Parade Day

For a week now jewelry, organic sponges, and lobster rolls have been sold in the street. A 5K and a 10K and a bed race were all run yesterday and later tonight the town puts on fireworks. But today and now, it’s parade time.

No one marches alone, and most groups range between ten and fifty, the man and woman who push a bed (maybe they thought today was race day?) the smallest contingent, though they considerably less weird than the trio of hubby, wifey, and hubby’s iffy friend, each wearing pirate outfits purchased at CVS the day after Halloween. While the pirate trio wave plastic swords in prom queen motion as iffy friend guy pulls a little red wagon built out with a few boards to look something like a boat which, now, carries at it’s highest point (the prow?) a retriever Labrador descent and good-dog befuddlement, And while the bed pushers attached to their bed a sign–Up With People–the cause or association of the pirate ship is a complete mystery, in the whole parade only that crews lacks identification. You could almost hear the captain bark: What the ruff?

In homage to those American favorites–engines and noise–new fire trucks and ambulances all blare sirens and blast lights at the start of the procession. Vintage cars and trucks follow behind.

The “check out the local assets” sensibility of all this is hard to miss, even if no tanks or real troops pass by any despot’s podium, a lack of Red Square or North Korean uniformity notable even among those school-bands and quasi-militaristic organizations that try to march with toy soldier precision. Chapters of not-yet-defunct-pancake-serving-do-gooders (Odd-Fellows, Lion’s Club) or niche musical organizations (a couple of bagpipe groups, a few Italian church bands) give little sense of cultural relevance, let alone battle readiness.

The decay of American-ness is in the air.

But it’s a day for the locals. And that counts. And for sure we could use more do-gooder groups.

The only actual military presence is an all-female unit that comes after the Coast Guard Band. Their uniforms look fresh (maybe it’s that they have gloves?) and they never break formation, even when things back up or there is enough space between groups for participants to joke with each other or talk to people on the sidewalk.

Beyond that, the cliches and stereotypes are ripe and ready. The guy holding one end of the Odd-Fellow banner looks like Whitman and marches like your crazy uncle Walt. Some business owner whose goal in life is to drive around in a big pick-up truck with an American flag mounted on the back rumbles by. A be-sashed lady representing the county rides atop a Cadillac Convertible. The mayor and his staff smile and wave to the “crowd” as they pass, the mayor kissing his wife every now and again.

It’s a rough guess, but there are probably only two to three times as many people watching the parade as in it, so “crowd” seems like the wrong word. And while many groups trail displays more impressive than the boat with the dog, the biggest are essentially flat beds getting towed down the street. Getting your chapter or band into the parade looks pretty easy (which is cool) and the pick-ups and flatbeds are populated by more than just group members. Their kids and their kid’s friends may be along just for the ride and the kids riding enjoy throwing candy to the kids standing.

The Republicans have a group of fifteen or so, and their “float” has a big mirror with “YOU” written near it. “Values,” “Family” and “Church” are written there too, if not quite as big. And none of them throw candy.

Five of six politicians running for Congress or State Senate pass by too, the least supported of which marches with his three kids, all of them in red matching t-shirts.

Ten older citizens represent The Alzheimer’s Association, three of whom seem to have forgotten the T-shirt color of choice was to be purple.

When trucks pulling souped up and tricked out race cars roll by in the parades largest contingent of hardware, the engine gets yet more celebration. A “pace car” comes first, but the driver does not mind putting the whole parade on hold for a minute as one of his tattooed buddies in the street comes up to chat, the guy with the most horsepower now holding up the show.

There’s an old fashioned farm tractor trailing a small wagon, but the guy driving looks more suited for the golf course than plowing any field. And the antique tractor seat sinks beneath his weight.

Live music trumps anything recorded or amplified here. Of the two bagpipe troupes one sounds a little better than the other, one sounding a little more military than the other, but hearing those, or John Phillips Souza or whatever the Coast Guard band payed certainly one ups anything–acoustically–than anything that goes into a microphone and out of a loudspeaker.

A float celebrating the town or the country carries three “babes,” each in sequined suits of fade rather than glitter. They sing a Lion King-ish song as if the Suzie Q/ Playmate scene in Apocalypse Now could be miked up and amplified into a disney/vegas groove parade groove you are gonna love. It cannot.

This float includes a twelve-year-old boy, sitting with his back to the singers, facing the crowd while drinking some kind of punchy sports drink. More a candy eater than a candy thrower, he is bored and hot, as dead-eyed an American as you’ll ever see, not even anything to bark about.

The most fun sound comes from a local percussion school, their truck towing a near dozen students, all on steel drums. These steel drums say, as most do, “Beach,” and say it in a fashion that countermands any sense of militarism, even if, perhaps because, the kids go at these drums like soldiers of play.

As the parade ends I check the news . . . Gunman opens fire on Sikh Temple.