I have a very good friend who is an aspiring writer. He wrote this story about my wifes grandmother, Pauline Ackermann, and a small town July 4th Parade that she, and he, had both attended. Pauline has passed on, now. This story reminds me of her and what being a citizen of this country meant to the generation that fought and survived World War II.

    It took two fit men to get her to the chair that had been carefully bolstered and leveled, front row to the spectacle that was just now tuning up.  A wild cacophony of screeches, whistles, brassy belches, and whoops, offered up by those young enough not to be wilted by the temperature, drifted along for blocks in all directions.  There was no other way to put it-she was old.  Just being shuttled, afloat on strong arms, had used up everything there was of the bent little frame, and her escorts poured her into the well-prepared perch.  Minutes of panting came before she gathered herself with the pretense of enjoying her surroundings.

    Sirens wailed, fashionably noisy engines blatted and cackled to the crowd's delight.  Gaudy marching bands braced against the noise, heat, and sweaty wool uniforms to enjoy ovations fit for real, live rock stars.  Crumpled across the canvas, she tried to smile and clap to the beat of the tuba for a few measures, before again catching her breath.  Why was she here?  You could see her struggle for breath, fading quickly in the heavy summer air-God, what was the point?  Outings are just fine, but why the hell wasn't anyone whisking the poor woman off to some air-conditioned recliner?

    Suddenly you could see the alarm in her lined face, and she began struggling furiously for her feet.  I couldn't know what was wrong, but knew it was damned urgent.  Heart attack?  Heat stroke?  In that moment, it didn't seem as though there were any good possibilities.  I unfolded myself to offer help, and she fought, urgency turning to panic.

    And then I saw it.  Her hand.  Finally standing as erect as her bowed spine would permit, a withered hand came to rest upon her heart.  While I had been watching her, she had been watching Old Glory. 

    Twenty three flags; twenty three times she strained to her feet; twenty three times the wrinkled fingers found a proud heart.
What could make such a woman forsake comfort and convenience in a quiet gesture anyone would have excused her from?  Had she found a life of opportunity here, after leaving her native land?  Or was she among those to sacrifice a loved one on freedom's altar?  A husband?  A child?  A friend?  What devotion prodded her?

    I know only that she was eighty seven last Saturday, her name is Pauline, and for twenty three bright and courageous moments, this Independence Day, a quiet woman drowned out the bluster and ballyhoo of what I thought I'd come to see.