The Patriotism of My Grandfather

As simple as home

My grandfather flew an American flag from his doorway. His house—their house, for my grandmother outlived him by fifteen years and stayed there until almost the very end—stands out most vividly in my memory of all the family houses. When I was as young as my own children are now, I spent a great deal of time at that house. Even as I grew older, my grandparents would host dinner nearly every Sunday. It was a fixture, that little detached house with the strange octagon window next to the door.

The flag was affixed diagonally between the door and the octagon window. It was a flag he received on the day he obtained his citizenship, I am told. My grandparents’ story is one of the beautiful American immigrant stories. They came, they burned every last penny to their name to bring their extended family to safety from the imminent totalitarianism in their homeland. They found opportunity, and settled down, and made a home for themselves. Quite literally: my grandfather personally made several of the wooden fixtures of their house, most prominently the basement stairs and their bannister. A back porch was converted into an additional and much larger living room (by professionals this time). The old external window was kept for reasons now obscure to me; as a child I delighted in climbing through it to get between the rooms.

Patriotism is a topic that is ruined by the public discussion of it. At best it becomes maudlin, though sometimes the occasion does call for maudlin. Too often it simply overcomplicates; we accuse one another of not being patriotic enough, or of being blindly patriotic, or of loving a country that does not deserve it.