Last year’s flag had given up the ghost sometime the year before, but spent the remainder of its career pretending it hadn’t. It hung there in the middle of the yard like a tired politician, faded, frayed, and unwilling to admit it was no longer fit for public display.
I noticed it then, made a note to myself, and did what any responsible man does when faced with a problem on vacation: I ignored it completely.
This year, however, I returned alone, which is a dangerous condition. A man with no witnesses and too much time is liable to improve things.
I saw the same flag, now worse for wear, and I felt a stirring of duty that I could not blame on anyone else. The property owner, I knew, was a Navy veteran; a detail sat on my conscience like a supervisor.
My patriotic upbringing, courtesy of the United States Marine Corps and the sort of instruction that favors action over committee meetings, supplied the rest of the argument: If it needs doing, do it. If it was the wrong thing, you can apologize with enthusiasm later.
So I went into town, purchased a proper flag, and returned with the quiet determination of a man about to commit a small, well-intentioned crime. And of course, I did it under the cover of night.
I did it swiftly and with ceremony sufficient to satisfy my own sense of importance. The new flag went up with a crisp snap, catching the wind like it had been waiting all year for the assignment.
The old one came down without protest, which is the surest sign it knew its time had come. Now, there is a right way to retire a flag, and I am acquainted with it, so that evening, I lit the fire pit in front of the rental and proceeded with the solemn business.
It was dignified, respectful, and, considering I had not informed a single soul of my intentions, carried just enough secrecy to make it feel like I was disposing of evidence. About halfway through, I had the distinct impression that if anyone were to come around the corner at that exact moment, I would have to explain why I was standing in a stranger’s yard burning a large piece of fabric with ceremonial seriousness.
I rehearsed several explanations in my head, none of which improved with practice.
“Evening,” a neighbor might say.
“Routine maintenance,” I would reply, which is the sort of answer that invites further questions.
As it happened, no one came. The flag completed its final duty, the fire died down, and the yard returned to its ordinary state.
The landlords have remained silent, offering no questions or polite inquiries about why their property received a new flag without consultation. They may not have even noticed yet that the flag is new.
And yet, despite the complete absence of complaint, gratitude, or even acknowledgment, I remain convinced, deep in the machinery of my mind and gut, that I am on the verge of being called to account.
It is a curious thing, this habit of expecting trouble where none should be forthcoming. A man can do a decent deed, improve the general condition of the world by a small but measurable amount, and still lie awake wondering when the official reprimand will arrive.
I suppose that is the lasting discipline: not the action itself, but the quiet certainty that somewhere, somehow, there is a form you forgot to file. Until then, the flag flies properly, the yard looks better for it, and I remain at large, prepared, if necessary, to apologize for the whole thing with great sincerity, but very little regret.
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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