Let The Bells Ring
Last summer, I had the chance to tour the plant of the oldest and largest manufacturer of U.S. flags in the country, right here in Ohio. You may never have heard of Annin Flagmakers in small-town Coshocton, but you have likely seen their flags. They produce more than three million of them every year.
I learned this fact within minutes of entering the plant. Workers and managers, most of them women on the day I was there, were proud of their craft and eager to share their stories. They taught me a lot about making flags in the hour or so that I was there. How long it takes to stitch the largest ones, for example, and the difference in fabrics depending on size and hoisted height. Those giant flags dancing over car dealerships must be made of sturdier stuff than the flags typically waving from front porches or attached to sticks in children’s hands.
This is why I love visiting manufacturing plants and meeting the people who work in them. Everything I take for granted, from the car I drive to the vase holding the flowers on our table, were made by people who know so much more than I do. Bearing witness to their expertise is a poignant reminder of the talent and commitment of workers who are invisible to most even as they fuel our daily quality of life.
Thinking about the people in that plant was perhaps an obvious pivot for me on this Independence Day. I am seeing their handiwork everywhere, including at the community parade Sherrod and I attended this morning in our new neighborhood. Hundreds of residents lined the street just a block from our home, camped on lawns and curbs for two hours of celebration. It was everything I had been yearning for, full of welcomes and introductions from strangers, and children laughing as they leapt into the street to catch candy tossed from floats and pickup trucks. I was so happy for their innocence.
Except for Christmas, nothing reminds me of my time as a young mother more than the rituals of summer. Little girls in cotton dresses, dancing in the grass. Huddles of boys with faces of awe as they pointed at men riding vintage, giant-wheeled bicycles. Small hands reaching, ever so briefly, to touch a parent’s skirt or trousers, and then returning to the controlled chaos of a community parade. It made my eyes sting with memories.
For just a little while, I allowed myself to stop dwelling on how worried I am for our country. I could ignore how alarmed and sad I feel for so many innocent people who are justifiably terrified about their future in Donald Trump’s version of America, relentlessly fueled by Republican cowardice in Congress.
This second term is so much worse than I had feared it would be. What a devastating failure of imagination.
Deep breath.
Early this morning, novelist Thrity Umrigar, a dear friend, shared this passage from one of my favorite Leonard Cohen songs, Anthem:
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in
That's how the light gets in
That's how the light gets in
As soon as I read those words today, I searched on my phone for a photo from June 2021. This is from the front porch of our home in Cleveland. We were flying the flag to say this is our country, too, and we would never stop fighting for what that flag is supposed to represent. Our promise holds.
I don’t remember if this image is from dawn or sunset, but I love how the streetlight is glowing through it. As this day draws to a close, I’m aware of how important it is that I choose to see daybreak, as the sun begins to rise.
That’s how the hope gets in.
That’s how the hope gets in.
Thank you. Enough cracks and we’ll bring the whole damned wall down. 🩷
Thank you for offering some hope in this distressing time.