| 20 february 2001
| for dad, grampa, and ralph hewitt Here in the US, yesterday was Presidents' Day. Several years ago, when states became eligible to make Martin Luther King Jr. Day an official holiday, they combined Lincoln and Washington's February birthdays for one tidy holiday instead of two. Confusing? Of course it is. My point here is that Presidents' Day was created so that we Americans could enjoy yet another long weekend of big blowout retail savings. What, you thought we celebrated patriotism and stuff? Please. Forgive me for sounding like a curmudgeon, but here we go: when I was a kid... When I was a little girl, I knew how to carry, raise, lower, and fold an American flag. Each day, our elementary school principal would select two or three kids for what we accepted as a great honor: flag duty. This wasn't a get-out-of-class assignment, either; this required effort on our part. It meant picking up the flag first thing in the morning, carefully securing the grommets to the rope, and hoisting it up the pole, reverently. We were always terrified that it would touch the ground, a definite no-no. At the end of the day, we would run back out, lower it, and and two of us would carefully fold the flag neatly into the requisite triangle. Mission accomplished. Uncle Sam appeased. Mom would be proud. Things have changed a lot since then. One of the most distressing things I see nowadays is flags in the rain. It used to be that when bad weather threatened, I remember our teachers and community leaders running out to take down their flags so they wouldn't get damaged. Most all of us began each day with the pledge of allegiance: hands over hearts, youthful wriggling at a minimum, a unison of kids remembering their American-ness. And now. A few years ago, I was driving past a car dealership in a terrible rainstorm. They had an enormous flag waving, or rather, whipping in the storm. It was ragged at the edges, and most certainly in need of replacement. The colors were faded so badly that the red looked nearly pink. I guess no one wanted to get wet. When I was a Girl Scout camp counselor, we were authorized to conduct official flag burning ceremonies. When people discard ragged flags that were no longer usable or have touched the ground, it is burned in a solemn ceremony, and the metal grommets are retrieved from the ashes. They are then given to a Scout leader who has served well during their tenure. That was over ten years ago. To this day, I carry that grommet on my keychain. For all of my somewhat liberal views on a whole lot of issues, dissing the flag doesn't sit too well with me. The same goes with the way we've begun to treat what should be patriotic holidays, which is an extension of how we treat America. Because we're allowed, we take advantage of the place. Flying a ragged flag is, to me, the equivalent of wearing raggy jeans to a family gathering: a lazy middle finger in the face of everyone who does care about this country. This isn't a hyper-patriotic standard of behavior, y'all. It's basic respect. I'll be the first to tell you that America isn't a perfect place to live. The way I look at it, at least I'm free to make it a little nicer. Birthright hardly seems fair. It's not something I take for granted. Too many people have risked their lives to keep this place intact to allow flags to fly in the rain. Like my dad, every time he stepped into a nuclear submarine during his navy days. Like my Grampa Holzer, a navy man during World War II. And Mom's Dad, whom I know only from photographs of him in his navy blues. The job of a sailor is to get wet so that you and me stay safe. I rest easier under dry shade of glory. Click here if you're interested in submitting your own life and stuff . Come on...I know you've got a story in you. |
