I’d noticed it a couple of times before, the wind-whipped shredded flag barely identifiable as the Stars and Stripes. It hung in pieces on a pole fastened to a porch railing. A neighbor joining the surge of patriotism after the terrorist attacks on September 11 had placed the flag there. Now, months later, apparently the TV fervor had subsided and the flag, no longer a symbol of media belonging, ignored. Every Boy Scout knows that when Old Glory is worn or torn respect requires that it be removed with honor and disposed of in a prescribed manner; continued display is disgraceful.
The sight and the supposition that the neighbor was either unconscious or uncaring bothered me. I’m from another era; raised during World War II, I was steeped in the battles and banners. All the country’s heroes, real and mythological, are still with me. I remember all the campaigns and the men and actors that fought them over and over. When I was ten, the Allies invaded Sicily. My friends and I watched the black arrows undulate on the daily newspaper maps. We were young and impressionable; we relived those battles, as did the families on the street with gold stars in their windows.
In Riverside Park, my buddies and I retook the beaches at Guadalcanal, Peleliu, and Tarawa. We were with John Wayne on Iwo Jima. We drowned with the five Sullivan brothers. We wept for the dead and tortured survivors of the Bataan death march and Dachau.
For us, the price of freedom is beyond appraisal, and the starred and striped symbol beyond reproach. General Patton, George C. Scott , John Wayne, the five faceless combatants who raised the flag on Iwo would not stand for anyone desecrating the flag, and neither would we remaining old-time patriots.
So, one misty morning, I found myself avoiding the toys at my feet and knocking on my neighbor’s aluminum storm door. It was missing a pane of glass. The button in the doorbell was loose. I doubted it worked. I knocked again.
“What do you want?”
She had the inner door open and was peering up at me. I wondered if she was always short or if the children had worn her down. She was a bit overweight with wispy dirty blond hair, wore a soiled apron, and had no time for strangers.
“Good morning. I’m Ed, your neighbor. I live in the next block on the other side of the street.”
Aggravated and impatient, she shuffled her feet.
I said, “I noticed the flag on your porch is dirty and torn. It shouldn’t be displayed in that condition and I’d be happy to take it down for you.”
I could tell she thought I was some kind of nut.
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll take it down.”
I wondered if 'we’ included the three-year-old attached to her knee.
“Ah, fine. I just thought I’d bring it to your attention. No one wants to see the flag mistreated.” The door was closing. “Have a nice day.”
Before I reached the bottom of the porch stairs, I guessed she’d probably dismissed me. I looked at the red white and blue shreds wafting in the faint breeze -- a depressing sight. I walked across the street to my Chevrolet. I had a door half open when I heard a quiet, “’Mornin’, Ed.”
It was George Kirby, another neighbor, walking his dog.
“Good morning, George.” I bent to scratch his spaniel behind her ear. The dog wiggled with absolute abandon.
“What are you up to?” George no doubt thought it curious that my Chevy was parked only a block and a half from home.
“Just having a talk with the lady across the street.” I flipped my thumb at the flag. “I don’t think she heard me.”
“Oh,” he said, “it’s been bugging me too.” George’s grandson was at Marine base Rhino in Afghanistan. He looked away. When, finally, I caught his eye, I could see that we had the same hollow, helpless feeling, could sense the apathy chipping America away.
“I offered to take the flag down. She said she’d take care of it.”
George looked dubious. He shook his head, “Maybe she will.”
As the days finished a week and slipped into the next, I watched the flag deteriorate. Sadness and anger grew into outrage. I formulated plans. I checked the calendar for phases of the moon. Under cover of dark night wearing my black jacket and watch cap, I planned to sneak over like Force Recon and rip the flag off that porch--to hell with private property. Only a patriot’s home is his castle. I worked myself into assault rage.
Tonight was to be the night. I decided to walk by for one last reconnaissance, one last look at the bastion of indifference. Controlling my anger, I affected a casual air and strolled along the walk. I felt the ghosts of Omaha beach were marching with me.
The flag was gone! I felt a surge of relief. The anger ran out of me. It was gone. I turned for home. I sighed. Perhaps bringing it to their attention had done some good. I suddenly felt guilty. Did I have a right to infringe on their privacy? No doubt they intended to remove the damaged flag anyway. They were just too busy. But they finally got it done.
I decided they deserved some reinforcement, some thanks, and the knowledge that neighbors bore no ill will, no malice. After all, we’re all Americans honoring the same flag. The next day, I decided, I’ll stop over there and say thanks.
It was a bright morning and the sun’s rays glanced off the empty metal flag bracket. I felt good about bringing appreciation, much lighter than when carrying fault and implied chastisement.
I was smiling when she opened the door.
“What do you want this time?” she asked in a voice laden with irritation.
I worked to keep my smile from fading. I squeezed camaraderie and enthusiasm into my words, “Just to say thanks. Thanks for removing the damaged flag.”
This elicited a slight frown and she eased the door open wider. She stared a moment before observing with a touch of surprise, “Oh, it’s gone.”
How could anyone be so unconscious? I was still shaking my head when I reached the sidewalk.
“Mornin’, Ed. What’s up?” It was George without the dog.
“Oh,” I said, turning my head, “the flag is gone.”
He winked, “I know.”