Have you ever had the pleasure of watching the 1999 movie “Drop Dead Gorgeous”? It’s a parody of teenage beauty pageants set in a fictional small town in Minnesota, and it’s a favorite in my family, though I find that most of the population is sadly unaware of this cinematic masterpiece. I was happy to recently hear from our local former Miss South Dakota that it’s still a favorite among pageant gals today.
Anyway, at one point in the film, the small-town pageant contestants have to introduce themselves by sharing what makes them “Proud to Be an American.”
“(Insert iconic American symbol here) makes me, Amber Atkins, proud to be an American,” they each declare.
Of course, you have the usual answers like Mount Rushmore and other famous landmarks. The whole scene is made even better by the fact that they have to wear a model of whatever they’re talking about on their heads. One hapless contestant makes the unfortunate decision to choose the Largest Ball of Twine in Minnesota. During her introduction, she sheepishly admits she misunderstood the assignment just as the oversized ball of twine rolls off her head and into the audience. It’s wonderfully ridiculous.
But I found myself thinking about that scene this past weekend as we continued celebrating our country’s 250th anniversary. What makes me proud to be an American?
For me, much like that oversized ball of twine, it’s often the seemingly insignificant things. The little moments I remember throughout my life. The little places that leave a big impression. Those are the things that make this country great and unique.
Of course, all of that was on full display this past weekend in the little town of Lake City.
I know I already talked about our parade in last week’s column, but after another outstanding rendition this year, I just couldn’t let it go without another mention. I think there were more entries than ever before, and certainly more spectators. People were already pouring into town two hours before the parade even started just to claim the perfect viewing spot.
The entries were everything you’d expect: classic cars, old tractors and just about anything that could be draped in red, white and blue. It was fantastic.
My family gathers near my parents’ house at the beginning of the parade route with plenty of extended family and friends. In the last few years, my mom, who simply can’t help herself, has developed a tradition. She suddenly yells, “Ready?!” in the middle of the crowd before launching into a full-throated rendition of “God Bless America.”
Apparently everyone is supposed to join in. I’m not sure they always do.
At one point in my life I probably would have crawled into a hole out of embarrassment at the spectacle. Now I just quietly sing along and occasionally try to record her.
Anne Nordquist howling “God Bless America” in front of dozens of people makes me, Bridget Shileny, proud to be an American.
Sticking with that same song, Father Ken reflected on America’s big birthday during Mass on Sunday morning in Eden. He admitted he had psyched himself up so much trying to come up with the perfect sermon that he almost couldn’t think of anything to say. But he ended up sharing some thoughtful words about how making our country better starts with each of us taking personal responsibility.
Then he led the congregation in a spirited rendition of “God Bless America” that nearly blew the roof off the church. Father joked that we sounded like a bunch of Lutherans, a fitting comment considering us Catholics aren’t exactly known for our enthusiastic congregational singing.
I sang along when I could, although I found myself getting a little choked up as I reflected on what is so special about this little corner of our country.
As the weekend wound down, I snuck into the office Sunday evening to start sorting through the hundreds of photos I had taken over the holiday, along with many others people had shared with me. To complete the patriotic mood, I asked the smart speaker in the office to play patriotic music.
Soon enough, Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the U.S.A.” came on.
I’ll admit it. If that song comes on the radio during the rest of the year, I sometimes change the station. It borders on cliché, and I’ve probably heard it a million times.
But this time I let it play.
As I listened, I thought about a memory my mom had recently reminded me of and suggested I include in a column. When my siblings and I were kids, our neighbors, the Vrchotas, would come over and we’d put on little concerts in our living room. We’d stand on my mom’s hope chest, hold brooms as microphones and belt out whatever cassette tape we had shoved into the player. Quite often, it was a country compilation featuring Greenwood’s “God Bless the U.S.A.”
There’s still a photo somewhere in my parents’ house of five or six kids standing proudly on that hope chest, singing our hearts out and honoring America in the way only innocent children can.
It’s a silly little small-town memory.
