Fahters and Sons and Flags

For as long as I can recall, Memorial Day on Homan Avenue involved the flag and spring cleaning.  My father flew the flag on the front porch, and we all pitched in with the washing and whatnot.

When you’re twelve, helping to carry the mattresses outside is a job in itself, but that was only the half of it.  Next, I was handed an honest-to-goodness rug beater and instructed to beat the dust off the mattresses.  Très fun.  When I grew older, I was promoted to wall-washing.  Kitchen, dining room, living room—my father and I shared space on an extension plank between two ladders.  First we did the walls with Soilax, then rinsed them down with water.  After that, we used a special sponge for the ceilings.  Again, très fun.  This went on for years, even after Clare was born.  Where’s Daddy?  Why, he’s up on the ladder Grandpa is holding steady.

Spring cleaning was done by the Fourth of July.  My father could concentrate on making barbeque chicken on the grill—and putting the flag out.  His work uniform, of a Chicago firefighter, had a flag patch.  The front railing had a special holder for the flag pole; I wouldn’t be surprised if he fashioned it himself.  And, when the time came, I had a flag as a housewarming gift from my father.

I probably find more holidays to fly it than my father did.  The way I see it, you claim the flag or let someone else do it.  So, out the flag goes for Labor Day and Veterans Day and maybe even Columbus Day.  I’ve flown it so much over the years Clare has been pressed into duty as a second Betsy Ross, sewing up holes and mending tatters along the edges.  That flag will die with me, and I intend to live to a hundred.

The NFL owners would probably love to salute me at halftime, if only I’d buy season’s tickets to the Bears.  It’s just as well.  The owners have announced a new policy about protesting the national anthem—players can either stay in the locker room or stand at attention along the sidelines.  I don’t fly the flag for the likes of them to dictate conduct.  I don’t even fly the flag for all the same reasons my father did.  Oh, I’m proud and thankful to be an American, just as I’m sure Patrick Henry and Thomas Paine were proud.

It would be nice if a few football players happened to cite the likes of those two as an inspiration, but what can you expect of anyone in their twenties?  I’ll cite it for them.