In the pre-game water fights, one family had equipped their youngsters with heart-shaped backpack water bladders connected to small squirters. I wish they'd had those when I was young. We made do with what few unbroken water pistols there were--the seams always cracked--and syringe bodies.
The littlest girl in the group—perhaps 5 years old—was short enough that she kept getting squirted in the face in the melee. She would wince, almost cry, grit her teeth, grin, and squirt back.
I took a brief hike down Portage to see the rest of the short parade route, find out how long were the food lines, and learn where the portajohns were. I saw nobody I knew, but I got more attention than I expected. After I rejoined the family I realized that I was pretty much the only man present with a button down shirt and long pants. Everybody else was dressed for a splash in the heat.
Before the parade began someone sang the Star Spangled Banner, of course, followed by a recording of "Proud to be an American."
I wondered, not for the first time, if that's the right framing. I'm proud of the ugly kludge bookcases I made so many decades ago. They fit the purpose and have for many family moves. They're something I did.
I'm grateful to be American. I'm grateful to be a man (and I trust my wife is grateful to be a woman). I'm proud to have helped in several experiments, and grateful for the chance. I'm grateful for our children.
As for the larger American project, I have not served in office or in the military, though I have done some teaching (and paid my taxes and looked for the least objectionable candidates and helped with a friend's unsuccessful campaign). I've tried to live and teach Christian values and the courtesies of the culture. I'm not sure those are enough to give me the right to be proud of my contribution. I suspect gratitude is safer for the soul.
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