Just another day

[Originally written on May 24, 2009]

I woke up at 6:15 naturally. No alarm. I figured, “As long as I’m up, why not? I’ll go now.”

A friend who lives in Boston had asked me if I would photograph a name on a page in the Viet Nam Memorial’s Guide Book. That book lists all the names that Maya Lin had immortalized. My friend had decided to make a collaged tribute to her childhood friend, William McKim, and she needed more materials to include in her piece.

She figured that he died sometime around 1969 or ‘70. That’s all I knew.

At nearly precisely 7:00 this morning I was out the door of my apartment building, heading on foot for familiar turf: Iwo Jima/Netherlands Carillon/ Arlington Cemetery/ Memorial Bridge, heading to the memorial that is just past the Lincoln and to the left of it, to the Viet Nam Memorial. I know the route by heart. Easy peezy. A perfect morning at the end of May, doing a favor for my friend: what a great start to a day.

The moment I opened the door of my building to exit to the street, I heard a sound that forced me to remember: this is the Sunday of Memorial Day Weekend and I had forgotten that today would be my sixth annual experience of Rolling Thunder. I learned about this event after moving to DC: every year on this day thousands, tens of thousands, Harley riders come from around the world to do a mass ceremonial ride starting at the Pentagon. Ending at The Viet Nam Veterans Memorial, exactly where I was headed. Their solidarity and aggregate sound were a tribute to the dead from that war. I felt a little bit stupid for having forgotten this. The sound reminded me that this was going to be a deeply emotional day for many people. Did I really want to be there?

I considered going back upstairs to bed. It’s hard enough to hear that powerful building-rumbling, pavement-shaking, endless droning of pure volume from 15 floors above it, as I have in previous years. And here I was, walking straight into the heart of it. Would I even get near the book listing fallen vets? Would the bikers treat me badly? Was I stepping into a situation that is totally out of my element? Was I going to prove once again that the road to hell is paved with good intentions and that no good deed – not even one so seemingly easily executed – goes unpunished?

I kept walking.

I greeted the bronze Iwo Jima flag raising: “’Mornin’, Boys!” On this morning, there were no people yet – unusual for a place that is visited every single day of the year by endless bus loads of tourists from early morning until late at night. It was even too early for the bus loads.

Though devoid of people at the moment, it was clear that The Boys had been well visited: the base of the magnificent sculpture (Those calves! Those shoulders!) was rimmed with flowers, wreaths, flags. The Marine Corps Memorial seemed to be growing up from a bed of red, white and blue bunches of flowers and mementos. I was touched. Took a couple of photos. Kept walking.

All the tulips in front of the Netherlands Carillon were done blooming. Today I was the sole photographer, getting down low so I could shoot through the dried flower stalks right at the composition of the Big 3: The Lincoln, Washington and Capitol. I didn’t spend much time photographing the favorite triumvirate of souvenir photographers, as I was on a mission.
I grabbed a couple of postcard worthy shots and kept walking.

The gate into Arlington Cemetery was closed. Wow! It WAS early. Without access to the cemetery I couldn’t cut through it, so I walked around the cemetery along the GW Parkway where I could climb up the embankment to the Memorial Bridge. Every single grave in the entire cemetery had a little American Flag planted in front of it, slightly to the left so the names could still be read, unobstructed. Identically shaped grave stones with identical flags, row after row after row. They were all the same except for the names and dates etched on each one. Now I was really sober.

Two robins turned their backs on me. I walked through the tall, clovery grass. As this route was slightly verboten, I felt like a kid who was getting away with something.

Scampered up the hill where a foot path has been worn into the manicured grass: I’m not the first to take this unauthorized route. There’s a convenient arch-shaped passage in the allee´ of trees along the embankment. Walked through that and voila! There I was on Memorial Bridge, the entrance to the Cemetery on my right, the Metro stops just to my left, and past them, beyond the traffic circle, was the white purity of the Lincoln Memorial.

This was going well, even at the traffic circle where I waited, holding hands to ears, while about twenty more bikers crossed in front of me en route to their gathering. The Lincoln was surrounded by white iron traffic-controlling barriers, just as it had been last year when I walked this route with friends Gus and Carrie, at about the same time in the morning, on our way to the January 20th Inauguration of the 44th President of the United States, Barack Hussein Obama. THAT was a day of days!

On Constitution Avenue, the bikers were gathering. I asked a cop what time they would begin their ride. Noon. So I was plenty early. If all went well, I could be back home before having to hear and feel the full force of that sound. THAT SOUND. Frightening to the core, but thrilling. Like tanks on steroids rolling en multiple masse into conquered territory. Which is the whole point.

