In going through my father's things following his death a dozen years ago, I came across the flag he had hung over our house on holidays and other special occasions, properly folded now as a tri-corner and occupying part of a shelf in his front hall closet.  I asked my two siblings if they would mind if I took it, and getting no objection, I packed it up with a few other items and sent it back to my home in Colorado.  Once there, it was stashed on another shelf in another closet, where I promptly forgot about it until we moved back to Connecticut – after an absence of forty years – and discovered it again while unpacking. This time I was not so dismissive or forgetful about it.  It had, after all, made a nearly 60-year journey across the country and back again to accompany the return of a wayward, if not prodigal, son.  I began to recall the memories that this flag embraced.  It now held meaning to me that until now...(Read Full Article)