My family would occasionally help an elderly neighbor named Timmy. His finances were no better than his failing health. He left no heirs when he died. What little property he owned was in hock to the bank, and the insatiable tax man threatened the remaining residue.

I cleared the debt and bought it all at a sheriff’s auction. Inside the ramshackle house I found an American flag, folded neatly into a tight triangle, carefully tucked into a transparent case.

I’ve been to veterans’ graveside services where a military contingent ceremonially folds the flag into a triangular shape and presents it to surviving family with the words, “On behalf of the President of the United States, the [branch of service], and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.”

Timmy’s flag looked just like one of those, and its package contained some indecipherable paperwork that appeared to be damaged by water. If he was a veteran, he never mentioned it, and I found no other clues linking the flag to a specific person. I have no idea whose flag it was or why Timmy had it.

I couldn’t throw it away and I had no idea who might find it meaningful. It was in near-perfect condition. Its colors seemed as bright as the day it was likely draped over someone’s coffin. Besides, I did not own a flag, so I kept the one I had found.

My childhood family always flew a flag on certain holidays, even though our farmhouse was far too distant from the road for anyone except visitors to see it. Mom and Dad flew the flag just for us, I guess. It seemed ironic that they wanted to show a little patriotism even though they seldom or never thought about things like the Constitution, the Declaration of Independence, or the nation’s founding in general.

I, on the other hand, think of these things all the time, yet I had never bothered to display a flag of my own. I think I also didn’t want to seem jingoistic because I considered myself much more sophisticated than that.

The discovery of Timmy’s flag was the perfect opportunity to start a new tradition. I made a mount for it extending from the largest white pine tree on our property, right by the road so everyone could see it.

If someone considers me jingoistic, so be it. I’ve come to believe that good-faith citizenship — to say nothing of statesmanship — means actively participating in the affairs of the country and its society, not just spectating. Participation can (and should) be marked by real actions that make the country better, but also by symbolic actions that remind us of who we are and point to our highest ideals, like flying a flag. One need not like everything about a country to call it one’s own and work to improve it.

We’re a pluralistic nation, which means we might share a great deal in common with each other, but we also respect our differences and give each other space for them. America is a great contrast with those nations that demand conformity among their people. They may conform outwardly and for the cameras (as in North Korea), but often that’s under threat of violence by their government. It’s a seething conformity through clenched teeth. That’s not who we are and, God help us, we never will be.

My flag is now the biggest one flying on my road on major holidays. I enjoy thinking about my old neighbor, Timmy, and still wonder how that flag made its way to him. But I don’t have to know whose it was to be grateful for men and women who have given far more than I have to make our country the greatest on earth.

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