She was old, and beautiful, and wise, and She
taught the young boy everything he needed to know.
All about the land, and the woods and the rivers,
and what had happened there even before he was
born. She taught him what was good and what was
bad. And most of all, the difference between right
and wrong. And so, every morning he stood beside
his desk, with his hand over his heart, and
promised to respect Her for the rest of his days.
When times were hard, and the grain elevators
stood empty against the black Midwestern sky, She
gave him praise for a hard day's work, and hope
for his father. And She promised there would be
better days to come. And he sat by the radio and
cried angry tears one gray December day, when he
hear that She'd been betrayed. She was hurt; She
needed help. He was only twelve, but he gave Her
all he could: scraps of paper and tin cans and
even the rubber tires from his wagon. He followed
Her across the sea, on the maps and the newspaper,
wishing he was older, old enough to fight back.
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church bells ring and the noon whistle blow long
and high. And he was part of one brief moment when
all the world paid respect to Her. And then he was
grown up; and suddenly, the world had changed. And
there were questions about Her. Some thought She
was old-fashioned, useless. Some thought She was
dead. But then after all, maybe they hadn't known
Her as he had. And now everyone has grown older.
The boy, his children, and She too. He saw Her
again just the other day: it was one of those
bright, summer mornings and the church bells were
ringing again. The bands were playing, and even
the noon whistle was blowing, early. He stood and
watched proudly as She passed by. The sunlight
catching the flash of crimson and white, stars
blazing in the clear blue sky. And then She was
gone. And he looked down through three generations
into his grandson's eyes, and said, "There she
goes, son. We used to call her Old Glory."