Ronda Rich
Syndicated Columnist
When my husband makes up his mind that he wants something, he is like young Ralphie in “A Christmas Story.” He does not give up.
Remember when Ralphie wanted the Red Ryder BB gun?
He had all kinds of tricks up his sleeve to get what he wanted. And, just like Ralphie, Tink’s relentless.
In giving it a good think, it would probably not be best to watch that movie every Christmas for 24 hours. Both of us will wake up in the night and watch bits and pieces. On Christmas Day, we watch it back-to-back until it finally goes off at 9 p.m.
In retrospect, perhaps this hasn’t been a good idea at all. It reinforces Tink’s ability to believe that if you don’t give up, you’ll get what you want.
He’s strategic and very good at it. First, he brings it up. With a shrug. It’s just a thought. It doesn’t even require an answer. Then, two weeks later, he’ll come into the kitchen while I’m cooking. He’ll have a snack, leaning against the cabinet, looking upwards and say, “You know, that was just a thought that ran through my mind the other day but in pondering it, I like it.”
I stirred the soup, remaining silent. I was hopeful it would go away without an argument or, worse, a deeper discussion.
It didn’t.
It was probably a month before he broached the subject again. This time he was firmer. No softball.
“I’d like an American flag. My father and grandfather had flags at every house they lived.”
“Maybe one day,” I responded.
All I could think was the hard rock beneath the grass on the Rondarosa. I built that house, before we married, and watched painfully, every day, for a week as a giant bulldozer pushed and huffed, moving rock for a driveway. Barely, just barely, he pushed enough aside to leave a high rock embankment.
The house had to be moved 40 feet over in order to set the house on the easier ground.
When Tink makes up his mind he wants something – this happens rarely – it’s like a child begging for a motor scooter.
“Tink,” I finally said. “I don’t know how you’d get a flagpole in the ground.” I brightened up. I had an idea. “Let’s hang a flag from the front porch.”
His face darkened. “It’s so much better on a tall pole — like my father and grandfather.”
My people are patriots, too.
They got the dirty jobs like digging latrines and rushing the front line into the battles. My great-great-grandfather was the first wounded at the Battle of Savannah. He was 16. Fourteen of my ancestors fought in the War of Independence, then 10 (some wounded, others captured) fought in the Civil War.
Daddy served in the South Pacific in World War II and, until recently, when I found his honorable discharge papers, I had no idea that he had been awarded five medals, including one for the Battle of Midway. The medals are nowhere to be found.
Tink’s grandfather, Arthur, was wounded so badly in France during World I that he almost lost his leg.
His medals are missing, too.
Tink’s father was drafted out of Dartmouth College, between his freshman and sophomore year, but never saw battle because the war ended.
During the Civil War, Tink’s great-great-grandfather never pulled a trigger. He worked for President Lincoln in the White House as a telegrapher. Never got his hands dirty. But we have his diaries of life with the President during this serious war and that’s as important as any bullet fired.
Conversation about the flagpole ceased. Then one day, two boxes arrived.
“What are those?” I asked.
“An American flag and a 20 feet pole.”
On the backside of the Rondarosa, Tink found soil, near the pasture fence, soft enough to plunge the pole into the ground.
I see it now as an honor for all the brave men in our families.
Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of “St. Simons Island: A Stella Bankwell Mystery.” Visit www. rondarich.com to sign up for her weekly newsletter.