The World’s Most Expensive Flag – With the Genuine Plastic Eagle

This is another encore blog from 2012. Larry wanted to see it again. We hope you will enjoy it.

On every national holiday, we hang out our flag. Actually, we’ve been doing it since we bought it a couple of months after we moved into our first house in 1970. Someone came to the door selling flags, and Larry bought one for twenty-five dollars. He said it was for a good cause, but he couldn’t remember which one.

The next day I went to the local drugstore and saw the same exact flag on sale for $2.95. Since then, I’ve called it “The World’s Most Expensive Flag with the Genuine Plastic Eagle.”

Of course, we’ve flown it on every patriotic holiday since then, and often for an entire weekend or longer.

On the old house, it flew from a holder on the porch post. It was really convenient because we could stand on the porch, reach around, and drop it in the slot.

However, on this house, Larry mounted the holder between the windows on the second floor. That meant we either had to use a tall ladder to get to it from the outside or open the nearest window and lean out to get the post into the holder.

When we returned from Japan in 2001, we replaced all our windows with vinyl-clad energy-efficient ones because the old ones had aluminum frames, and many would no longer open due to damage from the salty sea air.

The stucco then required repair, so we removed all the termite-ridden wood siding and trim at the same time. After the house was tented and the repairs were made, Larry installed a new flag holder between the upstairs windows. The new holder doesn’t hold quite as firmly as the old one, but it works. And opening the window and hanging out is still required to install the flag. (We took one of the screens off as soon as the window was installed, and it remains on the floor behind the sofa to allow for quicker flag access.)

On September 11, 2001, I was very grateful to have had the world’s most expensive flag in the house. I put it out that day to show our love for our country and the solidarity we all felt. Many of our neighbors also displayed new flags, purchased for the occasion, during the ensuing days, but ours was first.

The old flag may be a bit faded now, but it has been well cared-for over the years. Larry reminds me that we’ve had it for forty-two years, and it’s still going strong. So maybe he didn’t pay too much for it after all when the cost is amortized. And, after all, it does have a genuine plastic eagle!

NYC Part IV - Holy Ground

Last week, I described our bus tour of the city. This week, our visit to the 9-11 memorial.

The Big Bus stopped about three blocks from the 9-11 memorial. Everyone disembarked with us, and we made our way through the ice and slush and wind toward One World Trade Center in the distance. Because of our tight schedule, we had no time to go up in the tower, nor did we have time to visit the museum. They’re on the list for our next tip.

We heard the sound of water before we reached the plaza. We approached the pools and were moved by the many names engraved deeply into the granite. Here and there, a flower had been placed into the deep groove of a letter—a reminder of the families and friends of those who were lost and who continue to miss them. The footprints of the original towers struck me as enormous. The sound of water cancels out the sounds of the city as it falls from the outer rim to pound onto a second level. Then it flows into a small, square pool, where it finally drops into an abyss at the bottom and disappears from sight. Just as the towers fell and disappeared. Holy ground.

Larry circled the pools while I remembered the events of the day as if it had been the day before. We woke early and turned on the TV as usual to see the weather and traffic reports. Suddenly, the local feed shifted to the national news. Behind the reporters, smoke billowed from one of the towers. They announced a small plane had crashed into it. The incident was believed to be an accident—until another plane hit the second tower. I turned to Larry. “We’re at war.”

I watched as first responders rushed to the scene, and then as the towers crumbled. I remember the ‘ghosts’ who ran from the disaster covered in ash. Specific images of people remain vivid in my memory. I kept waiting for an announcement about a movie being filmed, hoping against hope this was a joke. It wasn’t.

As I stood next to a pool reading the names, it began to rain. Larry said it was just the spray from the falling water, but I was sure God’s tears blended with my own. Sacred space.

We headed back toward the bus stop. As we turned, I spotted an enormous structure next to the museum. From the end, it looked like a giant dove, whose wings consisted of thin concrete ribs. We were freezing and decided to step inside to warm up. The interior resembled a giant cathedral. Between the ribs, large glass panels revealed the surrounding buildings. We have been to the Crystal Cathedral in southern California several times. This space reminded me of the church. The sides of the interior met in a tall pointed arch.

As we looked down, we noticed a stage. We found it easy to imagine a concert in the space. The lower floor was lined with shops and stores. Two more levels rose along the sides. We found our way to the next floor down and followed it around to the exit closest to our next stop. We discovered this building, known as the Oculus, is actually the transportation center for the memorial site. Although no trains were running, this soon will be visitors’ introduction to the memorial. Beautiful, functional art.

Before we left, I wanted to visit St. Paul’s Chapel, George Washington’s church. I had read about this special location. It survived several major catastrophes untouched to become a source of comfort for survivors and first responders. For weeks following September eleventh, those working on the site were fed here. They slept in the sanctuary and found comfort from the congregation and clergy.

