You know, I really didn't want to be there that day. Not in the middle of a beautiful "end of August" Saturday, with a million things I wanted to do.
Because it meant a lot to my husband, I abandoned my "wants" and begrudging joined him on a trek to a flag retirement ceremony in a remote farming area of northern Minnesota. Once a Marine, always a Marine, that was Mike -- you didn't miss something like this at a Vietnam Memorial created by a Vietnam Vet on his farm.
It was a beautiful drive through the pine forests, first on paved roads and then narrower dirt roads leaving billowing dust clouds behind our Silverado pickup truck. My mood changed a little as the beauty of Mother Nature became so intense it could no longer be ignored.
Harvest was near and the wheat waved its golden heads in unison, as if to say, "See what you almost missed." Corn, heavy with ripe ears, rustled and created a symphony of sound as we traveled past. Each pond was filled with a variety of waterfowl, each tending to business as usual, hardly noticing the strangers passing by.
Occasionally the cattle grazing in the pastures would interrupt their eating to gaze curiously, if somewhat disinterestedly, at the road.
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As we turned on the long gravel driveway, my husband called my attention to the flags flying in the wind in a clearing in the forest at the top of a hill. There was one for each branch of the military along with a POW flag and Old Glory herself. I admitted that it did "look nice."
Mike was a member of the Marine Corp League and had proudly put on his red, white and blue uniform. He was a member of their honor guard and would be one of the riflemen doing the military salute. He always seems to walk a little taller with that uniform on, though now it was worn by a not so mean, not so lean, (but still a) Marine.
We arrived at the farmstead located in a beautiful forest high on a hill. The flower gardens next to the John Deer tractor, next to a combine, next to a huge vegetable garden reminded me of the farm where I'd grown up. The farmer/veteran's wife greeted us cordially.
There appeared to be about 200 people of various ages -- some alone, some with families. I began to notice VFW jackets, T-shirts proudly displaying logos of all the military branches, caps proclaiming US Marines, US Navy, US Army. A handsome young man proudly wore his US Air Force uniform, pressed to perfection with shoes so shiny you could see his reflection.
The contrast of economic situations could easily be seen. As well as different branches of military personnel, all economic scales were represented -- affluent to the poorest of poor. The common denominator being service to the United States of America. The eldest veterans served in World War II and the youngest served in Iraq.
My husband and the honor guard, all lined up proudly at the edge of the conclave. Their uniforms were neatly pressed and the sun flashed on the perfectly polished brass. Their silhouettes had changed over the years, but the pride and physical bearing remained that of a 22-year-old.
The patriotic readings were inspiring and the songs beautifully sung; the honor guard fired their rifles in perfect unison. Old Glory waved majestically high above, and it was time for the flags of each military branch to be retired.
Each flag was reverently taken down, folded and a new one soon caught the summer breeze and fluttered against the blue sky. As the Marine Corp flag was about to come down, an old man of 90 years, slowly made his way to the flag pole. His steps were unsteady, small and slow, his shoulders were stooped. He reached out and steadied himself on the flagpole as the tattered Marine Corp flag was slowly lowered.
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As the flag came slowly closer to the bottom of the pole, within his reach, he looked up and an amazing thing happened. The stooped shoulders straightened proudly, the shaky legs became strong and for a few seconds it was 1941, and I plainly saw a strong, handsome, young marine proudly saluting HIS flags.
Later, on our way home, I thought of the things I could have gotten done at home that afternoon and they seemed insignificant. Then I thought of the things I had seen that afternoon, and I thanked my husband for letting me share a moment of magic, on a warm summer afternoon, near a wheat field on a northern Minnesota farm.
