sense of The </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 130%;">MV's</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> 26-year run that I could. What I found, in addition to that run, is the story of White Pine itself, and to tell the story of one is, today, to tell the story of the other. That is what I will be looking to do in the posts ahead.</span></span>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05708563390207386685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1959927947835579215.post-16617278053579835952010-02-27T09:17:00.000-08:002010-02-27T16:03:50.127-08:00Not Yet Gassed Up Nor Ready To Go<span style="font-size:130%;">Greetings: I am building this blog so that in a few short months I can take it, and you, on the road with me as I travel around to select American cities and municipalities that have scheduled a visit from The Moving Wall (MV). The Moving Wall is the </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >original </span><span style="font-size:130%;">(no knock-off here) mobile replica of Washington, DC's, Vietnam Veterans Memorial (VVM). In 1984, with the help of The National Park Service (which tends to the VVM), The Moving Wall's designers copied the memorial's layout and better than 58,000 names, and transposed them onto a series of 4x8 panels which, when assembled, attempts to recreate for people far and wide that capital experience. Since 1984, The Moving Wall has toured from spring to fall, and has been installed in over a thousand towns and cities in North America and Hawaii. It has even toured some in Southeast Asia. An accurate estimate of the number of visitors who've passed before it, touched a name, said a prayer, shed a tear, would be impossible, but my guess is that we're talking multiple millions. Think of it: if only 1,000 people visited the MV at each of its 1,000 sites, that alone would be 1,000,000. So multiple-millions is clearly a legitimate estimate. And yet, who actually knows about the MV, apart from the grateful vets, their families and friends, and others paying respect who've visited The Moving Wall? It is one of America's best kept secrets. And while I don't want to force unwanted notoriety on the folks who move The Moving Wall, I do think this is a story that needs telling. That is why I have created this blog, in part to tell the story of The Moving Wall; in part to tell the stories of the people behind The Moving Wall; in part to tell the stories of the people who visit The Moving Wall. I hope that by the end of Rolling With The Moving Wall, you will share the belief with me that indeed, this is a great American story, deserving a true American tribute.<br /><br />In the weeks ahead, I will be adding some background material on The Moving Wall, how it came to be, how I came to know of it, and why I think it's so significant. Please check back. And if you have visited or hosted The Moving Wall, and would like to share your reflections on it, please go to the Comments section below and reflect away.</span>Jerry Blitefieldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05708563390207386685noreply@blogger.com1