To avoid road construction on my normal drive to town, I took a detour. It was less than a mile from my home, yet I had never passed this way before. Braking at the stop sign, a sorry sight captured my attention. I glared at a torn and tattered flag perched precariously through rusted security bars that covered the window of a neglected old house. A heavy sigh escaped me as I slowly shook my head. As a Veteran, I wondered: How could someone display our flag in such a disrespectful manner?
The house was perched on a corner lot in rural Oklahoma. Its black paint was faded and peeling. The floorboards of the front porch curled up at indiscriminate intervals and the wooden steps sagged precariously.
I lingered at the intersection passing judgement on the occupant for the dejected display of our country’s proud symbol. Then, I scrutinized the entire scene before me. This ramshackle house had once been someone’s beloved home. The empty flower boxes on the porch railing had once held flowers. I could see the browned lifeless remains. The bricks that edged the flowerbed lay askew. The tree that had once supplied shade was now a broken trunk in need of removal. Yes, how could this happen?
Rolling through the intersection I saw the fingers of a gnarled hand pull down the ends of the metal blinds exposing a whiskered chin.
I drove to the grocery store to refill my pantry. Having lost my ninety-three-year-old father the previous year, the image of that gnarled hand and whiskered chin at the window haunted me.
After loading the groceries, I eased into a line of cars waiting to exit the parking lot. Inspiration struck like a fast-moving bug against a windshield as I idled in front of the Sutherlands home improvement store. Easing out of the parade of cars, I parked in front of the store and began my mission.
***
Back in my car, I angled across the lot to Sonic and bought two lunches to go. Ten minutes later I pulled into the rutted drive of the forlorn house with the bedraggled American flag. The Sutherland purchase remained in the backseat while I shouldered the car door open and carried my purse and the lunches up the front steps. My index finger depressed a yellowed button, but the recalcitrant doorbell remained silent. I knocked crisply and waited.
A shuffling sound resonated from behind the door, the doorknob slowly turned, and the hinges creaked eerily. The wizened face of a proud man protruded from the narrow gap.
“Yes?” He asked.
“Hi. My name is Julie. I’m your neighbor. I have an extra lunch and was hoping you’d help me out. You see, I don’t want to eat alone today. Would you have lunch with me?”
His lips parted in a broad grin. Eyes sparkled. “Well sure. Come on in.”
He stepped back and eased the door open. A window-unit air-conditioner purred from its housing in the adjacent wall. The room was so tidy it reminded me of military barracks. The furniture was old and worn but of good quality. He led me to a small, antique, clawfoot table which displayed two matching plastic, floral placemats. Then he methodically collected paper plates and squares of paper towels.
I unloaded the paper bags, and the scent of onions, french-fries, and cheeseburgers infused the air. I glanced at him. “Mister—”
“Clint. No need for mister.”
“Alright then Clint, I hope you like cheeseburgers.”
He licked his lips in anticipation. “That I do.”
We ate in comfortable companionship.
“Tell me, Clint, are you a Veteran?”
He spoke softly but articulately. “I am. Why do you ask?”
“Well for starters,” my head swiveled taking in the rooms, “your house is arranged in military precision, then there’s the American flag outside.”
He winced. “I should do something about Old Glory out there. I don’t get around so good anymore. It’s a shame I let her get into such a state, but I just don’t manage the steps very well.”
His shame became my own. In the future, I should withhold judgement until I have all the facts. “Well, I can take care of that after we eat.”
During our impromptu lunch I learned that he had retired from the Army after thirty years of service. He had a love for our country which was rivaled only by the love for his wife who had passed two years earlier.
“Clint, do you have a Phillips head screwdriver?”
“Yes, why?”
“I brought you a surprise.”
“You did, why?”
“From one Vet to another, I like to see Old Glory waving proudly. So, I picked up a new flag to replace the old one. Would it be all right if I mounted it to your porch railing?”
His eyes shone brightly as he raised his head. “I’d like that very much.”
“I can give the old flag to the boy scouts; they’ll dispose of it properly.”
He nodded approvingly.
He edged onto the porch and watched as I attached the bracket to the railing at the top of the stairs. When I inserted the flag, Clint’s stooped frame unfurled. He stood at attention and gave a precise salute which he held at the corner of his eyebrow. I stepped back and saluted as well. Of its own accord, the Pledge of Allegiance spilled from my mouth, and Clint joined me in recitation. His voice was raised in a powerful declaration of respect for our flag and our country. Mine, however, faltered with emotion.
Afterward, I mounted the steps to say goodbye. “You know, you remind me of my father. He would have been about your age.” Instinctively, I stepped forward and embraced him.
A wisp of a sigh escaped him as he leaned into me, patted my back, and said, “Stop by anytime.”
