THE STRAIGHTFORWARD PULPIT

ALONG THE FLAG ROUTE

"Drafted" into the local Rotary Club, I quickly moved up the ranks by no choice of my own.  You arrive at a meeting; you're told you are now the flag "Captain" for the Montecito neighborhood in Denton.  I didn't ask for the promotion; I didn't want it; I was simply told of my elevated status. 

Not much relieved by offers help proffered by Rotary's "honorably retired generals" (who knew the route), I took to the task grudgingly.  When flag day arrived, I, with grumpy mood in tow, sat my butt down on the back flap of the pick-up truck seated next to 55 American flags. 

The distribution of flags along the route, like American patriotism itself, was spotty.  (Some buy a flag for Rotary to set up on federal holidays; others do not.)  Then there were the actual yellow spots that marked the sidewalk.  Twelve inches back from the spot, buried into the lawn, is the sleeve.  Old glory is unfurled, and the pole goes into the sleeve.  Simple.  Well, it's not that simple if the customer has St. Augustine grass. The gnarly stuff grows over the sleeve, and you get your fingernails dirty trying to locate it.  (At least I have hands to search. Some American veterans do not have hands -- or legs, for that matter).

It's 9 o'clock in the morning.  The sun is out; there is a tinge of breeze, and the sounds of birds and sprinkler systems fill the air.  In Montecito, you get the feel of "old school", "quiet" wealth.  Lawns and landscapes are manicured, in many instances, to perfection. The lots are expansive and the architectural themes vary.  It is a visual celebration of the Protestant work ethic and the Calvinistic cultural milieu (think:  ordered beauty) from which the "self-evident' truths, articulated in our founding documents, sprang.  It is quintessentially American.

Inbetween flag postings, one is left to ponder many things in the bed of a pick-up.  I thought about how, at one stop, I was about to set the flag down on the ground.  Something in my brain, a lesson of yesteryear, kicked in.  "Whoa. Don't set it down," I said to myself.  It's easy to profess respect for the flag and to the republic for which it stands, but it's an act of the will to practice it.

At another stop, a visitor from San Diego complimented us on our task.  "What brings you to our great state?" asks our honorably retired general.  "My brother died," she replied.  "He served in the military for thirty years, and he would have loved what you're doing."  She choked up a bit.  "My husband and I both served, and my son, a reservist, is on his third tour in Afghanistan."

This shall suffice, but I could write more.  This is enough, for I no longer serve as Flag Captain grudgingly.  The adverbs of choice now are gratefully and willingly.