Parade at NOON!
Saturday, August 5Ð
Dolly is an organizer. By mid-July she'd printed up full-color signs (with colorful clip art pictures of candles and wienies and torn-in-half carnival tickets) and scotch taped them around the Store promoting August Daze ... an annual celebration for "kids of all ages" held each first Saturday of August featuring horseshoes, bingo, sawdust kiddy coin scramble, beer-for-a-buck, potluck inside Town Hall, dunk tank, door prizes galore, and PARADE AT NOON!"
In July I was shown a scrapbook of previous parades: a 1974 Mercury Marquis stationwagon wrapped entirely in natural cedar-siding, close-ups and distance shots of Miss Flame waving and grinning, The Parade of Pets with Dolly pulling a leashed pig in the lead, a garden tractor towing a boat with children dangling fishing poles hooked to cardboard fish suspended over the gunwale, and the patriarchal Grand Marshall and his wife waving from aluminum lawn chairs in the bed of an old green pickup truck.
I've got to see it.
I arrived at 11:45, in time for the Parade At Noon! The Store and Town
Hall (adjacent through a hay meadow) is the center of activity. The parade
runs a hundred yards directly past the Store along the county highway, after
congregating across the road in the maintenance yard. I parked in the empty
meadow and headed toward the buzz of excitement. Participants and onlookers
were straggling in, milling and chatting, setting up lawn chairs along the
shoulder and under the Store's canopy to escape a light mist. Some sat under
open car hatches, others stood alone with umbrellas. The sky was dingy dull,
air circulating cool. Dolly (dressed in cut-off coveralls and a short hot-pink
tube top) rushed past carrying armloads of potluck paraphernalia to the trunk
of her Cadillac for delivery at the Town Hall next door. Meg dithered and
disseminated her glee. A row of four elderly ladies--purses stowed at their
feet, hair coifed, dressed-up for the event--sat in webbed lawn chairs, hollyhocks
towering, leaning over from behind.
An aqua '50's Ford pickup squats across the highway with two folding chairs set up facing the rear. An elderly woman sits in the cab, arm resting on the window ledge, head in her hand. An ATV with a handlebar-mounted gun rack and a trailer with bench seats is loaded with exuberant young boys, as young boys should be when loaded onto a parade float. Miss Flame, a chubby girl about twelve and wearing a blue dress and a tinfoil-covered cardboard crown (shaped like Papal Fire), too quickly tips back a bottle of Dr. Pepper and dribbles her chest. Meg directs the wagon boys to turn around and face front, then starts to fret that she can't find the Miss Flame signs--those she's to duct-tape to the sides of the fire truck.
I inquired about Miss Flame, presuming she was a variety of 4-H delegate
or Queen of the Day, or maybe a vicarious representative of the Hinkley fire.
"No. She's just ... Miss Flame."
The crowd widens,
chatter loudens, excitement vibrates, kids surge. A faded yellow fuel oil
delivery truck snarls into action--scraping its tailpipe onto the highway.
A Mayberry bullet siren mounted on the driver's fender moans low; a hose like
a nose dribbles the pavement behind. Travelers in a van swoop non-stop this
festive gathering, faces peering through dark tinted windows, tires billowing
dust as they accelerate east.
A dogfight erupts
by the gas pumps--a vicious convulsion of snarling teeth and flying saliva.
A baby screams. Men yank chains and shout orders and slap bad dog muzzles.
Across the road, all of the emergency vehicles begin long detailed siren tests, confirming that rotating red lights still twirl. So far, the volunteer fire department and three kids on an ATV (one is dressed in a bear suit) are the only parade participants. A man in a feed cap jumps down from a fire engine and pumps another man's hand, index finger of a left hand wagging back, like a crabby scolding school teacher.
The gun-toting ATV with kiddy trailer snorts into action under the Store canopy and edges forward. Two nearby boys point and shout "your tire's flat, your tire's flat!" The driver is distracted by Herb, who's mumbling last minute instructions. Driver surges away with a half-flat rear tire. Five boys in the back are wearing tin-foil crowns, without explanation.
A siren "whoops." Spectators skeedaddle back and forth across the highway, impatience quickens.
