Flag Day

 

The promise of pay wasn’t all that much and there were only two people vying for the position.  Wanda Portinski, a single mother with worn shoes and Ben Franklin style glasses, and of course, Betsy Ross, the saloon keeper’s wife, who already had her own sewing machine. 

Wanda was liked down at the daycare center.  She could always entertain the children, and they were always happy to see her.  Betsy, on the other hand, often sneaking drinks when no one was looking and flirting with the piano player behind her husband’s back, could tell a joke that would make a sailor blush.

The day of the big competition finally came.  Wanda had gathered scraps of burlap and corduroy to use for her flag.  Betsy, meanwhile, had stolen a parachute from the supply tent, and although the colors didn’t match anything, she planned to sew it in such a way that it could hang on a pole.

***

The judges—three men who’d never threaded a needle in their lives—sat behind a long table borrowed from the church basement. They wore expressions meant to look official, though the only one taking notes was the reverend, and he was mostly doodling crosses and question marks.

Wanda arrived first, flag folded neatly in her arms. The burlap scratched her skin, and the corduroy stripes didn’t quite line up, but she’d stitched every inch with a kind of stubborn hope. She’d even added a little star in the corner, cut from the lining of her son’s old jacket. It wasn’t symmetrical, but it shone with effort.

Betsy swept in ten minutes late, smelling faintly of gin and lavender water. Her parachute‑flag billowed behind her like a ghost that hadn’t made up its mind. The fabric was slick and loud, a patchwork of colors that had never been introduced to one another. But she carried it with the confidence of a woman who’d never once doubted she deserved applause.

The crowd—mostly townsfolk, who had nothing better to do on a Tuesday—leaned forward.

Wanda unfolded her flag first. It was humble, rough, and honest. A few people murmured. One woman dabbed her eyes, though that might’ve been the burlap dust.

Then Betsy unfurled hers, and the parachute snapped open with a dramatic whump that knocked over a small child. Gasps rippled through the room. The thing was enormous, shimmering, and utterly ridiculous. It looked less like a flag and more like a circus tent that had lost its sense of direction.

The judges stared. The reverend stopped doodling.

And in that suspended moment—burlap sincerity on one side, parachute spectacle on the other—the town waited to see what mattered more: heart or showmanship.

A pole was taken.
        (Sorry)