Every year as the kids grew up, we made our way to Ginger’s house, a lovely pioneer era gray stone place on Center Street, shaded by huge sycamores and next door to a famous actor’s ex-mother-in-law. I only mention that because I once lived in that house, too, as a grad student in the upstairs apartment. I met the actor in question twice on that lawn next door. He used to watch the parade from the porch roof.
More to the point, Ginger’s kids would spend the night on the curb, guarding our territory. And we cashed in, front row seats for the Great Freedom Festival Parade, cannon and all. Now, our kids grab curb on the shady side of the county building parking garage. And again, we cash in – but now without strollers and supplies and actors. Just us and the Fam.
Family. We keep adding people. Here are Chaz and Lorri and Lorri’s mom and sis. And Scooter. And his cousin. Switched.
Pretty girls riding gaudy, shiny floats. Modest dresses. Always love the modest dresses.
More pretty girls. Like a different species, I often think. But one of them turned and smiled right at us, almost conspiratorially. So maybe I’m wrong about that. Red, white and blue. The word, “family.”
Our Alma Mater. The band ain’t what it once was, but nobody’ll ever be as good as Mr. Bacon was. Still—saxophones and drums. And a very serious female drum major.
Cheerleaders who are just happy and friendly. And modest. Did I mention modest? They made us yell. I like legal yelling.
Sons taking pictures of their sons.
Decorated scooters – the military – the military’s families honored. When I was a young woman, I didn’t like the military. It was all tail-hook and nasty news. But I am older now, and so is the military, and I think we understand each other better.
Stage coaches and horse teams. Beautiful horses, and the women who walk beside them, making sure nobody ends up trampled.
Good old honest mules. Who better to garner honor for their role in the history of our country? We Americans are, basically, mules – mutts who are ornery and strong and determined—and if you can get us pulling together, we can do anything.
City Gov. I don’t love it – except I do, because how many places can you go to the meeting hall and actually speak your mind in front of the powers that be? That’s America. Yelling right at the city council. Yes. And green african shirts.
Brave hearted horses. He may be complaining, but he’s still carrying that guy—including all those over-weening silver trappings.
Chaz is, at this very minute, saying: “I told you not to take a picture of me—and this is cream soda, NOT BEER.” (I wish Cam would buy his soda in cans . . .)
Crowds. Hate ’em. Love ’em. Some even clean up after themselves. This is one block. The parade actually covers about twenty one blocks, all this crowded on both sides. If you’re staking out territory, avoid the sunny side.
Fancy cars. I don’t think they get much fancier and less useful than this one.
Moms. Here are two random moms who didn’t mind me taking pictures of them.
Fat babies in red clothes.
And slender babies in red clothes.
Oh, yeah. Daddy is cheezy and baby is adorable.
Balloons: really big ones.
More amazingly brave and patient horses. We think this one was a Morgan.
And Painted horses. Not really painted. They come this way. Very American. And flags.
And dancers, once from the Islands. And little girls with fake star tatoos. And Radio Flyer wagons, and little girls with pigtails.
The shirts and the music: both hot.
This horse sees somebody in the crowd he knows: “Hey Prince! How’d those shoes work out for you the other day?” My favorite thing about this is the pioneer wagon passing in front of all those pioneer houses on Center. You can see the roof line of one of them behind the WWII brick box across the street.
Llama fests. And matching dresses. And colored hot dog stand umbrellas. Oh, and baseball caps and hair ribbons.
Ditto. Zion is afraid of llamas. But these are patient llamas. And I bet they were soft. But I wasn’t gonna go out there and brave the spit to find out.
And sons taking even more pictures of their sons. And young soldiers in uniform, high-fiving their neighbors, which is not what soldiers in Iran are presently doing.
This is the way we safely watch the parade. Kind of safely.
Okay. Once upon a time, a whole crowd of independent non-conformist adventurers left their traditional homes and crossed the ocean to make a whole lot of noise and drama that turned out to be The United States of America. These were tough people who weren’t about to be told what to do by a bunch of effete-ist gov types. They made their own way, and won freedom.
Some of their kids stayed right there on the farms, or went on to build factories back East. But some of the children had too much of their parents’ grit to be satisfied, trying to fit in to somebody else’s structure. And they went west. Those of you who sniff and look down your little noses and call G. Bush a cowboy don’t know what y’all are talking about. THESE are cowboys. And when you see facial hair like this, you do not mess with it.
And they ride GREAT horses.
Walks through the teeming shores.
Saluting the soldiers.
And young soldiers on their day off, out of uniform, sitting with family and hoping for pie.
Pipers. Our heritage. Well, part of it. Wearing uniforms. These are not camouflage, I don’t think. But I’ve never been to Scotland, so I don’t know.
Pointing.
And the great horses with their feathered feet. Did you know, the larger the horse, the sweeter the nature? I’m sure there are exceptions, but that seems to be the way of it. You don’t know big until you stand close to these guys.
And when you hear someone say, “feet the size of dinner plates,” believe them. They mean it.
Bigger balloons. And kids taking off across the street in the middle of things. And balloon teams swirling around like so many fish, turning their balloons in mid-flight.
Definitely the coolest parade balloon I have EVER seen.
And tanks, almost as big as the great horses.
But not near so elegant. Look at this guy’s feet. I wouldn’t want to pay for feeding him, but I’d love to know him better.
And acrobats. This year, pretty much, just on horseback. For twenty blocks. What a patient horse.
After an hour or so, you get a little over wowed. A little – worn out with glory.
But the simple suggestion of a friendly tickle will usually perk you right up . . .
::: to be continued :::
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