Suddenly spotted an American flag lying on the ground, on the shoulder of the path. It was one of those small, maybe 8×10 inch, flags that people will stake, sometimes multiple flags in a line, in front of a fourth of July display.
It's quite amazing what behavioral conditioning from one's youth, almost a lifetime ago, can kick in at an unexpected moment. Wham! I was offended at first, then moved to action. I picked it up and gently folded it. This Old Glory was much worse for the wear. I stuffed it into my back pocket and kept walking. No flags touch the ground. Ever.
This will sound very Boomer, as my daughter Lauren would intone; but seeing the flag on the ground like that bespeaks someone's disrespect for the constitution. Now I don't want to be a knuckleheaded absolutist, but that's how I felt in the moment.
But there is more.
As I continued on my way, there were four more worn out flags, all the same size. I carefully folded each up; one flag was ripped, a single horizontal row of dirty red fabric, offering me a way to bind up all of the flag squares. I carried the bundle to the car park by the short walking path used by most people to access the Colchester Causeway, then I deposited the flags into a trash can.
Then I reflected. What was that all about? Cub scouts. Boy Scouts. The Army. The Legislature: I think all of those learned experiences from my life meld into one worldview, that respect for the flag is not about patriotism or about nationalism. It is about respect for the unitary and universal symbol representing the United States’ constitution. The pact that establishes the rule of law to govern each generation of Americans, by their consent. It has nothing to do with supporting her armies or her politicians. The constitution knows no lovers, no brothers, no friends. It only has adherents or opponents. Its defenders believe in its sovereignty. Once the constitution is not believable or supported anymore, so to goes the republic.
This old geezer doth protest too much.
The damned things probably just blew out of the back of somebody's pick-up truck. I found a sixth flag on my return trip, folded it up, too, and dropped it the can by the old colonial schoolhouse at Airport Park. And I felt much better for having done so.
