I was still feeling a bit weak that first Day morning, after several days in bed with a bilious fever. But I was now better, and the weather in New York was fair.
My good wife agreed that a walk to Meeting would likely do me good. It was only four blocks to Rose Street, after all.
Several men Friends were milling around near the broad meetinghouse steps, on their way into the plain brick building. But one lingered, not going in. His tall figure was unmistakable even though his grey coat and broadbrim hat were like all the others.
It was Simon Goodloe, and he was standing on the top step, looking over and past the rest, evidently waiting for someone. And I thought that someone must be me, because as soon as he recognized me he came striding down the steps, long legs moving like those of a graceful grey crane, and extended his hand.
“Jacob Hicks, I heard thee was ill,” he said, his grip firm.
“I’m better,” I answered, “but grateful to be here.”
Ms. Hazel’s Last July 4th — 2023: Her Flags & The Prayer Line
Ms. Hazeltine Umstead, with hammer & flags, July 2023.
I lived next door to Ms. Hazeline Umstead for twelve years. She was remarkable in many ways: she had grown up in this neighborhood; had returned to it after several years in New York City.
She was meticulous about her lawn (and doggedly patient with the unruly wildlife habitat we were making next door), and her blonde wigs.
She was in church every Sunday, and started most mornings on a telephone prayer line with several other believers, calling for divine protection and help for a continuing roster of those in need (I was on the list more than once).
But I think the thing she loved most was giving parties, marking her birthdays and holidays: she also had oversized blow-up yard figures for Christmas and especially Valentine’s Day. Each year in late summer she ordered loads of delectable local soul food for a free banquet for a huge crowd of local police.
2020-Covid. When this sign disappeared from her yard, she hand-painted another one.
Among these celebrations, July 4th was special. I could tell that because she spent at least a full day on her hands and knees, using a hammer to pound close to fifty American flags in the grass, on both sides of her driveway to the curb, plus the sidewalk to her porch, and here and there among her menagerie of lawn animals, and under the big flag that hung from the corner of her roof year-round.
I often pondered what had shaped this annual devotion. When she was a schoolgirl, around the corner on Lakewood, the street was a dirt road, the city and its schools were rigidly segregated; her mother and other elders were unable to vote. Durham had a large Klan chapter.
But she lived to see the street paved, the schools opened up (somewhat at least), the Klan dwindle, relatives serve in the military. She not only cast ballots religiously, but was twice able to vote for Obama (his photo was enshrined on her wall) and we lamented together the rise of Obama’s successor.
When these photos were taken, in 2023, we were again lamenting the prospect of that successor’s return. And Ms. Hazel was daily waging (and slowly losing) the most intense struggle of the years I knew her: against aging and its burgeoning disabilities.
She disliked doctors, medicines, pain —and even more hated having to ask for help. I would gladly have put in a batch of the flags. But I also knew she would have been affronted by the offer, with its unmistakable implication of weakness and need: she had set up these flags for I don’t know how many years before I turned up. It was her ritual, and if it took all day and night, she would erect it just so, and the only help she needed or would accept was that of her beloved Jesus.
So I watched from my side, and recorded her labor. One reason was that I feared this could be the last time she would get to do it. With her game legs, it was slow going.
But as she finished the driveway rows and practically crawled up the sidewalk with its concrete steps, painstakingly planting more slender wood posts, a different thought came: in good health or in decline, for reasons I could mostly just guess at, Ms. Hazel was the most patriotic American in our neighborhood.
It wasn’t a contest. A glance up and down the otherwise flag-free block confirmed it. We took America for granted; but despite its failings, which she knew all too well and did not excuse, Ms. Hazel did not.
Finally she arrived at the finish, and sat, worn out, on the top step of her porch, surveying the array. I imagined she was also reflecting on the strains loose and rising in the country, beyond what she could see, or feel.
Maybe that’s just my projection, but we had spoken often of these things. There was plenty threatening her country then, and now.
I was right about one thing. This was her last time: in October, the strokes came. She was carried from the house to hospitals and a rehab center, unable to speak. Ms. Hazel died there in February 2024.
A relative lives there now. The large flag at the corner of the roof flies solo. Most of her lawn menagerie has scattered.
But I think of her often, especially today. I wonder: if it’s really heaven, it must have a large green yard just for her, where she can work daily in perfect weather, with no aches or pains. And does she still take time to join that prayer line there?
If so, Ms. Hazel, please add me back onto the list. Along with all the rest of what moved you to plant those flags.
Marchers re-enacting in 2005 the first crossing of the Pettus Bridge 40 years earlier.
Below is a black & white news photo from late February, 1965. It turned up a few years back (hat tip to the sharp-eyed Lewis Lewis): it was taken on the steps of Brown Chapel AME Church in Selma, Alabama when John Lewis (center-left, with a tie) announced the plan to march from Selma to Montgomery.
The goal of the march was winning voting rights for southern Blacks, after three generations of formal disfranchisement; but the plan was sparked by the police killing of Jimmie Lee Jackson. I’m at the far right, behind Andrew Young (who is also in a tie).
I had been in Selma since the beginning of the year, and the active phase of the campaign, as a rookie member of Dr. King’s staff. I had marched often, served some days in jail, and was learning a lot very fast.
That was then.
Forty-three years later, one sunny day in April 2018, I woke up again in Selma Alabama, once more prepared to go to jail.
This past First Day (Quaker talk for Sunday) I Zoomed into worship in my Friends meeting, the one out in the farmland of Flyover County, North By-God Carolina, where I missed one of my favorite annual scenes there: the appearance in the back 40 of a big unruly spread of wild daffodils. But I did hear a stirring message.
If Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth should fall off the wagon and be dragged off the public stage to rehab, his Pentagon tenure, however brief or long, will surely be remembered for one thing; or maybe two.
The second would be turning into the answer to a question of the sort that haunts a generation, to wit: “Who lost Ukraine?”
During his maiden visit in mid-February to U.S. bases in Europe, he seemed to be auditioning to head the honor guard that salutes Vladimir Putin’s victorious entry into the rubble of Kyiv. He acted ready to serve it up on the faux silver platter of MAGA incompetent, arrogant indifference. That would surely be one for the record– and textbooks, fodder for manypoignant Banksy wall murals.
Several men Friends were milling around near the broad meetinghouse steps, on their way into the plain brick building. But one lingered, not going in. His tall figure was unmistakable even though his grey coat and broadbrim hat were like all the others.
often pondered what had shaped this annual devotion. When she was a schoolgirl, around the corner on Lakewood, the street was a dirt road, the city and its schools were rigidly segregated; her mother and other elders were unable to vote. Durham had a large Klan chapter.
It wasn’t a contest. A glance up and down the otherwise flag-free block confirmed it. We took America for granted; but despite its failings, which she knew all too well and did not excuse, Ms. Hazel did not.
During