The Many Faces Of Patriotism
Singing previous generations’ praises for creating “small-town” America
By Ron Ciancutti
In 1945, RKO Radio and Frank Sinatra released a song and an accompanying video entitled “The House I Live In.” The project was intended to support national brotherhood and bolster belief in a united America. It’s a stirring piece of music, and I encourage everyone to look it up and enjoy it. You will find it to be seven, well-spent, patriotic minutes long. This month I share my space with Frank as I interweave his lyrics with my stories to declare my national pride and remember the very roots instilled in me since I was young. In this time of national challenge, I am compelled to remind everyone of our one, indivisible nation.
Photo: © Can Stock Photo / goir
What is America to me?
A name, a map, the flag I see,
a certain word, “Democracy.”
What is America to me?
Charlie held his grandpa’s hand tightly. He knew as long as he didn’t let go, he couldn’t get lost in these familiar park woods. He had been here dozens of times, but never before the sun was up. Papa just hummed his familiar “Papahum” that Charlie always heard when his idol was busying himself with things, and the old man led the way. Just beyond the bend was a clearing that eventually met the lake, and Charlie could smell the water. He also heard sounds that filled the pre-dawn air in a mystical, adventurous way. Good old Papa, always something new.
Now, in the clearing the darkness began to lift, and Papa tugged at Charlie’s arm more urgently. They sat on the dock and Papa placed a paper bag at his side. “You forgot the fishing poles,” Charlie said. “No, Charlie. Something different today,” his grandfatherly voice half-whispered. “Shhhhh.”
Charlie listened, and the croaking frogs, quacking ducks, and splashing fish came together in a hidden, natural symphony. He lifted his gaze, knowing that his grandfather would probably be the best friend he ever had and felt a sentimental lump in his throat. Now fully visible as the orange sun began to peek over the horizon, Grandpa’s lined and weathered face looked 50 years younger; a gleam in his eyes. “Do you know what today is, Charlie?” The boy nodded, “Fourth of July!”
Grandpa nodded. “Remember I told you I was once in the army? Well, today is the day our city honors the fallen soldiers who fought for independence. In a few minutes, you you’ll hear the song that the camp bugler always plays when other soldiers have fallen. “Taps” was played as their brothers were laid to rest. I came here to think about those guys and wanted to share it with you. You’re the kind of young man who will understand all of this.” He reached in the bag and extracted a couple of doughnuts and a thermos of cocoa. They ate and drank silently, and suddenly, without announcement, a sole bugler began to play. “Taps” resounded through the still woods and made its presence known in the depth of Charlie’s heart. He had never experienced anything so beautiful. He had a million questions in that moment, but when he glanced up, he saw a tear roll down his grandfather’s cheek. Questions could be saved for another day.
And then something happened that even Charlie wasn’t expecting. He stood and saluted his grandfather military-style until the last note of the song was finished. The old man drew the boy close to him., They finished their breakfast and walked back to the car in silence.
Charlie knew he would never forget this day. He also knew he was learning the value of silence that goes hand in hand with respect. Now he knew why men he respected exchanged glances when someone else was being loud at the wrong moment. Men who would and could defend a nation. More than anything, he knew this country, for which men lived and died, was the greatest country ever created.
The house I live in, a plot of earth, a street,
The grocer and the butcher and the people that I meet,
The children in the playground, the faces that I see;
All races, all religions, that's America to me,
The things I see about me, the big things and the small,
The little corner newsstand and the house a mile tall;
The wedding and the churchyard, the laughter and the tears,
The dream that's been a growin' for more than two hundred years.
One of the fellows my dad knew from the auto plant had recently moved his widowed sister in with Eddie, her 8-year-old son. My dad’s friend was a bachelor, and was simply trying to help his sister until a more permanent solution could be found. The men at the plant took it upon themselves to care for the kid for a while, like a “self-made big brother” program. Bowling, ball games—stuff like that. Every guy in their circle took a turn donating his time. Dad decided that the boy could join the Indian Guides with me, so that evening he ate supper with our family and then we went to our Pow Wow.
After supper, Eddie and I had time to play in my room and talk. He was quiet and shy, but really nice. He told me about going to his new school and his interest in animals. He’d been to the zoo many times and had interesting stories to tell. That evening at the Pow Wow, I introduced Eddie to the tribe, and everyone made him feel at home. Less than a year later, Eddie’s mom took a job in Toledo, and I didn’t see him again.
One evening, twenty-plus years later, I was visiting my parents and grilling dinner in the backyard. A man ambled up the driveway with a toddler in tow. It was Eddie and his son. He had learned a trade as a welder and married 3 years prior. He shook our hands and explained that the simple kindnesses extended to him all those years ago never left him. He and his boy stayed for a bratwurst, and Ed again mentioned the dinners we had shared and his fond memories of the Indian Guides.
Helping him wasn’t a government program. It wasn’t an effort organized through hard work and sacrifice. It was simply men coming together to support one of their own and making sure a little boy had a shot at a balanced upbringing while they were sharing time with their own children.
This type of thing used to happen in this country all the time, without prodding or commercials or slogans. Neighbor helping neighbor, fathers supporting other fathers, women helping less-fortunate women with hand-me-down kids’ clothes, toys and cribs, bassinettes, and other infant equipment. We didn’t need signs to tell us “We’re all in this together,” because we already knew that; we lived it. This country was founded upon those principles.
The town I live in the street, the house, the room,
The pavement of the city, or a garden all in bloom,
The church, the school, the club house,
The million lights I see, but especially the people,
That's America to me.
My grandmother had stacks and stacks of photo albums. Every page was enhanced by her retelling a story with each photo. As years passed and still photos were replaced by videos, I always found the “stills” evoked better stories than the “too true/too real” videos, with people yelling in the background, kids crying, music booming. The stories that Grandma told were much better than moving pictures. Her versions contained history, gossip, regret, and family victories. She even had license to exaggerate without any real penalty, making our family heroes just a little bigger, a little tougher, a little better than the rest, evoking a sense of pride.
I noticed too that most family photos primarily lacked one parent or the other because one was the picture taker and one was with the kids, holding them together and making sure each was always in the picture.
Yeah, yeah, I know. So hokey, so corny, so “small town.” Ain’t that America? You bet it is.
Ron Ciancutti worked in the parks and recreation industry since he was 16 years old, covering everything from maintenance, operations, engineering, surveying, park management, design, planning, recreation, and finance. He is now retired. He holds a B.S. in Business from Bowling Green State University and an M.B.A. from Baldwin Wallace University. He is not on Facebook, but he can be reached at ron@northstarpubs.com.