The American flag represents all of us and all the values we hold sacred.
~Adrian Cronauer
On national holidays, my dad carried a metal pole to the middle of our front yard. He sunk it into the ground and attached a flag. I can still hear the crank of the pulley as the flag rose, splaying stars and stripes in a suburban neighborhood, where big flapping flags were rare.
I watched as Dad saluted our flag. He was fiercely loyal to America and, because of that, I was, too.
“This is the best country in the world,” he’d often say. “We’re so lucky to live here.” He was referring to his grandparents, who’d arrived penniless from the Jewish ghetto of Vilnius, Lithuania. They had been second-class citizens there with no chance of economic or social advancement. Yet here in America their children graduated from high school and moved into the middle class.
During World War II, my father served in France and Germany. A year before Pearl Harbor, he was drafted as a private, later rising to the rank of Major. He was willing to die to defeat fascism and make the world safe for democracy. His service to our country was deeply ingrained into his identity.
Although his patriotism was palpable, he never spoke about his war experiences, the gory side of bravery, or how many people he saw die. Instead, Dad reminisced about his men and the bland, powdered food the Army provided them. They sometimes traded coffee grounds with French farmers, who gave them fresh eggs and homemade bread. These meals were the highlight of those dark days.
Dad spent countless months in trenches, through rain and freezing temperatures. He came home from the war with a back injury, which dogged him for the rest of his life, causing excruciating pain and days lost from work.
At the end of the war, the Army offered him a military career, but he felt better suited to civilian life. He was a furniture salesman, and I remember him giving me pieces of discontinued upholstery fabric that I turned into dolls’ clothes.
When I was twenty-five, my father died suddenly. The day after his funeral, a box was delivered to my parents’ house. Inside was a flag crisply folded into a triangle.
“It’s from the Army,” my mother said. “For his military service.”
“I’m impressed they sent it so quickly,” I said.
She sat in a chair and wept for half an hour, cradling the flag. She displayed that cloth triangle on a shelf in our living room, where everyone could see its white stars shining against a blue background. She never moved it from that honored spot.
When I’d visit, I was disturbed that dust had seeped into the creases. I tried removing it with a feather duster.
“Don’t touch the flag,” Mom said. She was afraid I’d loosen the folds.
Because I lived in a New York City apartment, I had no front lawn, no way to erect a flag. But twelve years after Dad’s death, my husband David and I bought a charming cottage near a lake in Massachusetts.
“Do you think we could hang a flag from the front porch on Memorial Day?” I asked. “It’s something my dad always did on American holidays. It would mean a lot to me.”
“Let’s hang a flag all year,” David said. “We’re Americans every day, aren’t we?”
We went to Kmart and bought a flag. I was a little surprised that they sold only nylon flags, not like the thick cotton ones of my childhood.
“There’s no such thing as a bad American flag,” David said. “Besides, nylon is durable and will hold up well since we’re planning to hang our flag every day.”
Whenever I see our flag hanging off our porch, I think of my father. Sometimes, I’m emotional because I miss him. But most of the time, I think about how proud I am to be his daughter, to be an American, and to carry on his patriotic tradition.
Five years ago, David and I visited Normandy with another couple. We were incredibly moved to see those big wide beaches, so sunny and quiet, belying the thousands of young men who perished there in the dawn hours of June 6, 1944.
But nothing prepared me for the scope of the American cemetery. Row upon row of pristine white crosses, with the occasional Star of David, marked where 9,387 heroes were buried. Those young men sacrificed their lives to keep our country safe. I felt heartbroken for their families whose sons, husbands, or brothers were buried so far from home.
We were traveling with a French guide named Jacques, who’d intentionally brought us to the American cemetery just before 5:00 p.m. He knew that my father had fought in France and that our friend Arnold had been a Captain during the Vietnam War. Dozens of people swirled around us in the shadows of two gigantic flags.
Unbeknownst to us, Jacques ran off and spoke to some officials about our military connections. He returned, walking quickly. “They’ll lower those two flags any minute,” he said. “Two groups of people have the privilege of participating in a ceremony. The four of you have been chosen!”
Before I knew it, we heard the whine of Taps playing as the flags crept downward. Arnold saluted. The atmosphere was somber, as if World War II had ended yesterday, instead of sixty-seven years earlier.
We held the flag in silence, first folding it in half and then into a triangle at the tip. We moved the flag back and forth in that shape until it became a triangle as thick as a pillow. Covered by stars, it was just like the one that had been delivered to my mother forty years ago.
My eyes welled with tears, wishing my dad were here to see this. I was humbled to honor him and his service to our country with something he loved dearly — the American flag.
~Linda Morel
