Fiction Short Story

"A Flag Tale"

The warm summer breeze caressed my face, the fragrance of wildflowers tickled my nose, and the thrum of the cicadas rose and fell in the air. Out of the corner of my eye I could see PopPop swaying along toward the flagpole carrying his old flag. I sighed and sank a little deeper into the glider cushions, pretending to ignore the old man.

Every year it was the same routine: finish the morning's chores, help PopPop get out his old tattered flag, watch him hoist it up, and listen to the same old war stories over and over. Something about Independence Day made him nostalgic, and I hated it. There I'd be, wasting a perfectly good summer day having to listen to his faltering voice recount the glory of his war years. I'd much rather have been playing ball with the fellers down at the field, or swimming at the lake, and finishing off the day watching the fireworks at the Town Square.

But, no. That wasn't allowed. Mom and Dad made me stay here until PopPop was through with his remembrances for another year.

I sighed again, turning my head to watch him struggle with the lanyard and hoist that ratty old banner. Jeepers, it was ugly! Faded so badly the red stripes were pink, and the blue field was practically little more than a memory!

I heard the screen door creak open and bang closed again. Mom walked out and handed me a tall glass of iced tea.

"Why don't you take this to PopPop, Jack?"

I sighed again, rolled my eyes and unwound from my soft, comfortable place on the glider. Summer vacation, and here I was, being treated like a slave. "Why do we have'ta do this, Mom?" I stood and took the wet, cold glass. "Every stupid year. Shoot, I can prolly recite PopPop's stories by heart."

Mom smiled wryly. "Jack, it's important to him. It's important to your Dad and me, too."

"But it's so boring, Mom," I whined.

"Try putting yourself in his place, Jack. When he starts to talk about the war, just imagine that it's you in his place, and see how you feel then."

I gave her one of my patented "Are-you-out-of-your-mind" looks, and trudged heavily off the porch.

PopPop had that silly flag up to the top of the pole by the time I got there. He was standing back shading his eyes and watching it flutter in the breeze.

I held the glass of iced tea out to him, "Mom sent ya some iced tea, PopPop."

He turned his head and smiled at me, taking the glass and gesturing at the flag.

"Mighty proud old flag, ain't she?"

"Yeah, I guess so," I replied

He squinted at me, sipping the cool, refreshing drink. "Bored with me already, boy?"

"I just don't see why I can't be playing ball with the other guys, PopPop," I mumbled. "Summer vacation is short enough as it is."

He put a thin arm around my shoulders and patted my neck.

"Always in such a hurry to be at something, Jack. Don't think I don't remember how that feels. But some things are more important than baseball, or swimming at the lake," he winked at me, "or even doing your chores."

He looked up again at the flapping banner and sighed deeply. "Help me up to the porch, will ya, boy?"

We turned and he held my arm as we walked slowly back across the lawn, and up the steps of the front porch. He made his way to the glider and eased himself down with a soft grunt. The glass shook momentarily in his hand but he didn't spill a drop.

PopPop caught me watching that glass and chuckled.

"It wouldn't be the first time I spilled a drink, Jack."

All I could do was put on a fake smile.

He sipped his tea and gazed out at the leaves swaying on the trees.

"So you think what I have to say is boring, eh?"

I couldn't answer him. I didn't want to be disrespectful. But he went on as if I had answered.

"I used to cringe when my great-granddad would tell his war stories, Jack," he said. "Did I ever tell you that?"

"No, PopPop."

"He fought in the Civil War. He was in a regiment out of Pennsylvania. And, Lord, did I hate listening to him go on about it. You'd have thought the old man had been in every battle, and had won them all, single-handed!"

He chuckled, and I did, too.

PopPop smiled at me and asked, "Do you know why I'm so danged proud of that flag, Jack?"

"'Cause you carried it in the war?"

"Well, that's part of it, I guess. Maybe that's what it was at first for me. But as time went on and the war faded away in folks' memories, it started to become more important."

"More important than carrying it in battle?"

He sipped his iced tea and said, "I swear your mother makes the coldest, sweetest tea in the whole country!"

Looking again up at the old flag, he continued, "That old, worn out piece of cloth stands for something, boy, something bigger than any war, or any battle. "No matter how frayed the edges get, or how faded the colors, as long as that flag, and others like it still fly, there's freedom in this old world."

He looked at me as I stood by the porch rail, listening to him.

"That flag is just a symbol, boy, but it's a symbol of the finest experiment in the history of the world. Self-government. Government by consent of the people. This is the only place in the world where it works. And we forget that. All too often. Wars end, we come home, and we continue our lives as if all's right in the world. We get back to business, as we ought to do. And we forget that in most countries, folks don't have the right of getting back to business and on with their lives. We also forget that so many of our own men and women have shed their blood, lost all their possessions, and even died to protect the liberty that old flag symbolizes."

I turned and craned my neck to catch a glimpse of the faded banner. It might have been my imagination, but the red stripes seemed a little deeper, the blue a bit darker. That old flag looked more .. . vivid and alive.

"Jack, when we crossed the Rhine against the Nazis, and I tied that flag to a lamppost in the very first town we entered, I wasn't so much taking possession, as I was planting a little piece of liberty, right there in Nazi Germany.

"When those grunts raised the flag on Iwo Jima it was the same thing, though they might not've realized it just then."

I heard him grunt and turned to see him struggling to get out of the glider.

I stepped over and took his hand to pull him up. He rubbed his thigh - the one where the leg ends just below the knee - and I helped him to the railing. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the summer air.

I could hear him whisper, "The sweet smell of liberty," before he smiled at me and said, "It's an old flag, Jack; old and ratty, faded and tattered. But that flag is the symbol of our great country. There isn't a finer flag in the whole wide world. Nor a finer nation on the face of the earth."

I draped my arm around his frail shoulders, "I guess you're right, PopPop," I said. "I just didn't think about what it really meant."

His thin arm tightened around my waist, and his rheumy eyes filled with tears. "We rarely, do, Jack; we rarely do."

Later that afternoon, my sister, Emily, and her husband, Frank, came by for our traditional Independence Day meal. Frank and I shucked the corn and put it on the stove to boil, Mom and Emily whipped up the potato salad, and Dad and PopPop grilled burgers and hotdogs on the grill.

Afterward we listened to PopPop recite his favorite war stories. This time I put myself in his place and saw everything in a different light.

PopPop passed away two weeks into the New Year. He left me that ratty old flag, along with the two medals he'd won in the war. They were the only things of any value he had - those and his memories.

I still have that flag. It's carefully folded in a display box that sits on a shelf above my desk. I look at it every day, and remember PopPop. And I thank God for this great country.

© Copyright 2002 Jeffrey M. Keenan