hey, bud. hey, amigo. hey, america.

Early last evening, still a ways prior to the pop-off chaos of July 4 celebration, I was down at the end of our driveway messing with some damn yard blemish or other, just up from the stationary parade of tiny United States flags my one neighbor puts out along his curb every time a day arrives that gives him any goddamn excuse to quietly scream America.

So this couple of about Lisa’s and my age, people I didn’t recognize as neighborhood-evening-stroll usuals, comes around the corner two houses down, walking toward me with an older dog, tan, something kindly faced, in the retriever family. As they got close, we, the three humans, made passing pleasantries at one another, as you do, and as the dog strained toward me just enough that I happily asked the obvious, because dogs, and dogs are great:

OK if I pet your pup?

I prepared to extend one hand for a polite meet-and-greet sniff.

The couple noted the dog would love that, and actually very much expected that, and the pup very much agreed, sniff, sniff, hand-nuzzle, tail a-wag. Great dog. Dogs are great.

So we three chatted a little over pets and what-have-you, as my own two canine loudmouths went off in clamorous protest inside the house, and our big orange cat, Biggles, the very height of kitty cool, vogued it just beyond our glass storm door, nonchalantly surveying all that was

We there in the street talked on, about the Fourth, the evening’s coming fireworks, terrified pups, Benadryl-vs.-gabapentin, dosing, and like that. As you do. Well, as some do, anyway.

We then said our warm good evenings, and as the two-and-four-legged trio advanced a little past me, the man turned back, and yelled, did I mind him asking, about the flags? Was I Canadian?

See, Lisa and I have these three official country flags, Canadian, U.S., Mexican, hanging in a row from the posts on our front porch. And I don’t much look Hispanic. So, fair question.

I said no. “I just feel,” I added, measuring my words carefully, it’s a tricky world, etc., and coming out with something pretty close to this, “that we aren’t treating our neighbors to the north and south all that well right now, so it’s a little shout-out to them. I’m personally really fond of our neighbors. I think we owe them a lot better.”

The man smiled broadly, and said, “Oh. Well, I’m Canadian; I moved here some years ago [to some northern state, then to this area]. And I really thank you.”

That struck me deep, a sparkler shooting happy light into the dim reaches of a tired and angry heart.

And that was that. And off we went with our separate lives.

Happy belated Fourth of July. The United States used to be that country, the one that cared for its neighbors, for others. The man’s remarks made me sincerely hope that one day we can be again.