Flag Waving, Elton John and the Wizard of Oz

I hopped in my car to leave work the other day and a song came on the oldies station that made me cry.  It made me long for the world that I used to know.  It made me long for the security of the familiar.  The current world seems so foreign to me.  Luckily for me, the flashing interstate message board hasn’t started to threaten crying drivers yet, (although I’m sure that’s considered distracted driving) but I’ll be needing a chauffeur if that ever becomes the case. What happened next would be explained as coincidence by some, but I know better.  My best friend, Susan, instinctively knew that something was wrong and sent me a text.  It’s not like we talk every day.  Sadly, we go months sometimes between conversations, but let me stub my toe and see if she doesn’t say, “ouch!”

Susan wants a time machine.  So do I.  She says she wants to go back to 1975 so she can get ready for the Bicentennial.  I laughed, but I understood what she meant.  While I struggled with an almost completely debilitating case of depression that marred the first half of 1975 for me, the second half holds nothing but blissful memories.  (Does that make me bipolar?)  That was the summer of “Philadelphia Freedom” by The Elton John Band.  (Yes, you read that right!)  Never mind that the song was written by two British guys, America ate it up.     

                                                             And yes, I own this single :)

 

We loved our American flag patches on our frayed cut offs.  We knew the words to the National Anthem without cheating and that it was really hard not to yell out, “play ball!” every time it ended.  We knew that Francis Scott Key wrote it, not about war, but about that one little spark of unrelenting hope that this still new country would retain the freedom to figure things out for itself.  We said the pledge to the flag, not as mind numbed robot children as some would paint it, but as respectful citizens who had been taught to seek out and do the right thing.  We had a flag at my house and we were very serious as kids not to let it touch the ground when we lowered it before dusk.  We learned to fold it in the official triangle fold and placed it in its box each evening to keep it clean.  It was just a flag.  It was pieces of colored cloth that held no magic.  In and of itself it couldn’t save us from anything.  It was just a symbol.  But symbols serve to remind us of what we strive to be more than what we are.  When we start to shun our symbols we begin to reject the notion that we ever were, or are, or ever will be anything of which to be proud.   

Were things perfect in my bliss filled version of 1975-76?  Was the government on the up and up with its citizens?  Was the rest of the world behaving itself?  Was it all homemade ice cream and fireworks, mom and apple pie?   I don’t believe in revisionist history and I won’t sugar coat it.  We were suffering the effects of Vietnam, Watergate wiretapping, OPEC, an unemployment rate of 9.2% and busing.  Jimmy Hoffa went missing and Patti Hearst was on the most wanted list for armed robbery.  President Ford bailed out an almost bankrupt New York City with a $2.3 billion dollar loan.  “The Son of Sam” pulled a gun and began terrorizing New York for the next year.  Three Gunmen abducted a school bus with 26 children and the driver near Chowchilla, California. And on and on and on.

Bad things were happening then just as they are now.   So why were we such flag wavers back in that era and why are we trying so hard to disassociate ourselves from any sort of patriotism now?  I can only give you my personal opinion and your own opinion may differ.  America is no longer that cute little baby of a country that it once was, so wide eyed and innocent.  America is now going through that awkward ugly recalcitrant teenager phase, rejecting everything that is, but unable to figure out what it wants to be.  I am beginning to believe that we have redefined “America” to mean THE GOVERNMENT instead of “WE THE PEOPLE.”  We have abandoned patriotism because we have forgotten that it’s about us and not them.  We are not pledging our allegiance to the “Patriot” Act, or to the absurdities of a corrupt 2 party system.  We pledge to be good neighbors and good citizens and generally decent people.  Our pledge is to each other.  We are also pledging that we will not allow the government to cause WE THE PEOPLE  to implode by using hot button issues to divide us while they hide behind a curtain of deception cooking up the nefarious—an idea they clearly stole from The Wizard of Oz.  The Wizard had no power except that which was given to him by his subjects.

When I was a kid they told us that this country was the greatest nation on earth.  As I grew older I realized that the same propaganda was sold to school children in every country.  Sometimes it’s hard to question things without becoming cynical.  In my old age though, I have decided that it’s like picking a favorite football team or your favorite character in a show.  We’re just rooting for our team/character here.  It doesn’t mean that we agree with all the players or even that we think the coaches are calling the right plays.  It means that we accept each other—warts and all, because ultimately we want our team to win.

The Upside of Being an Old Crone

When my youngest sister died at the tender age of 20, I made a promise to myself that I would never be one of those people who complained about the ugliness of aging. Since Denise-- who was the most deserving person ever born to this earth--would never get the chance to get married, have children, be saddled with a mortgage, make IRA decisions, and then grow old, I was going to handle whatever life sent my way-- with grace. At times, I must confess, this has been the grace of an elephant. After all, making a vow to oneself leaves a lot of room for interpretation and the 25 year old version of me had no idea what 50 would bring. 

