Monthly Archives: June 2006

Just in time for Independence Day, the Senate has again rejected a Constitutional amendment to prohibit desecration of the United States flag. That’s the good news. The bad news is that the amendment failed by only one vote.

When we recite the pledge of allegiance to the flag, we aren’t really stating our dedication to the flag, but to the country of which it is a symbol. The flag in itself is just a construction of red, white, and blue fabric. What we honor when we salute the flag is the pride, the history, and the freedom that it represents.

I feel privileged to live in the United States. I am deeply proud of this country and its history. I absolutely believe that each of us has a responsibility to protect our way of life and our ideals.

One of the most important of those ideals—one we should never take for granted—is freedom of speech. I can write letters to the editor expressing completely outrageous opinions, and the only consequence is likely to be other people writing equally outrageous letters back. I can rant in a public place about Congress or the President or the mayor, and nobody is going to burst through the door and haul me off to jail.

And, if I feel it necessary in order to make my voice heard, I can plant myself in a visible public spot and set a flag on fire. Among the freedoms our flag symbolizes is the freedom to burn one. The Supreme Court has ruled more than once that burning an American flag is Constitutionally protected free speech. That is a freedom we need to preserve.

Freedom of speech is not limited to speech that the majority agrees with. It is not limited to courteous, dignified, or sensible discourse. Accepting and living that freedom means tolerating even expressions—such as burning a flag—that we may find repulsive or outrageous.

The Flag Code sets out the appropriate way to treat the flag that represents our country. It specifies that the flag should never be used for any advertising purpose or printed on anything meant to be used and disposed of. It also states that the flag should not be used as part of a costume or athletic uniform, except that a flag patch may be used on the uniform of military personnel, fireman, policeman and members of patriotic organizations.

Yet, this time of year, it is routine to see flags in ads for Independence Day sales. Tee-shirts, hats, and even swim suits have flag patterns. If you want to go on a Fourth of July picnic, you can buy paper plates and napkins with flags printed on them.

Which person is the true patriot—one who uses the flag in a newspaper ad? One who wears a bikini printed with the flag? One who wipes the ketchup off his chin with a flag-printed napkin? Or one who burns a flag in heartfelt protest?

The only real danger to our flag comes from those who would trivialize it in the name of patriotism. It is a superficial patriot who believes preserving a flag is more important than preserving the liberty it represents. Bully for the Senators who took their patriotism seriously enough to stand against a constitutional amendment to outlaw flag burning. Such a law would be a long and dangerous first step toward restricting one of this nation’s most fundamental liberties.

My parents visited me for a couple of days recently because my dad had appointments with the cardiologist. They are in their early 80s, with some health problems but still active, capable, and very much themselves. They still live on the farm where I grew up.

We had a good time while they were here, and for some reason I was reminded of a time years ago when I visited them. It was not long after I had moved to Rapid City, and my two kids were still young. This was in the early spring, probably at Easter.

The night before we were to leave for home, there was a heavy rain. The next morning I had to drive five miles of gravel road to get to the highway. This is in the south central part of the state, where mud is real mud—heavy, sticky gumbo. It builds up on your boots till you’re six inches taller and walking like John Wayne wearing Ginger Rogers’ high heels. When it dries, you have to chip it off with a chisel. Once my sister and brother-in-law got thoroughly stuck in my parents’ lane. A year or so later, they had some work done on the car and the mechanic had it up on the hoist. He asked them, "What’s that stuff stuck under here? Concrete?"

This was what I had to drive through. There was gravel on top of it, but I knew if I slipped off onto the shoulder of the road I would be in real trouble. I was a little worried about getting through with my little Datsun station wagon, but I loaded the kids into the car and started out. We slipped and slid a few times, but we made it.

After I got home, I called to let my parents know we had gotten home with no problems. My father happened to answer the phone. I said I hadn’t had any trouble getting through the mud. He chuckled and said, "You didn’t know you had a guardian angel following you, did you?"

After I left, he had gotten into the pickup and driven a half mile behind me all the way to the highway, just in case I slid off the road and needed some help.

My dad is not someone who says, "I love you." He doesn’t fuss or get emotional. Yet what he did that day said, "I love you," as clearly as if he had shouted it.

More clearly, in fact. He could have told us goodbye with big, warm hugs and said, "I love you"—and then stayed comfortably in the warm house with another cup of coffee. Instead, he put on his coveralls, went out to the pickup, and drove five miles through the mud to the highway and five miles back. He was there behind me just in case I needed him.

