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On my last visit to a Mobil station, having followed the pump'scomputerized instructions to choose my method of payment and grade ofgasoline, I was filling the tank when a new message started blinkingacross the diodes: "Always remember September 11!…God blessAmerica!…Always remember September 11!…God bless America!…" I felt cheated by this surreptitious method of lumping Texas-footballpatriotism into a $10 gas purchase. Cheated because I had promisedmyself not to stop anywhere with "God bless America!" signs. I prefer myreligion and my patriotism stored safely apart, like the two highlyvolatile chemical compounds that they are. Buying from stores with "Honkfor America" and "Be Proud to Be an American!" is as far as I goindulging America's drawling, unshaven, belligerent, belly-over-the-beltpatriotism. When you drag God into it, we part company. Besides, it does seem to me that on the matter of blessings, theAlmighty spoke pretty clearly on September 11, and it wasn't a blessingwe received. The blinking, patriotic gasoline pump came after several days ofobserving life on the home front in the War against Terror, all of whichbrought me to single, inescapable conclusion: nearly two months on, itis definitely time for America to get a life. I have to say that once inside the Mobil, the display of September-11thmerchandise was modest, at least compared to the Irving station a weekbefore which had sweats, tees, bumper stickers, little flags, and alarge selection of lapel pins. The irony at Irving was overwhelmingbecause, as perhaps few Americans would know, the company's founder isan eccentric Canadian gazillionaire who lived for many years in theCaymen Islands to avoid taxes. Echoes of Dr. Johnson on patriotism werealmost audible. Our neighbors across the street have established a ritual of emergingfrom their front door twice a day to put up their flag and take it down,closely following the flag-etiquette instructions I recall from the 1956edition of the Boy Scouts of America Manual. They do forget sometimes,but they are pretty regular. These home-front patriots are the same good folks who, when we were newto the neighborhood and I politely objected to their having theirdriveway snow plowed across the street into our front yard, advised me,"You don't own the sidewalk." Then there was the time that theirvagabond cat, which it turned out had not been given shots in 6 years,bit another neighbor. When she raised the matter of her medical costs,their answer was, "There's no leash law for cats." I don't really know whether there is a connection between cuckoo-clockflag etiquette and being the most obnoxious neighbors we've everexperienced, but the ritual does set them apart from others on ourstreet who choose to fly flags. Most keep it casual like some washdraped out to dry from an upstairs window or a front porch rail. Somehowthis approach seems more in keeping with the rusted car and tractorparts that litter so many of America's yards and driveways. As I walked past the donut shop one day, right under the giant "Honk forAmerica!" sign was a display bristling with scores of flags. At first, Iregarded this as an unusually enthusiastic display of patriotism, but aman standing at a table with a fistful of dollar bills quickly correctedmy first impression. I wondered whether there was a deal for a flag witha dozen jelly donuts or maybe a half dozen, but I wasn't curious enoughto walk over and ask. My favorite patriotic sticker, often seen on the sides or backs ofhighway trucks, is "Be Proud to Be an American!" Each time it rumblespast, I think, "If only I could while peasants, who wouldn't know whatNew York is, have limbs blown off by pilots at 30 thousand feet whomanaged the remarkable feat of achieving 'air superiority' over a 14thcentury land in record time." And there is something positivelyheartwarming in being ordered to be proud. A gift shop on the New York Tollway probably set the high-water mark formake-a-buck patriotism. About a third of the store was filled withSeptember-11th merchandise. The extent of the display made me wonder howthey filled the store before "The Tragedy." Dramatic, new graphics onshirts, hats, glasses, and banners lured a steady stream of patriotsfrom seeking the slightly-fetid washrooms after a stop at the grease-pitfood franchises. I only thank God I don't watch television. The chaotic, fast-cut assaultof greed, patriotism, and twisted religion would be unbearable. And I'llbet each station has an official War-against-Terror logo with somelimited-time offers for merchandise. John Chuckman, a free-lance writer living in Portland, Maine, is a retired chief economist for Texaco Canada.
E-mail:doverbeach@sympatico.ca ###
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