God and Country

My husband's family worked their way through Virginia late 1700s and settled in North Carolina in the very early 1800s. Generations ago, their farm located on the travelled roads between Winston-Salem and parts unknown, was large and produced everything from tobacco to corn and served most times as a general store to the neighboring areas. A few "greats" back (as in great, great, great-grandad) Pierce made a living trade crops for flour (a working mill on the farm) and Dora sewed the prettiest quilts and bric-a-brac sold to the travelers passing through. The neighbors banded together and took their crops (mostly the corn and tobacco..mostly tobacco) to the big city to be sold. Goods were bartered, goods were sold and life was simple. The town grew up around a few farms in the area.

The farm has passed from generation to generation and remained, for the most part, the same. Generation, after generation, feeling the exotic lure of the big cities, fled from the town and the farm only to return at some point in time. To this day, when my father-in-law, who is almost 77, returns someone will inevitably ask him "Aren't you Guion's boy?" Keep in mind, Granddad Guion died in 1993 at the age of 95 years young. It is an area rooted in tradition and family.

The last weekend in June was our weekend to understand and return. After a particularly intense week around here, we headed down to the farm for the annual 4th of July, a week early, celebration. We live very close to DC and have allowed for the fast paced, sometimes circus-like aura of "the big city" to encroach on our lives. We live in a bubble, fed news on budgets and politics, political correctness, and the trappings of surreal environment to filter into our lives and stand side by side with our reality. We often forget that DC is not the world and there lies a whole other dimension not involved with the screamin' politics of this nation.

Heading into the small town, the first thing we see is the school. One school houses both the grade and middle school and now touts separate wings. It is a simple structure, not too old, not too new, rebuilt somewhere in the 1950s. In front of this public school on their little marquee was the sign "Join us June 28! Celebrate God and Country!" On a public building! It was there with no ACLU noise anywhere.

As we headed down the road to the farm, with each crop we passed, it was like a part of the anal retentive DC mentality was being chipped away. Past the tobacco and soy and grass planted for hay, I was unwinding. As we neared the farm house, we saw one of the Deen brothers who contract farms the land, inspecting the corn crop. We stopped to chat and saw the prettiest corn with leaves green and broad and healthy. We talked about the crops and the weather and how one good rain this coming week will be the best thing for this flourishing crop. He asked us to say a prayer for the rain but he reckoned that if didn't happen, it was what was suppose to be.

The celebration was Saturday. We chose a spot at the beginning of the parade route shaded by 100 year old oak trees and next to a church whose grounds serve as the local playground. We watched the veterans assemble. From recent conflicts to conflicts past, these brave men stood proudly in the uniforms they wore during their service. Many joked that the uniforms had shrunk over time but to us, they were handsome and strong and brave. One Marine, he had to be in his 90s, unable to walk the parade distance, begrudingly accepted a ride in the golf cart. But his eyes had the sparkle of pride and excitement at wearing that uniform. He looked as handsome and as strong as a 19 year old coming straight out of boot camp.

The veterans kicked off the parade and all along the route you could hear the applause and cheers as they passed. They were followed by the float showing the sons and daughters from the area serving their country and that too was met with deafening cheers. The next float paid tribute to those who had given their lives and citizens hands were placed over hearts and heads were bowed in silence as that tribute passed the viewers.

There were tractors and horse riders and classic cars. There were politicans and beauty queens and children riding on homemade floats, all of them celebrating God and Country. There were fire trucks and clowns and candy thrown and waves. Patrotic music was blaring from makeshift sound systems on many of the floats. The fair that followed was a wonderful cacaphony of sounds and smells and children free in a safe environment. There was slow cooked North Carolina barbeque and cotton candy. There was roasted corn on the cob slathered in butter, the husk and the stalk acting as a holder and drip catcher. There were pony rides and petty zoos and crafts and lemonade and the best sweet tea ever made. Local bands, not really great but good, sang gospel and hymns. Local folks had booths set up selling everything from homemade jams and jellies to magnetic jewelry. The fire department shot the hoses straight up in the air and the kids cooled off in the downpour. In the evening, blankets were spread on the ball field and the oohs and aahs of a terrific fireworks show capped the evening. I looked over and saw my two guys fast asleep on the blanket right after the finale. My family was at peace and the only blackberries that were grabbed were those on prickley vines.

Although not epiphany, it dawned on me that for every town with the hustle and bustle of a big city, there are thousands of towns celebrating God and Country similar to this celebration. Which is the real America?

I am thinking it is the latter.