Flying My Freak Flag

I hate when I take the time to write something, put effort into it and then lose it because of a mere wrong click of the mouse. I have done this several times with this blog and so you, my reading public, have been shorted a blog or two because I just couldn’t expel the energy it took to recreate. So after I woke up this morning, the first thing I did... (after rudely being brought to wakefulness by the ringing of the phone—It was Tuey, by the way. Seems he couldn’t locate his wallet containing all the money he has to spend during his trip to Chicago. This would have marked the second time he lost his wallet and money on a bells trip. He has since called back to dispel our (and I’m sure his) fears, but I digress)...the first thing I did this morning was hang out the flag. The expression “fly your freak flag,”came to mind—a term some people use that is meant to define who or what you are. I was blasted by the thought that some will see my American flag on my porch as no more than that. (Even perhaps and including that (fictionalized?) 60% of Americans who give their approval rating to a temporary occupant of a certain office who wishes to change 200 years of history in one fell swoop.) But I see flying the flag as an act of patriotism, handed down with callused and (all too often) bloodied hands of generations of men, women, and even children who lived and died for what this country could and did give them. So while we are yet still considered a free country, Happy 4th of July. And there you have it.