Orv OHLSSON For State Representative, fashioned in plaid pants with a beaming blond wife and four blond children in tow, (all under ten) has arrived to claim his place in the parade. The four-year-old is placed in a red wagon with shoulder-high corrugated "VOTE FOR MY DADDY" signs at his sides. A girl holds a stick sign, "Orv OHLSSON For State Representative." The older children hold a clothesrod-draped banner drooped between them, like those majorettes carry when leading the high school marching band. Blond wife, smiling, wearing a smiley-face sweatshirt and deep dimples and dangly earrings, drags the wagon into position. A campaign aide, wearing yellow Bermuda shorts and a green plastic sun visor, plops an overflowing candy bucket onto the boy in the wagon. Bait for campaign trail trolling.
12:16 p.m.-
A siren sounds, and another, announcing the start. A boy with a sticky orange mustache, leaning against the gas pump, plugs his ears and stares. The first entrant onto the highway is the Grand Marshall float. The driver flips his lit cigarette off a male bystander, who gives him the finger. The two folding chairs behind the cab are occupied by an elderly couple holding umbrellas and a hand-lettered cardboard sign across their knees: "Grand Marshall." A boy, hunkered in the back of the Grand Marshall truck, hurls handfuls of candy out over the tailgate. It flies into the spectators and skitters across the pavement. Two kids scramble near, gathering handfuls.
Next in line is Dolly, driving a firetruck. Miss Flame giggles and waves from behind her closed window, followed by a plain white pickup truck--with a magnetic red roof flasher. And siren.
Next comes AT&T Don guiding a wide and high fire emergency vehicle
(WHFEV) purchased from the National Guard and painted red. He grins wide and
whips a fistful of candy. Then, another firetruck, newer and well tended,
followed by an ATV driven by two pre-adolescents, throwing candy, and tugging
along on a leash, the bear-suited boy. Following are the foil-crowned boys
in full assault towed by the half-flat ATV. A garbage bag full of candy is
on the floor between them. With full-arm pitches, candy arcs into the crowd.
Grownups are caught
unprepared for the ambush. Candy ricochets off foreheads and eyeglasses and
upraised forearms. Umbrellas are lowered as shields. Backsides are turned
and knees are lifted in reflexive male response. One gentleman, reckoning
himself out of range, sticks out his tongue, then ducks and runs as suckers
on sticks and boxes of tarts bounce off the bald spot on back of his head.
The assailants are having a ball. One boy, with a centerfielder arm, uses
it fully.
Next is the ORV
OHLSSON For State Representative entry, minus Orv. He's glad-handing the crowd
across the highway. The cheerful wife smiles and waves and tugs the wagon
with the four-year-old, whose hands are clapped to his ears. (Directly behind
him is another fire rescue vehicle with a grinning eight year old boy blasting
the siren) The two older OHLSSON children trudge dutifully, double-sided Orv
OHLSSON for State Representative signs held high and turned for the crowd
to see. All three children have Orv OHLSSON stickers on their clothing--backs,
fronts, arms, sneakers.
Next to last comes the fuel oil delivery truck, still dripping, siren wailing.
At the rear, introducing an ominous Stephen King mood, roars a gigantic diesel front end loader. It is unclear why. There was no livestock in the parade. The loading bucket aims wide open and straight ahead, spacious enough for a square dance. Six-foot tires, scruff-bearded stone-faced driver rumbles past staring straight ahead.
The empty highway instantly fills with adults and children who crouch
and pick candy off the pavement. A tourist with a camera straddles the center
line for a last shot at the disappearing spectacle.
The parade reforms for an encore pass, a quarter-mile down the road. Clouds of dust and diesel exhaust darken the horizon.
A 1957 Ford Sunliner hardtop convertible arrives from the west. Seeing no evidence of the parade, the driver stops along the shoulder, deciding what to do. The front end loader makes a lone pass and disappears south at the crossroads. The '57 Ford idles up to the crowd, stopping front and center for a solo review. The driver peers back over his shoulder, fingers a switch, and electrical hydraulics perform a magic show. The trunk yawns wide to receive the roof as it rears up and back, sliding efficiently into its hidey hole. The audience gasps at this slick transformation from hardtop to convertible, then applaud and cheer as the man glides away onto the road and rumbles down the washboard shoulder to take up the rear of this August review.