Last week, while my parents were here, I took them to the doctor’s office and the other places they wanted to go. They can get to my house with no trouble, but they aren’t comfortable driving in city traffic any more than they have to. The morning they were to leave, I drove my car to the clinic and they followed me. When my dad had seen the doctor, they started for home. It’s easy enough to find the way—straight up Fifth Street, all the way through town to the interstate. I knew they wouldn’t have any trouble.

Still, when they pulled out of the parking lot, I waited a minute or two and then pulled out behind them. Staying back far enough so they wouldn’t notice me, I followed them part way through town, until I knew they were well on their way to the highway.
It really wasn’t necessary, but it felt like the right thing to do. I was there behind them just in case they needed me.

That’s just a little something I learned from my dad.

One evening several years ago, I had to make a quick trip to the grocery store. I hurried out of the house, got into my station wagon that was parked in the dark driveway, and started the car. As I glanced over my shoulder to start backing up, two dark shapes leaped up from the darkness behind the back seat.

They shouted “Boo!” I screeched. When my heart had stopped racing and I was able to breathe again, I explained calmly and reasonably to my daughter and stepdaughter that if they ever did that to me again I would ground them and take away their allowances until they were 85.

They apologized. They really didn’t intend to frighten me into a heart attack. They didn’t know their prank had triggered a fear I had had since I was much younger than they were. When I was a little kid I was afraid of the dark. Not the dark itself, really, but all the nameless, formless Things that might be hidden in it.

I remember on summer evenings, especially when cousins were visiting, we kids would play outside after supper. The sun would go down, and the twilight would begin to deepen into dusk. The change happened so gradually that we scarcely noticed the darkness. Eventually, though, someone would turn on the yard light. Suddenly our arena for play narrowed to the spotlighted stage between the yard light and the house. Beyond the circle of light lay an ominous dark territory where we didn’t dare trespass.

Even that wasn’t so bad; as long as there were several of us, there was safety in numbers. The experience that was truly frightening was one I sometimes had to do all by myself—going out in the dusk to shut the door to the chicken coop.

Every spring my mother would buy a couple of hundred baby chicks. They were kept in a brooder coop out by the well, quite a long way from the house. At first, when they were cute yellow balls of fluff, they were kept shut up with heat lamps to keep them warm. As they got older, though, turning into homely adolescents with scraggly feathers and meager combs, they were turned outside during the day. As it started to get dark, they would head back into the coop to roost. Somebody had to go out and close the door, to protect them from marauding skunks, civet cats, and raccoons. Too often for comfort, that somebody was me.

This wasn’t so bad as long as it wasn’t quite dark yet. But on those nights when full darkness had fallen, this chore turned into a task straight out of a Boris Karloff movie.

Getting to the chicken coop meant making a long walk parallel to a strip of trees that served as a windbreak. In the daytime they were perfectly ordinary rows of Chinese elms. After dark, though, they turned into looming, menacing shapes capable of hiding anything from lions to tigers to bears.

I never knew whether taking a flashlight made things better or worse. True, using one meant I could see where I was going. But it also advertised my presence to whatever might be out there in the dark. It felt as if that bobbing circle of light was a beacon announcing, “Hey, guys—she’s right over here! Come and get it!”

The trip out to the chicken coop, one breathless step at a time away from the shelter of the house, was scary enough. I would finally get there, close the door on the murmuring birds, and latch it. Now came the worst part of the journey, the return. It meant turning my back on the menacing darkness and everything lurking in it.

I could see the lighted windows of the house, which seemed an impossibly long distance away. They represented safety. The challenge was to get there.

I’d start walking, carefully so I wouldn’t trip over anything in the dark, quietly so nothing would notice me. At this stage, I never ran. Running only made it worse, because it felt as if whatever was behind me was getting closer and closer, and if I tripped and fell it would get me for sure. But as I walked, I kept moving a little faster and a little faster. Past the looming dark shape that in the daytime was the combine. Past the old machine shed and the car bodies behind it where anything might be hiding. Past the first granary. Past the second one. Past the tool shed. By now I was almost to safety. Probably they weren’t going to get me this time.

And now I was onto the packed dirt closer to the house and I could start running—faster and faster, past the yard light, past the car and the pickup, through the gate, into the yard, up the steps, through the porch, and into the light and safety of the kitchen, panting and out of breath. But safe.

Until the next time.