There is a quiet strength in old rusting machines, a beauty even.  You will find this everywhere just as soon as you begin to look.  Take a look! 

The majesty of all things railroad shelters many an example―here behind the abandoned station hearkens a big respectable gentleman, out of service, but thinking quietly all along like a horse in a stall after the last tender has left the barn and turned out the last light. He is resting gently upon this short stretch of rusted track. The horse is lost in thought and, year by year, rain by sun, snow by cold, night by day, is hurtling through the landscapes of his life and is satisfied. He has taken excited families on vacation, soldiers to war, and people to work―but has a special fondness for the children who were so happy to ride his big iron back to adventure. He can still feel their little pink faces pressed against the windows of his mind. The rust drops upon him in soft brown flakes like a shawl.

There is a quiet strength in old rusting machines, a grandfather strength, an old dog strength. 

Rust gathers in great numbers to meet in a car junkyard. It is the veteran’s center, where cards are played on Saturday mornings and all the old men trade barbs about their service. Everyone is here, equal in rank at last―the pickup trucks, sedans, hotrods, the practical and the flashy, all made proud in their dented rusted glory. Some are here accidentally, some are here just because the heart grew tired at last, and all are eager to share the stories of their dents and worn tires to anyone who will listen. Listen! The trip up the entire west coast! romance in the back seat! to the hospital for the baby! all the errands about town-my God! kids off to college! and, of course, there were always the long hot drives because there was nothing else to do, life is hard, and sometimes people need a song and a breeze to dream.

There is a quiet strength in old rusting machines, a growing strength, a dying strength, a knowing strength.

Antique warehouses collect rust in the everyday elegance of the past. You can feel the generations reach out and touch your hand as you ponder an item and whether it has a place in your life. Can you feel it? Feel! Imagine the thoughtful woman at that antique sewing machine, when new in its day―she is making and fixing the clothes for her family deep into the night, the gaslight soft across the room, draping her husband and children in love that came from her own hands, a foot pedal, a spinning bob, and the warm threads of labor that connected her to their very bodies when they left the house for the day. And over there, the old bicycles and sleds―rusted just so. Oh―the history, the play, the little bells, the laughter, breath, life, wheels, snow, speed, cold, tumble and sky of memories that will not die.

A rusted machine is a servant to the tumble of life and time.

I’ll leave you with the charm of an old rusting tractor, standing handsome in a meadow, remembering it’s long hot days in the field, feet deep in the earth, working under the spring sun and gaining strength, furrow by furrow, from the promise of the thick green flesh of life all around.

Among a few really good friends in Afghanistan, I had a particularly interesting and colorful friend who was in the Navy at the time. Navy?! In a landlocked country? Don’t draw that Editorial Page cartoon just yet―it was actually a good move by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs to help with manpower. It was becoming important to lengthen the time between deployments for Soldiers who were being sent on too many rotations to reasonably sustain a family life.  This Navy piece was feasible since so many in the military are in professions that cross over to any big military endeavor: medical, administrative, logistics, etc.

This guy worked in my Operations cell and was a First Lieutenant at the time while I was a Major but, really, we were equals in our dedication to the cause and the smarts and energy we were willing and able to devote to it. Also, we were just outright friends, sincerely, and got along really, really well.

Not that it mattered, but I found out early on that he was quite a blue-blood.  He had an historically recognizable last name.  He told me about it. His Ivy-league grandfather was a Cabinet-level multi-Presidential advisor and a huge player in most of the big decisions of World War II and beyond.  Grandfather eventually became chairman of the World Bank, Chairman of Chase Manhattan Bank, Chairman of the Ford Foundation, and more―Jesus Christ!  Slow down, Mister Grandpa!   

My friend was justifiably very proud of his grandfather and he himself had attended the most prestigious private High School I know of and was an Ivy-league business school graduate and, after he got to know me, mentioned that he wanted to get me into his business with him on Wall Street.  He was interesting in other ways too; he was a great runner and he’d founded a charity of marathon running to raise money for pediatrics (once running a marathon in Antarctica!), and he was into a lot of natural health foods.  We’d sometimes work out together and he, though thin, was a workout animal.  I was in great shape for my age but I had a hard time keeping up with him.  We’d climb these big walls of ‘Hesco’ barriers carrying big plate-weights from the gym with us, struggling to push the weights up each level, then climbing up after and lowering them down. Up and down, up and down.  Laughing and cursing. 

One time, we both stayed up all night writing a fantastic proposal together to get funding for a huge road to aid in the flow of agricultural resources to marketplaces.  It was accepted.

Another cool thing about him (I promise I’ll stop soon!):  he always wanted to be on a convoy combat patrol even though all Navy guys were exempt and (legally) even precluded from such patrols.  Because he was on a patrol that had enemy contact early on in the tour, he came to my attention when the big boss moved him into my Operations cell ostensibly as punishment for having got himself into that situation. He was no longer in a position where he could sneak himself onto a combat patrol without everybody knowing.  

I’d always had an adventurous life too, and we’d trade stories. I think he was impressed with the walls I’d climbed over to be where I was; there was a mutual respect. Also, he was one of the few people at that Officer level who held a lot of my centrist and liberal views and so we connected on that level too.

The only uncool thing I remember is when he was asked by his father to write an article for some publication about his experiences in Afghanistan mid-deployment. He presented the article to me to review it and I was stunned that the piece was so anodyne. We were having our faces pressed into the stark realities of this deployment hourly and so I was disappointed in the characterization. But, I figured he was just trying to please his father, and I let it go―but in some ways I regret not ripping into him. We were both fine with intellectually rigorous debate and, indeed, that was probably one of the top things we liked about each other. (Maybe the piece got the requisite polite applause on the Ivy-league lecture tour—I don’t know.)

He knew about my background also:  raised in a public housing project, public High School and eventually going to a State college.  But, none of this mattered, as being ‘war buddies’ transcends all things.  You’ve all seen it in the movies.

Many months after the deployment, I learned (I think from a text chain I was on) that he and his wife were going to be traveling from Connecticut to visit his family’s hunting lodge in Vermont, or Maine or something. To my delight I could see on a map that his route must be going right by my house! I’m talking not two minutes off of the highway. Geographically, it was a crazy lucky coincidence. I texted him about a visit as I wanted to meet his wife and he could meet my family. I had a wonderful two-year old adorable girl and my boy was born while I was on the deployment-he knew about it-and I was especially happy to show off my girl and new little infant boy. Wow! I was thrilled.

Well, I had trouble getting a response from this text.  Crickets.  I was sure there was a technical issue and persisted with emails and actual phone call messages until he responded-and I mean days later-and agreed.  At the time, I still didn’t suspect anything and so had our tiny house (much smaller than the hunting lodge-I’d seen pictures) ready with fine drinks and snacks, etc. 

Here they came.  He and his wife sat on our couch as if they were in a Dentist’s waiting room.  There was some empty strained conversation and then, oh! look at the time!

Wow.  My wife said later that each of them were dressed, head to foot, in the best and most expensive clothing possible and, believe me, my wife knows about nice things.  I guess we’d have to remortgage our house to buy the sweater that his wife was wearing.  And I’ll never own the car they drove.

I wondered what those conversations were like between him and his wife after my invitation and before he finally, and reluctantly, responded. I’d like to hear the exact words.

I was heartsick, and embarrassed that I’d had no clue. We were such good friends and so alike in every way.

Well, every way but one.

And, I guess. . .

that one thing—

it mattered.

HESCO Barrier