Now on The Mall, I spotted a kiosk I had never noticed before, the Viet Nam Veterans Memorial information booth. There were two men in there. I figured I should see what they had to offer as I might not be able to get anywhere near the books of names that are displayed along the path leading to the Memorial. Maybe these men can provide me with some form of verification.

“I am hoping to take a picture of one of the names listed in the book.”
“What’s the name?”
“William McKim. Cresskill, New Jersey.”
Click click into the computer.
“Here he is! William R. … from Cresston?”
“CressKILL.”
“Yup”. Click click.
He printed something out and handed me the paper.

“The Vietnam Veterans Memorial

Last name: MCKIM
First name: WILLIAM RITCHIE
Panel: 5E
Row: 35
Birth Date: Jul 21 1947
Casualty Date: Feb 14 1966

(He died on Valentine’s Day! In 1966! Where was I on Valentine’s Day, 1966? I had just graduated from Syracuse U in January – a semester early. Was back living with my parents, pounding the NYC pavements seeking that all important first job out of college, which is why I wanted to graduate early, so I could get a jump on getting that job. And I was being courted by Burt, to whom I would become engaged on August 5th, then married on the Sunday of the following Memorial Day weekend, on May 28, 1967!)

City of Record: CRESSKILL
State of Record: NJ
MIA: No
Service: ARMY
Rank: PFC

Thank you for honoring our Nation’s Veterans.”

Wow. Thank YOU for this!

Then the other fellow came over with one of the huge directories, just like the ones on the stanchions near the Memorial. Only the pages of this one were not ensconced in plastic. He opened the book, turned it to face me, and pointed.

Here he is.

Click of my camera.

One more, please.

Click.

Thank you so very much. This is wonderful. Thank you.

Walked the pathway toward the Memorial.

Stopped at the first stanchion to photograph that book in situ. I was so glad to have the other shots in my camera as this one had blur and reflection problems because of the plastic.

And then to The Wall. I started crying, I always do, but I started crying this time specifically because there were SO many flowers and flags and home-made cards, and teddy bears and t-shirts, notes and letters and photographs – framed, Xerox’d, printed out on flimsy paper, torn out of scrapbooks, taken off walls – and people. People crying out loud. The bikers were here having parked their Hogs. Some were kneeling, crying, praying, some in wheelchairs, some with children on their shoulders, looking, pointing, tattooed, taking pictures. I was in among them and I felt so privileged. It turned out that I had come on the one day of the year that I absolutely SHOULD come. I was where I ought to be at the exact right time.

I found Panel 5E. Looked up. Started scanning the wall for the name. All those names… Craning my neck, I couldn’t hold my focus from row to row as I tried to count down 35 rows from the top. I kept losing count.

A volunteer in a yellow shirt offered help.

Oh! Yes, please. Row 35.
What’s the name?
William R. McKim.
Here it is!
Could I get up on your ladder and take a picture?
I’ll do it for you.
Oh. Thank you. Just press the round button. Point and shoot.
Click.
Here ya go.
Oh, thank you again. Look! – You’re in the picture, too! Your reflection!
Oh, sorry. Let me do a rubbing of his name for you.
He took a strip of paper that was there for this purpose, and a pencil from the pile that was there. Held the paper over the name, and scribbled the pencil back and forth. A ghosted name emerged from the scribbled graphite rubbing. He climbed down the ladder and handed it to me.

My deed was done! I had the computer generated receipt and the rubbing to send via snail mail, and the photos to send via email. Nothing more to do.

Still a perfectly beautiful morning, I took a leisurely stroll home passing bikers who looked totally non-threatening now. Vulnerable, in fact. Walked along the DC side of the Potomac where I had run during the four months I trained for the Miami Marathon. Into Georgetown, past all the shops that were closed on this “holiday”. Took a pic of a hair salon where there were 1,001 white origami cranes hanging in the window in memory of a dearly departed hairdresser who had worked there. I passed restaurants that were closed and clothing shops that might have lured me: those Stella McCartney shoes! Like Chanel’s black and beige cap-toes, but with round steel heels! Had that shop been open… but, it wasn’t.

Passed all the shops in which I had purchased home furnishings and clothing and cosmetics and lattes and gifts and dinners: Michigan Damson Plum Preserves at Dean & DeLuca, ice cream cones in the ongoing competition between Ben & Jerry’s and Hagen Daz, which are across from one another on M Street, cupcakes, souvenirs, past the Francis Scott Key Park blooming with pink roses, onto the Key Bridge across the Potomac with kayakers and skullers gliding around on it, onto my home turf of Rosslyn.
I stopped to get a Sunday Times, then up in the elevator back home at the very moment that Green Day, on CBS Sunday Morning, was singing
“It’s something unpredictable, but in the end is right. I hope you had the time of your life.”

Indeed.