When I was little, standing on the curb watching the Memorial Day parade would have been my definition of patriotic. The thrill of a marching band, with those deep hits on the bass drum, the sparkle of the trumpets as they passed... the bright lights and sirens of the fire trucks... the soldiers in sharp uniforms with colorful medals, carrying the American Flag, brightly lit in the warm sun. I felt safe, happy, and inspired by something big and strong and true. Later I'd be on my bike with red white and blue crepe paper woven through the spokes.
I was a child in the 50s. Prosperity reigned and I think America felt good about itself. For those born after the war, there was an innocense that today's youth lack.
It faded in the 60s with Viet Nam, the assassinations, then Nixon, then, as Paul Simon wrote about something else, "incidents and allegations." Riots. Scandal. Terrorism. More war.
Now I wonder what holds meaning. So much is marketing. So much is empty artiface. Spin. So much is emphemeral. Is this realization the curse of maturity, a wisdom born of reality's scars?
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