The Flag of the United States of America

Mine Eyes have seen the Glory
By Jeremy Lister

It’s funny what you remember when you look back on events that changed your life. For instance, I can remember very clearly the person who unknowingly taught me that the flag of my country is a very special thing; something that should be treated with a great deal more reverence and respect than it is commonly given in today’s world.

Given enough time and distance our memories tend to become refined. Some elements of our memories are eliminated, mostly, the things which are not important. For instance, I don’t remember what I was wearing that day, I don’t recall how old I was, and I don’t even remember what season of the year it was. However, I remember that the grey-blue of morning was giving way to the golden sunrise. The sky was crisp and clear, the air was fresh and cool, and perfumed of mowed grass. I walked to school then and I was early, I was usually early. That morning instead of waiting by the doors, waiting for them to be opened, I sat on the large tractor tires that made up the bulk of the playground equipment at that elementary school. The choice of venue that morning, changed my life in a very powerful, indelible way, and I will always be grateful.

It was easy to know when the custodian of the school came to work, he was a whistler. I don’t mean he whistled tunelessly. He was an artist. I imagine he could have whistled anything he wanted, from Hank Williams Sr. to Mozart. You could hear him in the still mornings a block away; remembering this, even now, brings a smile to my face. He always walked in worn, highly polished black combat boots; there was life in his step. He seemed joyful; he always wore an inward smile, which readily, became outward with the addition of his shinning dark eyes, and a wink. He was always proudly attired in his immaculate steel grey custodial uniform; it looked starched and pressed, because the creases on his trousers and shirt were always sharp and crisp. His dark hair was neatly combed, and he smelled of Vitalis, and clean aftershave. He carried his black metal lunch pail in one hand, a thermos in the other, and his jacket was slung over his forearm unless the weather was too cold. I remember his name, which I won’t share out of respect. And mostly, I remember that he was usually quiet and always kind even if he had to clean up after a sick kid, or was carrying out the garbage at the end of the day. He was the kind of person you didn’t pay much attention to until you knew how special he was….

On this particular morning, I heard him coming and decided, for a change, to sit quietly among the tires and listen to his morning concert. When he got to the school entrance, he passed the thermos to the hand holding his lunch pail, took the keys from off of his belt, unlocked the doors, and entered the school whistling. A few moments later the whistling stopped abruptly. I next saw him emerging from the school’s entry carrying the flag. There was something arresting in the way he carried the flag. He didn’t have it carelessly slung under his arm; he carried the blue and white star triangle delicately, in both hands out in front of him, as if it were a newborn child. His steps were measured and cautious as he approached the flagpole. For moment he stood erect ankle to ankle. I noticed as he unfolded the flag, it how neatly it had been folded. He had an air of readied tension about him as he attached the flag to the hooks on the halyard, as if he would cast himself to the ground before he would allow the flag to touch soil. He attentively, raised the flag slowly until there was no danger of it touching ground. He then raised the flag to the top of the flagpole at a slow steady pace until it reached the top, he secured the halyard, and then with hand on heart he stood erect, and silent. I don’t know what he thought of but I was close enough to notice a few tears stream down his cheeks. A few moments of repose, then he smiled; he dropped his hand back down to his side; slowly spun around on the place where he stood, faced away from the flag pole, and quietly stepped away. I watched as he reached into his back pocket and with his handkerchief, he wiped the tears from his cheek. He resumed his whistling, and his endless task of keeping the school clean.

I had seen respect, honor, dignity, and true patriotism. That experience has forever changed the way I look at our Nation and its symbol. It was a lesson clad in the humblest person I have had the privilege to have known. The school is no longer there. The flagpole only stand erect in the recesses of my memory, but that memory burned brightly every time I was fortunate enough to be assigned flag duty in the Army. That memory flashes across my memory whenever my daughters and I raise the flag in our front yard. It means ever more to me as I remember my good friends who have given their lives for that flag, and our Nation. Or, the friends, who yet stand firm in harm’s way to defend them.

p.s.
It would be great if everyone who displays a flag would check out these websites dedicated to proper flag procedures, just to make sure they are doing it properly….
http://www.ushistory.org/betsy/flagetiq.html
http://usmilitary.about.com/od/flags/United_States_Flag_Procedures.htm