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The Ragged Flag

A number of times, I saw him walking down the other side of the street, an old fashioned wooden cane is his right hand.  The old man walked slowly, mostly staring down to see where he was putting his feet. I had no idea how old he might be, just that he was very old.  He was always dressed neatly, his clothes like those you see in a nineteen twenties movie.  When the sun was bright, he wore a cap like a golfer would wear, but it was always tilted to one side in a Hey, I’m someone special manner.  Sort of the way soldiers back in the forties wore their cap when on leave and the first sergeant wasn’t around.

I hadn’t seen him out early in the morning before but, one day, as I was raising the flag, there he was on the other side of the street, standing and watching, as I clipped the flag to the rope.  When I started to raise the flag, he shifted his cane to his left hand and, with his right, saluted, as he made a valiant effort to raise his head far enough to watch the flag reach the top of the twenty foot aluminum flagpole in my front yard.

I stared at him, as I pulled the rope down and found myself wishing I had the National Anthem playing.  Then, the memories of my childhood and the flag filled my thoughts, as I wound the rope around the clevis that holds it in place.  All the while, I stared across the street at the old man and he wore a smile, as he dropped his hand back down and switched the cane back to his right hand.  Then, he nodded and continued up the sidewalk, his eyes once more on where he planted his feet.  I watched him until he turned the corner and was out of my sight.

When I was a very young boy, the war raged, it seemed, all over the world.  As far back as I can remember, we went through a flag ritual every morning and at sunset.  Somewhere, I had seen people salute the flag as it was being raised, so as a rather obnoxiously precocious little boy, I always saluted, as my dad raised the flag on the iron pole, which seemed to a young boy to be really, really tall.

My dad sort of wandered off when I was eight years old, then my mother died of cancer when she was but forty-nine and I was twelve.  As best I recall, there were still six of the ten kids still at home when Mom died and we sort of scattered about the country within a short time.  At the time, I thought no more about the flag or the tall, always freshly painted iron flagpole.  My priority was surviving and thoughts of home were pretty painful for such a young person.  That was a lot of years ago, and throughout all those years I seldom ever thought about the morning and evening flag ceremony at 2750 South College Street.

However, I have had a flagpole at my present home for some years and, every morning, I raise the flag and remember the flag-raising on South College Street.  A couple of years ago, I went up to Springfield, Illinois to visit with a long lost niece I hadn’t seen for about forty years.  We went to see her mother and, just inside the gate to her property, stood a flagpole behind a pretty little pond ringed with plants.  She asked me if I recognized the flagpole, then told me it was the one from my childhood home.  When all of us left that home, her dad took the flagpole and planted it in his front yard.  Then, when he passed away, her husband transplanted the pole once more to their home.  As near as I can figure, that flagpole is about seventy years old and still serves Old Glory well.  I was amazed it had survived all these years and through several transplants.

This story is about the old man and his flag, but I felt the need to explain why I have been involved with our flag most of my life and the memories it brings back.  About every two years I replace my flag, because it becomes faded and sometimes a bit ragged on the edges.  Recently, it got caught on a much-too-close oak tree and the edge was torn.  I sewed it up as a temporary measure, intending to buy a new flag the first chance I had.

I suppose I thought the old man couldn’t afford to buy a new flag, because his flag was in tatters and about six inches shorter than original. We have a lot of windy days in San Antonio and wind is not a friend of a nylon flag, regardless of quality. I had a great idea, I thought. I would buy the old man a new flag when I bought mine. But, would that insult him? Perhaps I should ask first. I’d wait until I saw him out walking.

It was several weeks before he and I crossed paths again, as he was out for a walk one morning.  I had already raised the flag, and he stopped for but a couple of seconds to nod a greeting, then started on his way.  I walked across the street and stuck my hand out to introduce myself.  "Sir, I thought I should introduce myself after seeing you so many times."  Up close, I could see that his eyes had faded almost to a gray color and his smile was nearly obliterated with the wrinkles of old age.

"Nice ta meet ya, Bill.  The name’s Arthur.  Yer yard sure looks nice."

"Thank you.  Good to meet you, Arthur.  I have something I’d like to ask of you."

"Well, just ask away, son."

I know it’s an old cliché, but I think I did see a twinkle in his eye, as if he were amused with me wanting to ask him something.  "Well, my flag got torn on that oak tree and I was going to go buy a new flag.  I wondered if it would insult you if I bought you one, too."

This brought a slight chuckle and a wide grin to his cratered old face.  "That’s mighty nice of ya ta think about doin’ that, Bill.  Not many people would give an old guy like me the time of day.  But, as kind an offer as it is, I really don’t want a new flag."

He must have seen the confusion in my smile.  "Ya see, Bill, that flag has been with me a long, long time. Did you notice it only has forty-eight stars on it?"

"No, I really never noticed.  It really is pretty old, isn’t it?"

"Yep.  Not only that, but that ripped up, faded old flag brings back a lot of memories and has a lot of meanin’ fer me.  Ya see, that flag was draped across my son’s coffin when he got buried.  Killed in action and awarded the Medal of Honor.  Vietnam, ya know.  I had it on a shelf in the livin’ room fer a long time, then one day thought that wasn’t the proper place fer it.  Oughta be outside where the flag is supposed ta be.  Had a fella put that flagpole in the yard where we used ta live and raised that flag up every mornin’ to honor my son.  When we moved here years back, I had the pole moved and have flown that flag ever since."

His eyes moistened and I could see the hurt in them and hear the sorrow in his voice, as he spoke of his son.  I began to wish I’d never mentioned buying him a new flag.

"Yep, that flag honors my boy and all the guys that’ve died in uniform.  All the way back to the first flag, they been torn and worn by weather and battle.  Fought in the big war, myself.  That’s when I first came ta feel about the flag the way I do.  Ain’t just a bunch of material sewn tagether.  That flag means somethin’. Bravery, honor, the will to stand up and defend yer country.  That ragged old flag shows the wear and tear of battle men have suffered.  Lost some good friends in the big war, then lost my son.  A brand new flag wouldn’t show the wear and tear on the human beings that hafta fight ta save our country ever now and then.  Lost my wife a while back.  I’m not alone, though, as long as I have that flag to remind me of my son and his mama."

He stopped speaking and turned back to look at the flag in his front yard.  I’m sure it seemed much longer a time than it actually was before he spoke again.

"You don’t replace that flag of yours, Bill.  Let it weather and wear.  After all, I’ll bet you’ve been through a lot of storms in your life and are beginning to weather and wear.  Yep, that old wind of time wears on all of us sooner or later.  We get ragged like that flag, but hell, ragged is somethin' ta be proud of.  Shows ya been through it and are a lot wiser fer it."

He reached out to shake my hand and said, "I hafta be gettin’ along. Like ta walk in the mornin’, while it’s cool. Nice visitin’ with ya."

I watched him walk to the corner, as I went back across the street with a new understanding of our flag and why it wasn’t necessary to have a brand new, bright colored flag every year or two.  Nope, I’d forget the trip to buy him or myself a new flag.  Now, he walks down my side of the street every morning and stops to chat if I am out.  I try to be.  Funny how wisdom and understanding comes with age - wisdom we thought we had when we were much younger.  I guess in the long run, we truly are never too old to learn.