Old Glory

My father used to hang our flag out on those particular days of the year set aside to honor patriotism or American troops—Veterans Day, Memorial Day, the Fourth of July. Early in the morning he would go to the hall closet, push aside the winter coats, extract the flag from where it had been languishing in a dark corner, and carry it to the front porch. My sister and I would follow him out and watch as he carefully removed the sheath that kept our flag protected from dust and debris, then, holding it high so that it never touched the ground, he would carefully slip the wooden dowel into the permanent metal holder he had bolted to the porch post, slowly rotating it so that the flag unfurled. It was such a precise and deliberate routine, I almost felt like saluting or placing my hand over my heart.

By the time I was a teenager, my father had been dead for years. No one put our flag out anymore. My generation was the one that burned the flag, or tore it in strips to make hair ties or bandanas, or sewed it upside down on the backs of military fatigue jackets. Our irreverence was monumental because our rage had reached monumental proportions. We were angry at the politicians we hadn’t elected and didn’t support, the ones who were sending teenaged boys off to fight a war in a country that was so far away we’d never even heard of it. We were even more angry when we discovered that those same politicians had been lying about what was really going on.

Many times, in those years, I thought of my father’s tender unfurling of the flag and his fierce patriotism. Had he lived to see the assassination of John F. Kennedy in 1963, the similar death of Kennedy’s brother Robert five years later, the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. that same year, the rioting and chaos in this country and the mass slaughter on both sides in the Vietnam War, it would have broken his heart. Through it all, I have no doubt that he would have continued to bring out the flag on those special days, to hold it high and honor it.

Last night I fell asleep listening to the rain and thinking of my father. This morning at 6:30, when I was certain the storm had passed, and the sun began to rise on a gorgeous day, I went to my hall closet and retrieved my flag, carrying it to the front porch and slipping it into the stanchion on the post there. As I write this, I can see it through the glass panes of the kitchen door. A light breeze wafts through, and the stars and stripes flutter. Sixty years past, still angry at the state of the union, but never having lost my own sense of patriotism, I am proud to repeat my father’s routine. Sixty years on, when I am dead and gone, may Old Glory proudly wave still.

In memoriam: Dennis Shore

Back in the mid-1970’s when I was still a child…. Okay, when I was still child-like—I sang in church a lot. So much so, in fact, that, in order to increase the repertoire of songs in my song list, I needed to find someone who could play guitar for me. You may already know that I play… a little. But as I have always said, my instrument is my voice. I know enough chords to get me through quite a few tunes, but there were songs I just didn’t have the expertise to play. Which is how I ended up with Rick Linstrom playing lead and Dennis Shore playing bass for me. Or “Mr. Dennis,” I should say.

Rick was a dear friend from my high school days. We had Biology together in summer school, and the guy made me laugh every. single. day. (Not an easy thing for anyone to do in my days of serious depression.) Eventually we both attended Calvary Chapel of Riverside—oops, I mean, Harvest Christian Fellowship (before it was the mega church it is today), which is where I did most of my singing (in addition to weddings, funerals, and the occasional potluck or baby shower). Rick is a seriously good axeman, and he brought along Dennis, whom I had known of in high school but didn’t know well.

We decided immediately that Dennis would need some augmentation to his name, since my husband’s name was Dennis, and things would just get too confusing. So I added the “Mr.” Seemed humorous at the time, but as I got to know him over the months that followed, the name fit him perfectly. He was a big man who deserved—but never demanded or even expected—big respect.

He was a gentleman all the time. The kind that opens doors for others, says please and thank you, rinses his own dishes when he’s finished eating, even if he’s hanging out at a friend’s house. Without saying a word, he would always carry my guitar along with his. Always. He read the paper, knew what was happening in the world and could talk about it. And he loved pizza. He showed up to practice one afternoon carrying a pizza. If you’re envisioning a big man with a baby face and apple cheeks carrying a pizza box, you’ve got everything right except the object in his hand. He was carrying a round pizza pan—because he’d made the pizza at home, just needed to throw it in my oven for a while to cook it. Seriously. Dennis Shore was a Renaissance Man before anyone knew it was cool to be such a person.

He was jovial and sweet and caring. Rick was all those things, too, and both guys brought a certain light into my life that was warm and luminescent and healing.

My husband hated that I sang with them. I don’t think the guys ever knew, but my old man disapproved of our time together practicing, of the songs we rehearsed (and sometimes performed, when we could get a gig)—hell, he disapproved of my use of the term “gig” to describe being scheduled to “share music” at church. It added to the tension in our already tension-filled marriage, and eventually the band broke up.

After that my husband and I moved away, and after that, we broke up, too. Rick and his wife also divorced, so life took all of us in separate directions. For decades.

At some point, I found Rick again, and was happy to know he’d gotten remarried and was still playing music. But I didn’t reconnect with Mr. Dennis until a year ago. I saw a comment he made on Rick’s Facebook page, and I couldn’t believe it was him, after all those years. I messaged him. He messaged back. Some weeks later, we met for lunch. My oh my, what a reunion!

I would’ve recognized the big man anywhere—still with the baby face and the apple cheeks. Still with the smile while holding the door for others as he came into the restaurant. I was thrilled to hear he’d met someone and married. He spent most of lunch talking about how much he loved his wife and how blessed he felt to have her in his life. His path up until recent years had been difficult and treacherous at times. ‘But now I’m settled,’ he told me. ‘My focus is on my family.’ His dad had multiple health issues at the time, and Dennis was making regular trips out of state to care for him. He continued doing so until his father passed away.

Not long after his father passed, Dennis did as well. To say I was shocked is an understatement. He’d told me about some health issues his wife had been having, and he asked me to keep her in my prayers. He never said a thing about himself. He died suddenly several weeks ago. That lunch—the first time I’d seen him in nearly 40 years—was the last time I ever saw him. We’d talked about meeting again, but we never made it happen.

Life holds no guarantees, my friends. Dennis was a year younger than me. He seemed fine when I saw him. I am grateful—oh, so very grateful—for that gift that was given me—the chance to tell him how much his friendship back in those difficult days meant to me. I had never properly thanked him for showing up, making me laugh, bringing pizza, picking up after himself, and being a beacon of light in my storm-tossed sea. That day at lunch I got to say all of those things. We hugged good-bye, and the last thing he said to me was “Let’s do this again soon.” I wish we had.

L to R, Rick, me, and Mr. Dennis Shore