                                       (Me at 25 with my kiddos and original hair color)

For instance, who knew that one's metabolism could just pack up and skip town in the middle of the night leaving no forwarding address?  The Internet says that women my age must work out an extra hour a day just to stay the weight they are. The good news is that since I've never really worked out in the first place my workout time should only be 1 hour which makes me super glad that I have been a virtual fitness sloth all these years! I'd really be hacked if I was already killing myself to be healthy and then had to add an extra hour. The bad news is that I hate to work out, not because it's hard, but because I find it excruciatingly boring. I have diagnosed myself with EADD--Exercise Attention Deficit Disorder. Maybe I just made that up, but it's A Thing. Trust me. I am not a lazy person by any means. I actually enjoy hard work and have held several manual labor jobs that I refer to as Man-Jobs because I had to lift heavy things, wield power tools, and climb steel. But that was meaningful work as opposed to flailing my arms and legs about in an attempt to somehow transform myself into a Victoria's Secret model. If you ever had a PE class with me you can attest to the fact that I have the motor skills of a drunken orangutan.  Anyway, while 40 is the new 20, fifty isn't cute at all. Pinterest is filled with guilt inducing memes that advise us to the contrary, but I promise you that I can name 1,000 different foods that taste better than skinny feels—starting with anything covered in chocolate or laced with alcohol. And on a side note: to all you 25 year old girls with protruding hip bones who want to preach to us old crones about diet and exercise, come back when you are 50 and then we will have this conversation.

But losing my girlish figure isn’t the only thing that I am struggling with. There are plenty of psychological issues that go along with this leg of my odyssey. The mere fact that my best friend, Susan, and I have been BFFs for 44 years must mean that we are ancient. Only old people have 44 year old friendships. We are like two old sea captains getting together at Panera Bread to rehash old war stories and fill each other in on the new events of growing old. For those of you who are counting, I am fully aware that I have used the word “old” five times (and now 6) in this paragraph, because doing so illustrates my point beautifully. There's just no escaping it if you stay on this side of the dirt. “Old” (7) will keep rearing its wrinkled, bald, toothless head to laugh at you like Grandpappy Amos in the Real McCoys. If you have any idea what I'm talking about, well, that just makes you old (8) too.

I know that age is a just number and that it really doesn't matter, but somebody needs to tell that to my feet. Every morning when I crawl out of bed and my feet hit the floor, I start looking for the gremlins that have been beating them with hammers while I sleep. Listen children: the sins of your youth will catch up with you. All those crazy things you did as a kid and bounced right back from will return like mean spirited ghosts to haunt you when you embark on the second half of your century. At 48, while jumping over an obstacle course wall, I discovered that my landing gear wasn't quite what it used to be. I thought that I had gotten away with all those bike wrecks and car wrecks and farming accidents; with those twisted ankles and broken bones, but no. They had all gathered for a big reunion and were waiting for me on the other side of that wall. “Surprise!” 

Then there's this whole deal of feeling generationally misunderstood. As a child, I was sure that life was not fair and I was roundly annoyed when people made fun of me for expressing this. Okay, maybe I was a whiner, but still...

                                      (I was very angry here about having the chicken pox)

As a teenager, I totally wrote the book on angst. Why couldn't anybody “get me?” I was positive that when I grew up my thoughts and opinions would finally be respected and recognized as nothing short of genius. But now that I am an old crone I have pretty much been advised that everything that I was ever taught since childhood or just believed on my own is wrong.  This illumination is usually provided from some sage guru who is about half my age. I’m really close to using the term “whipper-snapper” here.  Somebody please stop me. 

Hey Nineteen
That's 'Retha Franklin
She don't remember the Queen of Soul
It's hard times befallen
The sole survivors
She thinks I'm crazy
But I'm just growing old

I grew up in the era of civil rights, Vietnam, Rowan and Martin’s Laugh In, Elton John, cigarette commercials, Roe v Wade, Living Bibles, the Pledge of Allegiance, the moon walk, New Math, and the energy crisis.  All of these things and many more helped shape my opinions about certain issues.  My worldview is one of kind-hearted intelligence. I have been no more or no less brain washed than the current young adult generation or any other. I remind my kids often that when they are old the next generation will vilify them for not pushing the envelope completely off the table.  So, in the words of my 4^th grade teacher, Mrs. Watkins, “Always be respectful of your elders, children—even if you disagree with them and if I catch you doing otherwise, I will stripe your legs.”           

I’ve spent an entire lifetime trying not to turn into Andy Rooney, cheekily yet intolerantly bemoaning life’s little annoyances.  I think, perhaps, that I have failed miserably, but I no longer care.  The upside to being an old crone is that society embraces us as “colorful characters” and we have permission to be humorously cranky.

                                               ( My Mammie aka future me)

 I’m really not complaining about having the opportunity to grow old, but the side effects will eventually kill you.  Still, even that has an upside, because when I jump over that final obstacle, I’m sure that Denise will be on the other side of that wall waiting to make fun of my graceless exit and equally graceless entrance—the part where I get one or both feet hung in the Pearly Gates.