I Love A Parade

A small-town parade—like a ripe peach or a child who says “thank you” and means it—makes you believe in the goodness of life.   I did not grow up going to parades, but I enjoy them immensely now, especially if they are small and rag-tag.  Fourth of July parades are especially wonderful, being inclusive (unlike St. Patrick’s Day parades) and accommodating of nearly everyone: in a town like mine, you could round up a few people behind a banner reading, “People Who Hate Parades” and everyone would clap and cheer for them.

No such group at this year’s Fourth of July festivities, but we had fire trucks and classic cars, dogs and horses, cheerleaders and Little League players. 

The Daughters of the American Revolution dressed in long frocks and bonnets. 

A couple of kids walked on stilts.  The people who till the community garden received lots of applause, as did representatives from the local Democratic Party Club and a guy driving a 1904 Oldsmobile. 

My daughter was thrilled to see a pony.  Yes, she is in her twenties.

 

Someone dressed up as Smoky the Bear.  Someone dressed up as a camel and spit.  The grand marshall drove a motorcycle with an attached passenger seat occupied by a black standard poodle who looked just like my Henry.

Robert liked the community ukulele club. 

I love the Klingons, who make an appearance every year.

This guy does, too.  We see his car around town all year.  Not exactly clear who he is or what he’s about.  There’s a blow-up doll in the passenger seat.

We missed the Lyme Disease Survivors Support Group from last year, and the guy dressed as a pigeon squirting shaving cream out of his ass. 

This guy brought up the rear.  He collects supplies for those in need, especially in New Orleans, and makes deliveries several times a year. 

Sometimes the world is a good place.  Yes, it is.