Hard candy arcs out again, foil crowns askew. Bear-suit has lost its head, now carried beneath an arm, fuel oil truck driver karate-chops the horn, Dolly shouts tumult into the crowd, sirens shrill. Miss Flame opens her window and leans out and throws her crown into the crowd, the '57 Ford burbles past. Meg runs behind it, hooting and gesturing a camera. Somebody whistles and gets the driver's attention, who'd been sighting in on a lady across the road. Meg scuttles, leans in, hands off the camera, turns, straightens her glasses, and smiles down at the blacktop.
Parade At Noon! is finished. A blond-haired three-year old girl in
shorts and sweatshirt moves in for the candy, stooping, tiny fists sweeping,
surrounded by a sea of sweet. Mom hurries to help. '57 Ford Sunliner sidles
up close to the crowd. Driver, "from Bruno", puts the Ford in Park,
chrome dual exhausts mutter. Then, gunning the engine and leaning down under
the dash, he initiates the procedural sequences of re-raising the roof. Trunk
lid peeps open a crack, then slaps shut. The driver revs the engine louder,
dips his hands deeper under the dash, and the trunk lid jolts open toward
the front, raising its giant jaw. Reaching a seventy-five degree angle the
lid stops. The roof begins its ascent out of its hole, launching up and out
to cover the passenger seats. Half up and aiming at the sky, it slows, shudders,
then stops. Observers haven't seen this maneuver before and assume this is
how it's done. The driver glances back. His poker face fades. He eases the
throttle back to idle, lays on his side across the front seat, and fiddles
with more electrical connections deep under the dash.
"What year is this?"
Not sympathetic toward explanations, he mumbles "fifty-seven" and goes back to work under the dark. Candidate for State Representative Orv OHLSSON, front and center, quips down, "hope it don't rain on your parade."
Electric motors whine and a violent stream of dark liquid arcs out of the trunk, streaking up and over into the crowd. Revelers rear back, a woman's hair and blouse become messed with hydraulic fluid. A toddler cries. Two teen-aged boys circle in for a better look and crumble into helpless hilarity. The driver arises from his fiddling, slams the car into gear, floors the gas, cuts the wheel into a squealing U-turn, gestures toward the crowd, and surges into the glowering dark west, gaining speed, hardtop pointing into the sky and a fountain of oil showering into the ditch.
The exhilarated crowd disperses toward Town Hall carrying Crock Pots and Tupperware trays and Rubbermaid food totes away from car trunks. The spattered weeping woman is helped back to emotional balance by Dolly who has hustled up a "I'VE BEEN TO VEGAS" hat and T-shirt.
1:05-
The "beer tent" is a cardtable covered with a frayed paper table cloth, propped up just inside the overhead doors of the fire barn. It holds stacks of plastic disposable cups, two bottles of brandy, an orange plastic pitcher, and a half-empty cup of beer, presumably the attendant's. A 32 gallon plastic garbage can beside the table has a keg of beer inside, mounded by blue shrouded blocks of ice. Herb, wearing his "NO FEAR" T-shirt nails a notice to the wall "Beer Courtesy of Brandner's Bait in Frankville."
Out back of the town hall two boys are pounding on a pile of sawdust with the backsides of shovels, dumped there for the coin scramble. One shouts at the other "Stop it!" "You'll wreck it, dumb ass!"
Picnic tables are set up in a row along the west side of the building. Men sit there, drinking beer and Diet Coke, hats tipped up, discussing hay crops and pig sows and rain. A white-haired toddler in a stroller ignores an old man who waggles its feet and coos for reaction. Toddler gives a stare, then looks away. A stack of "Cowboy Bob Lahman for Congress" brochures languishes inside the town hall entrance. Cowboy Bob is pictured in profile, sculpted cowboy hat on his head, droopy mustache, bandanna embracing the Adam's apple. Rugged and reliable.
Two kids are careening a stroller up and down the driveway with a two-liter bottle of Coke seat-belted inside. The works topples into the dirt and they turn helpless with laughter, until a woman holding a baby shrieks "Ronnie! Stop it!" Ronnie smirks humbly. Woman turns and the pair whips the stroller onto the highway and out of sight.
The potluck line begins outside the town hall door. