He served his brief time in the army, like every other young man at that time, but didn’t strongly identify with the experience. My father is a Spaniard and was raised under a military dictator. Now I don’t come from a military family…at least not in any traditional sense of the term. Whatever the reason, I couldn’t stop wondering about that man… wondering what it would feel like to invest in a symbol of something you believe in so deeply that you are willing to make it a central part of your daily ritual. Or maybe it is I am just the child of baby boomers who called all tradition into question. For those of us growing up in a global economy, perhaps borders don’t seem as firm as they once did-and so national identity isn’t as strong. Maybe it is because I was raised by parents from two different countries and born in a third, but I have never strongly identified with any one flag. You see, while I did the requisite flag-duty a couple of times in elementary school, the flag is not something I think about that often. Piper and I were both watching him as we slowly drove past, and as he receded in our rear view mirror our conversation turned to this man and his flag. His movements were those of someone who had been lovingly caring for this flag, day after day, year after year. Watching his movements it was clear that this was a daily ritual, as practiced as brushing one’s teeth or drying a dish. With one hand he tugged the rope that reeled the flag in, with the other he caught the flag, gathering it up in his arms so that it wouldn’t touch the ground. Up ahead an older gentleman was in his yard, pulling his American Flag down from the tall flagpole.
As we drove along the rural back roads the wind was picking up and a fine drizzle was starting to fall.
Last weekend my partner Piper and I drove up to visit family in Maine.
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