The Flags

 

I’m solo driving the Montana roads between Geyser, Belt, Bynum, and Choteau. Flags fly from fence posts, doorsteps, ranch gateways and poles too ridiculously high for a family’s front yard. 

Sometimes four, five or six to a building.  Like Christmas decorations the stars and stripes adorn every abode in this country. Not the greater country. Not the U.S.  The rural country of my youth.

In scouts I learned there was only one flag. That all others were below it. We would parade the one flag, because we were one nation. “Indivisible,” it was recited.  We would present the flag in school, at meetings, the one flag was always in the room. But now as I drive, there are many. I fill my camera with pictures of patriotism and lose count. The only other country that fly’s their flag this much is Israel. There too, if it’s erect, it probably displays the Star of David, blue across white. In Jerusalem a banner some 16 by22 feet flies atop the Choshen building on the Mount of Olives next to the place where Christ rose to heaven, announcing to all in the valley who the landlords are. 

And I suppose why not, Israel is the one member of the U.N. who’s right to exist is questioned by the larger body. It’s a bit of Zionist imperialism, but it’s also a lot of defiance. In Israel, I understand it, Hitler gave them six million reasons to fly.

Two American flags fly from either side of a rancher’s gate north of Dupuyer. I stop and click a picture. They are large, 6’ by 10’.  I’d seen one earlier trailing from a hitch pole in a Dodge pickup somewhere between Lewistown and Moccasin.  

I couldn’t help but wonder how the driver kept it from touching the ground when he stopped.  The first scout rank, Tenderfoot, still teaches respect for the flag. Folding, storage, carrying, display, at eleven there was a lot to practice and memorize. I’m edging on sixty now, but I don’t remember the parts about draping the stars and stripes off the back of four-wheeler. Nor about wearing it as a cape after winning a sporting event. Olympic stars regularly are on TV letting their flag cape touch the ground, and never a word is said. 

But, kneel for the national anthem, and a war could start. Growing up on military bases, the flag stopped everything. I mean literally. When the base flag was lowered at 5 each day, the national anthem played on the loud speaker, and twelve thousand people would stop.  Up here, when they run out of poles, they find other display methods. The painted pallet flag is popular. 

One house in Lavina had a flag mounted in a old sash window frames leaning against a tree in the yard. It did not look like it was brought in each night at sunset.

I suppose I am being boy scout picky about the display of the flag. But there has been a lot of pickiness poked in my face about flags over the last few years. So, I go back to my conservative flag respect roots. The U.S. Flag code says you shouldn't wear a flag.  But then again the Montana department of transportation says my speed limit is 75. I like most flag displayers up here am just taking that as an advisement.

I drive on, eventually reaching Bonner’s Ferry Idaho. In the center of town an American flag sized to rival the one above the Choshen building fly’s next to Mugsy’s Tavern & Grill.  I stop for lunch. Its my patriotic duty.  It seems to be the local police favorite take out place. Three non-descript deputies stop by for sandwiches. A couple of older guys sit at the table next to me. One in his seventies wearing a Vet’s baseball cap, and a younger, center parted gray long haired hippy looking guy in tan shorts and sandals. He is a retired federal officer.  I know this, as he calls about six different people while waiting for his order. He starts the conversations with, “Hi, I’m a retired federal officer.”  He’s trying to organize “a shoot.”  Apparently, he’d seen some officers shooting at helium balloons or something in Troy Montana a week or so back, and thought it would be good to get something like that organized in Bonner’s Ferry.  He is trying to find the police chief of Troy.  Google had not served him well, and he has called the police department of Troy Michigan. Hence confusion as he is given numbers to call around the department. I’m not technically from Montana or Idaho anymore, but I know their area codes. He is writing down the numbers starting with 248. So his struggles are amusing. Between calls he small talks with his silent fellow retiree about how cool the shoot he’d seen was. Eventually the police chief of Troy calls him.  The whole “I’m a retired federal officer trying to organize a shoot” spiel is repeated. I’ve memorized it, like flag folding from my youth. There is a brief silence on this side of the call, followed by “Oooh, you are the police chief of Troy Michigan. I wondered why I wasn’t getting a 406 number.”  More silence on this side, and the retired federal officer moves to small talk, “So how are things in Troy Michigan?”  There is more silence followed by, “Well you can always move out here.  We love our police.” 

I am not quite sure of that statement. In high school we loved the local sheriff. Mainly because he understood the politics of a small-town. His son played baseball with us, his wife was in the P.T.A. They were more public safety negotiators than unfamiliar holders of authority.  On the other hand, there was a distinct distrust of federal police. Ruby Ridge happened a few miles away from Bonner’s Ferry, so I am suspect of our retired federal officer’s perspective.   

After lunch I started down the backbone of Idaho on US 95. Flags are less frequent now. I suspect that has to do with population. Idaho’s got an extra 700,000 people on half the land of Montana. So, there are more towns. Big Sky is blocked by mountains, so flags can’t be seen from the distances. Also, running along the open spaces of State Highway 2 between the afore mentioned Montana municipalities one might suspect you have left the country.  I suspect there, the flags may just be assurance you have not crossed into Canada by mistake. Or maybe to let Canadians know they have crossed by mistake. Parts of British Columbia and Alberta make Montana roads look like the Los Angeles freeways. Anyway, I had plenty of time between towns to suspect things. The retired federal officer inspired the flag crime fighter in me. It’s a couple days home, so I ruminated with the cattle passing by my side like Sheldon Cooper on flag symbolism as I drove.

Thursday after I get back, I’m watching the President give his acceptance speech.  It didn’t not hold my interest, and I turn to studying the flags in his background. 

I count them. Fifty, one for each state, I suspect. But then the camera pulls back, and I can see the audience. There are more flags. A flag inflation of sorts. Like with any inflation the currency loses its value and I wonder why he thinks he needs so many. There is only one America. But maybe he’s afraid people might unsure of where they are at now.  Maybe like his catch phrases, he thinks if he repeats the flag, he’ll be more American and more great.  Somehow in all his flag richness, he’s forgot the meaning of one flag. He reminds me of the guy that gave the people of Israel the need to fly the Star of David over the Choshen building.