It is June, and my mind is full of end-of-year school activities, upcoming vacation plans, and also my Granddad Hanley, even though he has been dead for 30 years. On June 6, 80 years ago, he was one of the American soldiers who attacked the Germans at Normandy on D-Day. Granddad was in the Navy and operated a gun on a large ship, which is a detail I know only through my mother. Granddad never talked about his time in combat, but he also prohibited any firearms in his home, which now speaks volumes to me about his values.
I also think of Granddad on Flag Day, June 14. My younger brother and I would stay with our grandparents for a week or so in the summer, and every morning, he would raise the flag from a pole attached to the right side of the front door of his brick ranch house. If dark storm clouds formed later that day, Granddad would abruptly stop playing baseball, climbing trees, or ambling through the woods with us and hustle back to the house. He wasn't worried about getting himself wet, but rather intent on bringing the flag inside. He would carefully roll the flag and store it in a plastic cylinder placed high on a shelf that only he could reach.
Summer thunderstorms are frequent in North Carolina, so this interruption happened frequently. I was probably nine years old when, out of frustration that he had halted our game to attend to the flag, I told him just to leave it outside in the rain. Granddad fixed me with such a withering look of admonishment that I felt seared to the spot. He was my hero, a man of boundless patience with my silly and selfish demands on his time. But I had crossed a line that day, and I never made that mistake again.
Granddad and I only had a few more summers together. He died when I was 12 years old. During his funeral, I attempted to be stoic and dry-eyed, adhering to my adolescent misconceptions about the codes of bravery and manhood. But even I cracked when the soldier knelt on one knee and presented my Gran with the folded flag that had draped Granddad’s casket. She smiled through her tears and held the flag reverently in her lap. As I watched, I knew that I would always remember that moment, and I still do every Flag Day.
Andrew Taylor-Troutman is pastor of Chapel in the Pines Presbyterian Church as well as a writer, pizza maker, coffee drinker and student of joy.
