Down Goes the Flag - and the Gin

What’s on my mind? There’s always a frisson of excitement in the village-that-pretends-to-be-a-town where we live. It suggests that life is somehow bolder and more risqué than in the plebeian burbs of the Big City.

Himself and I live our lives on the edge. This comes naturally. If we walked in our sleep, we could fall into the ocean. This cleverly crafted statement begs the question: “Helen, do these dopes live directly on the ocean, or what?” The answer to that is “what.” We’d have to be serious sleepwalkers to tumble into the sea, which is several blocks from our house.

Regardless, Himself has taken a fancy to gussying up our “property.” Which sounds a whole lot grander than a standard lot. 

We now have a flag suitable to our station as the owners of a 2 BR, 2 BA bungalow. Not just any old flag, but a honking huge flag on a honking huge pole. We’d formerly displayed the flag on a fence stanchion, but no-o-o-o-o! That wasn’t good enough for Himself! Our new flag pole stands about a thousand feet high and towers over the roof. I’ve seen shorter old-growth trees. 

Our flag could double as a king-sized blanket, with plenty of room left to hide asylum seekers who might squeak into the country in a criminal bid to find food, shelter, and work as they try to escape murderers and rapists. That’s the good news. 

The bad news is that if a high wind ever whips away our flag, it’ll take out the Harrises’ chimney. Mr. Harris wouldn’t like that, but Mrs. H would be ever-so-grateful because she’s sick of chopping wood. She wants one of those electric fireplaces with faux flames (ideally, purple, pink, and green) to match the couch.

Flags go up, and flags come down. It’s said that one villager (now deceased) exercised a civilized family tradition. As well as flying the flag on the sprawling lawn of her oceanfront family compound, she owned a cannon. Doesn’t everyone?

On the arrival of each summer day’s cocktail hour, the cannon boomed, the flag slid down, and so did the G&Ts (If you don’t know what a G&T is, you haven’t lived).

Lowering our flag at sunset would require major effort. Think Car Dealership Flag. With Spotlight.

Say it isn’t so, but Himself wants to light our flag at night. He says we could get away with not hiring a flag-puller if the flag were lit. I say we could get away to Palm Springs if it weren’t for that stupid flag.

Himself always says “pick your battles,” so we’ve struck a compromise. The light trained on our flag and the music Himself wants to accompany it will double as a security feature. Anytime a prowler (human, rabbit, or deer) sets foot or hoof on our lawn, Himself wants our flag to blast the national anthem at 175 decibels - louder than any cannon. 

We’d better stockpile some gin.

©  Nicole Parton, 2019