Remembering Respect

I remember as a young child, living in a big white two story house in Dearborn, Michigan. I have a variety of memories of living there:
-my first real birthday party on my sixth birthday,
-learning to ride my bike and Jimmy Roush not believing me,
-my first crush on Jimmy which was severely hampered by him not believing me,
-taking my mom’s spoons to the yard to dig,
-getting locked in the garage with the overhead door only a few inches open, yelling for help, and using a croquet mallet and sliding it across the ground outside the door to get attention,
-learning to pray every time I heard a siren. It was Detroit in 1970-71. There were a lot of sirens.
I also learned something from my mom and dad that is still dear to me. I learned a love for my country and a love and respect for our flag, the stars and stripes, the red, white and blue. We had what seemed to me the tallest flagpole in the world right in the middle of our front yard. I remember going out early in the morning, raising the flag, and saying the Pledge of Allegiance. Never mind that I thought it said, “for witches stand”. ~smile~ We didn’t leave the flag out in the rain. We didn’t let the sun go down on the flag. I was taught to fold it properly. I’m thankful for that.
A few years ago, my dad gave my husband a flagpole. As things went, he didn’t get it put in the ground. It’s still waiting in my garage. One day, I’ll get hubby to set it up, even if it’s in cement in a bucket. I look forward to the opportunity to pass on that love for the flag to my children. We’ll hang the flag outside Saturday as a way of saying, “We’re proud to be Americans, where at least we know we’re free.”

Thank You, God.

Thank you, Dad.


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