HOW STANDS THE CITY?:

I wrote this a while ago, so it will seem redundant to some, and I apologize for that. Also, I promised on pain of death never to reveal the identity of the gentleman mentioned herein--an entirely characteristic desire on his part not to be made to seem extraordinary, though he is. We reprint it now only because, having had the tv on for exactly twenty minutes, I just saw the American flag being burned on four different continents and even here in the U.S.:

I have to admit that I find most of the "Greatest Generation" stuff to be pretty annoying. I don't think the generation that survived Depression childhoods and fought WWII actually did anything that other generations of Americans would not have (let's hope we never have to find out). And I think they deserve our opprobrium for the job they did raising their kids and for the demands they placed on government, as if their service to the nation entitled them to fiscally irresponsible Social Security, Medicare, and other social welfare programs. Mostly I think the image of them as selfless and silent sufferers is a canard. This after all was the generation that first popularized divorce and the myriad social "freedoms" that did so much to destroy our social fabric in the 60s & 70s.

On the other hand, one of my personal heroes is a member of that generation and does exemplify all the qualities we attribute to them generally. I have a friend whose Dad was a poor Jewish kid from Louisiana. He was sent to fight the Germans in Europe and ended up in the Battle of the Bulge. He's a big, big man, not terribly tall but bull-like. Most of all, he's got big feet. One of the only things I've ever heard him complain about in all the years I've known him is that they could never get boots big enough for him, so his feet always hurt anyway, plus it was cold as heck marching around in the snow that winter. For years that was darn near all he told us about his service.

So here was this big, quiet guy, the kind of Dad that every boy sort of, or openly, wishes he had. One who doesn't feel compelled to "share his emotions, but whose feelings of love for his family, his friends, his God and his country are clear to anyone who pays attention. Simply by his presence and his authority he made us tone down, and improve, our behavior. It wasn't that we feared him--though once, when I swore in front of his wife, he did clobber me over the head and surprised even himself by splitting the plastic batting helmet I was wearing in two--it was more that we couldn't bear the thought of disappointing him.

Then, one night, I don't even remember how we got him going, he said a little more about his war. In quiet, almost reverential, tones, he just mentioned to us : "I had to bayonet a guy during the war. I could feel his weight at the end of the gun barrel." And, with that, he got a far away look in his eyes and he said no more.

Well, we were so quiet, so awed, that you could hear everyone breathing. No way would we have had the temerity to ask him anything more; even if our curiosity was killing us, as I assure you it was.

Why do I mention that now?

Today someone asked me a question : what does the American flag mean to you? I'm afraid my answer was neither eloquent nor memorable. She asked me about the flag burning case and didn't have a coherent response. But then this guy, whose Dad I mention, told me a story.

When that case was decided, he asked his Dad what he thought about it. His Dad, of course, is your garden variety New Jersey Jewish Democrat. He supports the right of people to do things he would never dream of doing himself and which he would strangle his own sons for doing. But he does support those rights. So my friend expected him to say the decision was okay.

Instead, his Dad said that he thought burning the flag was an act of sacrilege, like burning the Torah.

As my friend said :

"I don't know that you'll ever inculcate that level of love of country inthe classrooms where you're putting flags...but if you can get to 50% of that sentiment, it will be worth the effort...."

What a glorious gift those of us who are privileged to live in America have received. For it is only in America that a boy may be sent abroad to fight an evil that, while it is not even harming his countrymen, is killing his coreligionists by the million. Such are the ideals that we often vindicate, that evil shall not stand, that when freedom is threatened, we'll be there. Such are the values that the flag stands for.

How lucky we are that men like this end up here, where these values reign, where they endure through the efforts of such men. It has been one of the great privileges of my life to know him.

So, rather than dwell on the navel-gazing cretins who are defiling our flag and besmirching our streets in SF and Chicago and elsewhere, we choose instead to think of this utterly decent and wholly unrecognized hero and those like him, many of whom are abroad tonight in yet another blighted land, fighting for the same values sixty years later. Thanks to them, and in spite of the swinish demonstrators, if we ask ourselves "how stands the city on this winter night?", we can honestly answer: "not bad at all".

Posted by Orrin Judd at March 21, 2003 8:55 PM