Yesterday we went to the Johnstown Swapper's Day meet. It is always entertaining. Always eye opening. Always the same, but always different. It had rained most of the night Friday, not torrential, no downpour, just a constant, light drizzle, and the day was cloudy, and cool. With a chance of rain in the forecast for the afternoon we decided to risk the trip and head to the the sale. It was a lot more crowded than we thought it would be.
I am not sure what they do at the Sportsman Association when they're not having Swappers Day, but it is a huge place, asphalt paths big enough for a car run through the property. It is 190 acres according to the website. As numbers go that is a big one, but as a reference it is meaningless to a person raised on measurements in blocks. And I coldn't tell you how many blocks could be laid end to end in the area, because we wander from place to place, stopping, looking, backtracking, looking again. We walked over 9,000 steps as measured by iPhone.
It always surprises me how many people are carrying guns. I think they are trying to sell them, or maybe just bought them. There was an older couple, maybe late sixties, or early seventies pushing an umbrella stroller that had two rifles, a compound bow, and some pistols. I don't know how many, staring at people with enough weaponry to outfit an infantry squad seems foolish. And the Amish people carrying rifles, hunting rifles, rifles that seemed, to my limited knowledge, to fall into the "assault weapon" classification. Pacifism no more. Spend a little time walking the rows and paths of Swapper's Day and you quickly understand "excuse me" is no longer a popular notion. It has been replaced by the silent push, and press.
In the time I have been there, three years in a row, I have only seen one potential sale take place. Yesterday, a man said "hey, are you trying to sell those?" Pointing to a pair of wicked looking revolvers. I waited for the "or are you just happy to see me?" Which never came. The comic potential destroyed I walked away before the dealing began.
As we rounded the curving, slightly erratic line of vendor's tents was the rotor blade of a helicopter. My wife said she had stopped by to look at it last year. It was UH-1 Huey from Bell Helicopter. It was a display that traveled to various places. I asked why she didn't take me.
"You had probably wandered off somewhere." She said, then she relayed a conversation she had with our youngest son.
"Why do you let him do that?" He had asked. "Just let him wander off like that?" I was a little insulted, but as a five year old he made me hold his hand in parking lots so I wouldn't get run over. At the time I thought he did it as a joke, maybe not, though.
We went and looked at the helicopter. It was from the Vietnam war, it was one of the early models, a UH1-A, I think he said. It was a profound moment. It was so small, there were seats for seven including the pilot. Flimsy looking nylon benches were supported by what looked like aluminum tubing, it looked so finite, skimpy. The shell was thin, almost fragile. One of the exhibitors took me around and showed the patches where bullets had torn through the beer can skin. I said "it looks so small." He explained the letter suffix designation, and how the machine had stretched and changed over time to carry more soldiers and door gunners. But, this was one of the early ones.
I remembered the lines from Apocalypse Now in an exchange between Martin Sheen and Robert Duvall. Duvall's character said, "Air Cav, son, Airmobile." And Sheen's narration explained how the cavalry had "traded in their horses for choppers and went tear assin' around Nam looking for the shit." And they had done it in something so oddly beautiful, so awkwardly graceful, so tragically insignificant as the small machine sitting in front of me.
I remembered the book Dispatches by Micheal Herr, and his description of the terror he felt the first time the helicopter he was in took fire. Someone hammering on the side of a helicopter flying at 2,000 feet.1 It was striking to stand so close to something that had carried so many terrified men into a jungle screaming with anger, fear and death. I couldn't help but think of the words of Isaiah Berlin "liberty for wolves is death to the lambs."
It had been deployed between 1967 and 1971, a time of vicious fighting, fear, pain and death. The time of Khe Shan, the Tet Offensive. Long after any illusion of guerilla warfare had drained away. I don't know where this little helicopter had been stationed, I didn't ask, but it had seen some action, the patches served as ample proof.
It was a great day, we had a good time, had some good food, and did not get rained on, even a little.. Life can be tough, and sometimes working and living require so much time you overlook the important things. Like how oddly right my wife and I are for each other. Wandering through a huge yard sale, looking at the tables filled with the flotsam of life, I was reminded how close we are. There were times it seemed as if we were the only people there, she was the only thing I could see.
I did find a wide brimmed, floppy hat for kayaking for $5.00. And since I am such a compulsive, uncontrollable, easily influenced sort I bought a small tackle box for $1.00. It was a little broken, and needs some work, similar to life, I suppose, but it was my first step toward the lofty position of Kayak Fisherman, a big, inexpensive first step. I am that much closer.
Adventures are everywhere, stories wait at every turn. Next week, 2 1/2 days, we are off to Lake Hope, and a new adventure, on kayaks, at the Moonville Tunnel, in Athens, OH, just the two of us, our two kayaks, and the threat of a guest appearance by our sons, we had better take some extra food. Just a coming attractions.
1 I don't really remember the height. Just the terror he felt, and the dread he described.
