Arson in America
It may be that I hate Tom Brady.
Probably I’m just jealous.
By any stretch I never have, and never will be, a patriot.
that was flying (not so proudly) out front.
I couldn’t take down the 18 square foot real-estate sign, presumably because they were coming to pick it up (path of least resistance), but I COULD take down that flag. So I did.
Turns out it didn’t really want to come down. Oh, the flag was easy enough. Wood rod inserted into PVC tube = easy removal. This despite its, apparently many, years of service. Still I felt a little self-conscious rolling that flag up and transporting it to the backyard. I felt like people were watching. Which is why, when I found out the bolts to the bracket were rusted stuck, I dumped that flag in a hurry. Standing there mucking about with a symbol of America’s greatness in front of my new neighbors was not my idea of a great start.
So, I put that rolled up parcel into the trash mound (think of that Iwo Jima memorial…) lovingly left by the former owners who - despite 3 years of residence - hadn’t figured out how to handle bulk item removal in Brookfield. Then I got out a little bike chain lube and let that melt those rusty nuts. It wasn’t that homo-erotic in practice, trust me.
There was something sad about that bedraggled flag. Something over and above its general uselessness in my life. If possible, it seemed to predate the hunk-o-junk rusty fixture it was smashed into. Being without the internet, I had no idea how to respectfully dispose of it (which is probably why I rolled it up and hid it in my trash). Even though I didn’t find it tasteful, I think the flag deserved a better end than it got.
Because, that very afternoon, someone burned it.
That’s right. My small decrepit old banner that wouldn’t have passed as a homeless lady’s undergarments in the height of WW2 rationing was systematically found and destroyed by a ne’re-do-well. Apparently there is a transient frequenting the alleys of a mid-upscale suburb with a compulsion for trash-picking, and a POW background. Oh well, I guess it’s better than my last place where I had 3 shouting matches with people who were actively, currently, peeing in my alley.
No matter how stridently you argue, or poetically persist, some people will just not get a life.
Here’s to old poles with charred scraps of multi-hued nylon melted to them (my trash guy is a nice chap named Joseph McCarthy).