We Are But A Moment’s Sunlight

I went to the big produce pantry today in Parma Heights. It’s once a month, and you get a lot of food, but it’s a big pain to attend, because people start registering for numbers as early as 6 a.m., when they open the church dining hall where everyone waits. The pantry doesn’t actually start until 9, but if you get there after, say, 8 in the morning, your number is going to be 200-something. Because that’s how many people are food insecure just in that zip code and the surrounding ones. Almost all elderly, this pantry posts signs in English, Spanish and Polish, as there is still a very high concentration of Polish people in and around Parma. A woman I sat next to at one point asked me what my number was in Polish, and I showed her. I don’t know Polish, but that’s what people ask each other there, and I know enough of other languages to be able to tell what she was asking. What’s your number, how long will we have to wait.

I set an alarm for 6:30 but just couldn’t pry myself out of bed and into the cold morning until 7:00. Then I had to take the dog out and feed him, and finally was on my way around 7:20. I hurried because I was late, and then got distracted by a police car that had pulled someone over for speeding and missed my turn for the church. This is just how my brain works anymore. I’m not as calm and organized in my thoughts as I once was. Call it depression, stress, whatever. I backtracked and found the road and was pleasantly surprised to see there were still parking spots available. Usually I have to park across the street by the Walmart and walk over,  but I got a spot near the entrance and quickly made my way inside. 108. Ugh. It was only 7:40 and would be a long wait. They have homemade soup, but I never eat it as it’s made with little to no salt for the salt-sensitive patrons, and I don’t care for it. But it smelled good.

Knowing to expect a long wait, I had brought a large coffee and a book. But it was particularly crowded and loud today because it was the pantry event just prior to a holiday, and there were many more people there than usual, so it was hard to concentrate on a book in another language that I’ve been trying to learn forever (Spanish). A second company, some other religious organization, provides big mystery boxes of stuff at the pantries right before Thanksgiving and Christmas. They were there today, and I remembered them being there last year and wondering what was in the boxes and how to get them. I had certainly hoped not to have to be at that pantry a year later, but there I was. No longer reticent about getting what I need, I went to the table and asked how you get their wares. They explained that after your number is called at the regular table and you’re all officially checked in, you come check in at their table and they put a sticker on your number that allows you to get the boxes after you get the produce.

A couple hours later, my number had finally been called, and I visited the second table and got my sticker. The pantry was getting ready to officially open, when they start calling numbers in small groups to file outside with bags and receive whatever they have to give. They call fairly small groups of 10 or 15 but it goes pretty quickly, so I moved closer to the door so I could hear what numbers were being called. I sat down on an empty pew against the wall so I’d be out of the way. A moment later, an elderly man sat down next to me. It was crowded even on the pew, so he had to squeeze in to sit down. He turned to me and jokingly said, “I promise not to hold hands until the second date.” Without missing a beat, I said, “Why wait? You never know when your time is gonna come. I looked at him and he looked at me and picked up my hand and held it in his, and I let him. We sat there for a minute, his skin dry and papery, the first time I’ve felt young in a long time, and I wondered how long it had been since he held someone’s hand.

“I’m Paul,” he said, and I noticed his Vietnam Veterans hat, which was decorated with small pins. I gave him my name, and he said he was pleased to meet me. “You served in Vietnam?” I said, indicating his hat and he said yes, and I thanked him for his service to our country. He thanked me for thanking him. “What’s the good word today?” he said, so I made small talk, about prepping for Thanksgiving, and how mom had come over yesterday to help me make the homemade noodles. “Fresh noodles are really good,” he said. I took out my phone and showed him a couple of the pictures, and he complimented me. I asked if he had plans for Thanksgiving, already planning on inviting him. He’s going to his daughter’s, he said, and we talked briefly about her and her family. “You married?” he asked, and I smiled. “No, I’m divorced,” I said, “I have a little boy who is nine.” “That’s a fun age,” he said. There was a lull. He said something about living alone, his wife was gone, and then someone came in yelling numbers. “Whaddyou got?” he asked, showing his, in the 200s. “108,” I told him. “Ah,” he said, “I couldn’t get here early enough for a good number.” “Me neither,” I told him.

I asked where he served, meaning geographically in the country. He said was an MP in the Army, some kind of supervisor, and that there were a bunch of guys underneath him; he was the oldest by several years. He seemed open to talking about it so I continued with gentle questioning. He and his men were in the Tet Offensive and he described some of their action. He said he told his men, “You’re all going home, I promise, and not in a box,” and he was so pleased to be able to say that he kept that promise. One guy lost an arm, he said, but everyone else under him was whole and basically physically well when they went home. He described how they kept in touch over these 20-plus years, and how he went to Louisiana last year to bury the last of his group that was still living, besides him. He’s the only one left. I breathed slow, so the lump forming wouldn’t get the best of me.

I told him about the multipart documentary I had watched last year about the Vietnam War, and how I learned so much about the war from it. That I was just a baby when everything was going on, and this had helped me to understand about the specific battles and the strategy and what we were up against. “They just used us,” Paul said somewhat bitterly. “It was futile, and they knew it.” I mentioned how so much was happening for so many years in that country before Americans were told and he nodded vigorously. “Most people have no idea what was going on over there,” he said.

I asked if he was welcomed home or, like so many Vietnam veterans, had not been well received, and he shook his head. “It wasn’t good,” he said, and I apologized for that, even though I was just a baby, and it wasn’t my fault. I felt like I was apologizing on behalf of so many Americans who wish they could, in retrospect. I explained that I am a bit of a hippie and a peacenik but also, a staunch supporter of the armed forces. That I come from a Navy family, with several generations of relatives serving our country, and I appreciate the dedication and sacrifice they put in, their dedication to preserving our way of life in America and their belief that they were doing the right thing, and he thanked me for saying so.

“Look,” he said, “Can I have your number?” I hesitated a second. I know he was hitting on me, even though we both knew that was silly. He saw my expression and said, “You know, just to chat, or whatever.” I patted his hand and said, “You know Paul, I’m gonna have to say no, but I appreciate talking to you and enjoyed it, and maybe we can talk more next month, if that’s ok?” He said sure, absolutely. So he wouldn’t feel awkward about being rejected, I pushed the conversation ball forward and we talked easily again for a few minutes.

They called my number, and I got up and said, “Well, see you next month, Paul,” and he said, “Sounds good, see you next month. And Happy Thanksgiving.” “Same to you,” I said, and we waved goodbye.

I decided when I left that I’ll give him my number next month. If it makes him happy to meet me for coffee sometimes and talk, well, that’s my way of repaying him for his service.