New Years Day 1900 was a bright blue day in Georgia, and Ret. Col. James P. Watterson was not going to pass it up. He wore a tweed suit and a straw hat, and his whole family was dressed for the picnic. There they were on the front porch of his plantation home, his two little girls each with a basket in one hand and a picnic blanket in the other. He took a deep breath of the fresh air, his swelled belly pushing against the buttons of his suit.
Its the turn of the century, Beth, he said to his lovely wife, and I figure we start it off right. He noticed that the flag pole was bare. Wheres Horace, Beth?
I havent seen or heard of him all day, Jim.
Horace! Col. Watterson bellowed into the house. Horace, get your lazy black hide out here this moment! And bring the flag, too! Last thing Col. Watterson wanted was for the country he took a machine-guns bullet in the seat for in Panama to not get the proper recognition it deserved on New Years Day of the turn of the century.
Horace, a very old black man with graying hair, trundled through the hallway with the flag in his hands, properly folded. Horace never really smiled or looked cheerful, but today Col. Watterson thought he appeared more dejected than usual. Didnt matter too much, though. A house slaves happiness was not his particular concern.
Well, dont just stand there looking like a fool, Horace. Let her fly!
Horace plodded past the family to the flag pole in the hard, unfurled the flag properly (Col. Watterson would not allow old Martial Glory to be treated with disrespect), and attached it to the flags string. Col. Watterson and his family saluted as the Martial Glory, the Eagle and Stripes, inched its way up the pole, slower than usual. His wife elbowed one of his fidgeting daughters.
Now aint that a sight to see, Beth, Col. Watterson said to his wife, that flag up there billowing proudly. Would make ol President Wareing proud, wouldnt it?
Indeed it would, dear, his wife said.
Horace usually would return to the house after hoisting the flag. But today, he simply stood there, fingering the flags string, looking at it intently. It perplexed Col. Watterson. Horace was behaving rather oddly today.
Whats the matter, Horace? he asked. Got roots for legs? You got chores to do, ya hear?
Horace was silent for a good five seconds before saying, softly, Yes, suh, still fixated on the flags string What year is it again, suh?
1900. The turn of the century. Now dont be a fool and get back inside.
Yes, suh, Horace said. He then turned and slowly made his way back to the house, passing by the family without looking up.
Wonder whats eating him up, Col. Watterson wondered aloud. No matter. Lets head off, now.
It was a wonderful picnic. The cook made little individual cherry pies for every member of the family. The girls played in the stream and the Colonel and his wife watched amicably underneath a willow tree, side by side, his arm around her waist. It would have been a wonderful day had they not returned home to see Horace hanging from the flag pole string, limp, the Eagle and Stripes still flying high.