I realized I didn't want to just print out the letters and hand Hudson a stack of paper. I needed to find a bookbinding shop. The woman I worked with seemed a little disorganized but very passionate. I knew it was her the minute I walked into her cramped Melrose lair, her lunch in Tupperware containers on her large, overflowing drafting table, because her personality seemed to be an accurate reflection of her website's appointment policy: “Please call to make an appointment, but it's usually OK.” At first Charlene had an annoyed “you don't know who I am” tone, but then she smiled, the whole façade fell apart and she was happy to do whatever I wanted. I could understand. I usually give big or controversial opinions, but if someone has a better idea or just wants to do it differently, I'm totally fine with that as an extremely opinionated doofus.
Charlene suggested Japanese binding, in which several holes are made in the front and back covers and then thread is sewn through them, binding the pages together and leaving the spine exposed. We spent some time choosing a suitable theme. She showed me waxed and polished linen thread, as well as embroidery thread in beautiful, rich colors. I knew my son would love the tactile, handcrafted aesthetic of the chipped binding, but it's fragile. In the end I settled on a book with a more traditional binding because I wanted it to last a long time. We chose a mottled, puffy, light blue linen cover with black endpapers and a purple bookmark ribbon. Charlene suggested putting his initials on the cover. I was worried that he might think it was stupid and refused. She said, “Great, because we have absolutely no time to write monograms.”
Charlene told me that she started binding books over thirty years ago, mainly to get into book repair, which is something she really loves. I liked the idea that if you do something good, it is worth taking care of, thereby imbuing it with longevity. And when it inevitably fails as a result of use and life, you will repair it. I hoped that we were doing something good, something that could be preserved through time, read and reread, carried with love.
When I picked up the book a week later, she said gruffly, in a Fran Lebowitz voice, “Look, I hope you don't mind, but I haven't read much. I mean, come on. Really, really cool.” I thanked her and told her that my son would love what she did. It felt like we were two people in the same business. She retained the memories; I documented them.
The night before Hudson's birthday, we had a party at home and a few of his close friends – Viggo, Gianna and Sabina – spent the night. The next morning, his actual birthday, I was a little disappointed that there were other people there. Should I wait for them to leave? Nope, I thought. I've waited eighteen years! I cooked my usual Dutch baby for the crew, and when they finished eating, I told Hudson that I wanted to give him a “big gift.” As soon as I said “great gift” I regretted it. IS THIS a big gift? Book? From LETTERS? I was worried, irrationally (they're good kids), that one of his friends might ruin the whole thing with a terrible teenage comment like, “Where's your real present?”
Viggo, Gianna and Sabina gathered around the table and watched as he opened it. I cried strangely. “What's my problem?” I continued talking, realizing that his friends had no idea what my problem was. I held the wrapped book in my hands, trying to give it some context before he opened it. Maybe I cried because of the physical release of long-term accumulation, maybe I cried because it meant so much to me, or maybe I cried because finishing the project meant the end of his childhood.
This piece was very different from anything I had ever written. I worked on it at any point in the year when I felt lost, when I was frustrated by Hollywood, when I didn't know how I was going to pay rent, when I couldn't cope with other things. It became a testament to something greater, a purpose, an act of service, a habit that got me where I needed to be. I did this when I wanted to write down details before I forgot them: funny things Hudson said, things we did together, observations of who he was as he grew and changed.
