Poppy’s Flags
By Jeanne Albanese
Of the many tributes to my father-in-law Henry Q. Centore when he died in January at 89 years old, to me, the flags capture him — and his legacy — best.
Not the flag that draped his coffin and was later presented to his widow by a Naval officer. Rather, the $1.99 hardware store variety that he pulled out of a big box in his garage every year in advance of Memorial Day and the Fourth of July.
Rubber mallet in one hand, giant stake in the other, up and down the street he went, hammering flags into neighbor’s lawns, up the hill and then down to the corner. If there were any left, he would turn the corner and spread more patriotic cheer up the next street, too.
Not a single Memorial Day or Fourth of July in the last 20 years passed without his display. Until he died, some neighbors had no idea who put out those flags.
But Henry never worked alone. On any given year, any number of his grandchildren would help pound those flags into green and muddy lawns.
So on the night before his funeral, those grandchildren gathered at his house, pulled out the box of flags, the rubber mallet and the giant stake and they set off up and down the hill. While they worked, a car slowly tailed, patriotic music blaring. (Just like he would often do.) A collective expression of grief to honor a man immediately missed beyond measure.
In the morning, as the sun rose higher in the sky, Henry’s funeral procession of too many cars to count that was already late to get to the cathedral on time for his final mass, turned right into the Winkworth neighborhood instead of heading straight downtown like it probably should have, given the cathedral’s strict rules about time. (Props to Ryan Funeral home for indulging us.) Then we made a left up that slow, winding hill to drive past dew-covered lawns decorated with his flags.
“My dad would be mad,” Chris said when we passed the final flag. “He hated being late for church.”
Henry put out those flags without fail because he loved the flag and what it represented, certainly, but their meaning quickly transcended patriotism. Those flags represented everything Henry valued — community, family, tradition. And when they went into the ground without him here, love.
Henry dedicated more than 50 years of his life to helping the poor and homeless, for which he was well-known around town. Whether he was at the food pantry, in his tuxedo shop or on his front lawn, more than anything, Henry was most well-known for making people feel welcome. He made the men he helped feed feel valued and he did the same for friends and neighbors, even strangers. He did it with a joke and a wink, a funny story or a small kindness. Someone at his wake told the story of a time he pulled out his grill in the middle of a blackout to make burgers for everyone on the street. There’s some debate about the details, but no matter, it’s exactly something he would do.
In the same way, those flags were a gift to his neighbors, something to brighten their day, to bond them to the neighbor next to them whose lawn also boasted a flag, and thereby sewing the entire neighborhood into one. Just like it used to be when his kids were little, before the world got too busy and stretched that fabric thin.
Ultimately, the flags became a gift to and from his grandchildren. The gift of time together, the gift of tradition, the gift of learning to give of yourself to others, if only to make them smile.
My kids helped with the flags many years, save a few when we were out of town or it wasn’t their turn. Twice a year my phone would ring, sometimes a week before he wanted the flags out, sometimes a day, sometimes an hour. He always wanted an immediate answer, which I could rarely provide with three busy kids. But I would promise it would get done, hang up and figure it out.
Without fail, my kids showed up. Sure they fought over flag placement pretty much every year, or got annoyed when I tried to capture the moments on film, and sometimes they annoyed their grandfather when they pushed too hard and snapped a flag in two. But the memories are in the mess sometimes.
When they were little, he would walk the hill with them. As they grew and he aged, he took to his car, following slowly and blaring John Phillip Sousa marches. During Covid, and later as he dealt with his health issues, he was content to watch from the front porch. When they finished, he always took them to lunch.
Now 21, 19 and 14, none of them ever got tired of it or thought it was lame or refused to go.
It meant as much to them as it did to him.
That’s why all his grandchildren gathered before they had to say their final goodbye to their beloved Poppy and they hammered those flags into lawns up and down the street, and why my three went yesterday, with their Poppy in their hearts, (and their Poppy pins on their shirts) and decorated the street.
That’s also why I’m sure those flags will flutter on lawns in Winkworth for years to come.