On our way, we passed the graveyard. The fence surrounding it was used for memorials in the days following the collapse of the towers. I looked to the right and spotted one of the old headstones in three pieces. I immediately remembered my great-grandmother’s headstone in the old cemetery in Spring City, Utah. We stopped there while on our road trip in 2012. I was moved just by seeing the names of those people from whom I descend. I have inquired a couple of times about having the headstone repaired, but the person who used to do the work is no longer available. Because this is a private cemetery, I assured those I spoke with that we would be happy to pay for the restoration. When I mentioned it to my cousins, they also said they would contribute. The last I heard, it is still in pieces, just like the one at St. Paul’s.

Larry took photos of the old gravestones while I entered the chapel. A preschool class colored on the floor in the center of the sanctuary. I smiled when I realized this was the perfect image for this special place. It isn’t a dead museum. It is a living place where the congregation continues to worship and serve. Testament to faith.

We re-boarded our bus, deeply moved by our short visit. By the second stop, everyone else had left. Once again, we claimed the very front seats on the second level. Our guide turned off the microphone and moved to the seat behind us.

He shared his story of that infamous day in 2001. He lives in Brooklyn. At the time, he was attending Columbia University, just a couple of blocks from the World Trade Center. The school announced an accident in one of the towers. Unlike management in the towers themselves, those in charge told the students to evacuate the school immediately.

As he left, he saw a huge cloud of smoke and ash rise above the city streets. He headed toward the bridge and passed “ghosts” covered with ash. Since no transportation was available, he began to cross the bridge, along with many others. He said he developed a new respect for the bridge. Today he never crosses it without remembering his escape from the city. He said he loves sharing his love of the city and his experiences with visitors. I wish we had asked his name—another friendly and memorable person we met in New York.

Sacred space. Holy ground. Divine locations. We are still processing their emotional impacts.

Next week: Our night on Broadway.

Indelible Memories

Some events burned themselves indelibly in my memory. The day my father died when I was seven. The day President John F. Kennedy died. And 9-11-2001.

I remember every minute, how I felt, what I said and did. Mostly I remember how helpless and confused I felt. The reality was simply too overwhelming to comprehend.

February 16, 1954

I got off the school bus and saw cars parked in our driveway and in front of the house. I recognized some, but others were strange. I walked inside, the rooms were filled, and the blinds were drawn. This had never happened before. The greatest surprise was seeing my paternal grandfather with his arm around my mother. As a rule, they avoided each other.

Mom said my dad was dead. I couldn’t grasp what it meant, and part of me didn’t believe it. Except Mom was crying. My aunts were crying. Heck, even Grandpa was crying. I decided I should cry, too, so I did. It took a long time to accept the reality of his loss.

November 22, 1963

The PA system crackled at lunchtime one day during my senior year of high school. This never happened. Gilbert Strother, our principal, announced the president had been shot in Dallas. I don’t remember what else he said, but we simply couldn’t believe the news.

JFK was “our” president. Even though he was the same age as my mother, he represented youth and change.

We had just returned to class when the PA came on again. Mr. Strother’s voice broke as he announced the death of our president. Nearly everyone began to sob. I think a couple of girls screamed. Classes were shortened for the day.

When I returned home, Larry was there already. He had heard in class at Cal Poly Pomona, where he was a student. They had cancelled classes. We turned on the TV and began the marathon coverage of the funeral and burial. Grief engulfed the nation.

September 11, 2001

We woke early as usual since we both kept early hours. We turned on the TV to get the weather and traffic report. I had taken the day off because we were expecting the contractor to do repairs following an earlier water leak.

Just as the TV came on, the scene switched from the local feed to the New York coverage with the announcement of a plane crashing into a World Trade Center tower. Smoke billowed from the building, shown behind the network anchors. As we—and they—watched, a second plane hit the other tower.

I immediately turned to Larry. “We’re at war.”

At the time, no one knew exactly who was responsible or why. Larry left for work and I continued to watch the live coverage. I saw the emergency responders arrive, and experienced sheer horror as the towers collapsed. Iconic clips played and replayed throughout the day. Added to the footage from Manhattan, the feeds from the Pentagon were added, including a live audio report from inside the building as the plane hit. More and more reports came in, some accurate, and some speculative.

Unreality overwhelmed the country. During the next few days, just like in the days following JFK’s assassination, the news coverage was unrelenting. And our country stood together.

Like all our neighbors and most of our friends, we flew our flag for days, beginning on September 11. Our old flag finally shredded, and we bought a new one.

The flag flies again today as it did fifteen years ago. These memories do not diminish over time. They are still too raw and too real. What do you remember this viscerally?