O’er the Land of the Free
The beautiful and uncomplicated flag of the United States of
America – a unique human enterprise in and of itself – flaps confidently,
insistently, in the wind on a knoll above the country club of a rural golf
course in Upstate New York. It reminds
me that the leisure I enjoy – as well as the right to be educated, work in the
profession of my choice, and pick my own husband – is a product of this free
society. Women in other countries do not
all have this. Babies die in their arms
from hunger as they wait for rain and crops, or aid from other countries so
different from theirs that they are called other “worlds.” My stresses are not theirs. Oh, trust me, I have my stresses. But the things that set my hair on fire are
quite different and pale in comparison to my sisters’ across the globe. And no matter how tight my own budget gets, I
have vowed to never forget them. Any
gift of Mercy only needs a checkbook, a pen, and a stamped envelope because
there are so many charitable organizations in the Land of the Free and Home of
the Generous – yet another fruit of freedom is the ability to be generous.
A proverb written in the Hebrew Scriptures states: “the sun shines on the just and the unjust.” It is even so with the flag of North America. It flies to remind us to be the very best we
can be; while at the same time abides all kinds of inconsistencies within its
borders as we struggle to identify what The Best actually is. While some propose that being the Best is a
singular and solitary trait to be grabbed by wealthy, powerful, and
self-centered; others propose that being the Best is to completely dissolve
boundaries, limits, and sanity in the name of freedom. Both extremes are equally reprehensible. In the meantime, it might be time for a
national lesson of some sort on how to uphold the ability to respect all people
and yet disagree, if we choose, with their thoughts. Perhaps a lesson on Respecting the Freedom of
Conscience inherent in each human being is in order?
Adjacent from the flag unfurled in the winds of summer is a
cemetery. The flat, simple headstones
marked with memories of people, real and true human beings, who walked this
soil before us and worked out their own salvation in fear and trembling just
like we do. The granite tombstones are
bleached in the sunlight – the names may have been eroded from the harsh
winters they have endured, yet both of those natural factors remind us that
both the best and worst experiences bring out a clarified meaning in our lives
as well: our names may fade, but let our
deeds and words leave a legacy of peace and freedom for those who will live,
laugh and work here in decades to come.
A silly ballad from the 1970’s came to my head as I drove
the hills, “Please Mister Custer, I don’t wanna go…..” And as I looked at ramshackle mobile homes
and farm houses that needed vinyl siding to be carefully placed over the
insulated wrap exposed on them, I thought of the plaintive wail in that
song. Perhaps some balladeer would like
to revise the lyrics to: “Please Mister
G’vner, I don’t wanna lose my home…” Houses
should not have trees draping over them as if to hide their sorrowful
condition. Nor should they have to have
posts “shoring up” front porch roofs because the owner is not able to fix it
due to extreme poverty. Oh if every ear
of corn from Upstate NY that makes it to the cookouts of the Albany elites and the
governor’s mansion could tell the story of the families that bring forth the
food from the earth! The corn itself could
then lobby for justice for the farmers and their families!
Yesterday there was a weather forecast of strong winds and
hail. Today I see that the prayers of
some farmers’ grannies were answered. There
was no hail and the corn will be “knee high by the 4th of July” as
we all wish and hope for!
I see the man standing underneath the overhang of the
Masonic Temple on the main street. He is
shielding his eyes from the glare of the late-day sun. Taped to the window next to him is a sign
boasting an upcoming Flea Market… or is it a leftover sign from days gone by? How much do fleas cost these days
anyways? He holds a grocery store bag in
his hand as if nothing of consequence is in it.
I wonder if his take home pay is enough to actually take him home to
where he wants to be.
I chuckle at the woman sitting with her legs propped up on
the chair in front of her. She is
texting. She is also sitting in the
front parking lot of a neighborhood watering hole that looks almost utterly
abandoned of customers or life of some sort.
There is something comical about her presence there. She reminds me of a movie star on
vacation: dark shirt and jeans, dark
sunglasses, and she is texting away. The
modern technology of texting is now ever-present even in places like these - places
that exist solely for quenching the universal thirst of man for an ice cold
beverage after a hard day’s work. The
value of that momentary relief, I am told, may be diminished by something as
simple as being served in a glass bottle or in a can. Silly me, I thought beer was beer. Yet given the number of wooden posts for
growing hops that have been put up in the last 18 months across this State,
maybe I need to do some reading up on this and things related.
Front yards have cages for bunnies, chickens running around,
picking here and there for whatever interests them and bored dogs watching
traffic as they lie on the grass. Every
single borough I pass through seems to have a dollar store of some kind. I can’t imagine how they survived fifty years
ago without all this junk! Or can
I?! One village that I drove through had
a white country church with a pointed spire that had something on it’s very tip
that I couldn’t quite make out. I can
easily imagine that the church itself may have been featured on a delightful
Americana Christmas card with pretty multi-colored lights off-setting it’s prim
white exterior with precisely perfect black shutters. I drive further and I see the best thing of
all: a hand-carved Sasquatch looming at
the doorway of a small establishment.
If every town had a Sasquatch, parents could fabricate some
first-rate stories. This would then take
on a life of its own among the teenage crowd.
Add a little magic to the stories and it may just scare kids enough to
keep them off the streets and out of trouble at night. Every legend and folk story has a purpose. Sasquatch could also be adorned with
decorations for holidays. (I’ll let you
go with your own imagination on that one.)
Think: O’Sasquatch… that’ll get
you on a trail.
So many, many pieces of Americana to absorb on my ride! I stopped three times just to jot notes down
on a piece of paper. Well, okay, once
was to buy more strawberries for jamming from a roadside stand. But when I stopped at the convenience store,
this guy in a big-arse red truck pulled in next to me. He looked at me for a minute and then from
the back seat of my vehicle came a loud BELLOW…. Madeline, in her crate – and we
have cause to believe she is a living descendant of the Sasquatch himself –
startled that guy right back into focus.
I smiled to myself. I have a 26
pound chaperone in the back seat.
As we came over the crest of another hill, a small sign of
block-style-letters asked me: “Are you
happy in the Lord?” I live in the
greatest country in the world. My life
is not always easy. I work hard. But am I happy in the Lord? You bet I am.
######################
No comments:
Post a Comment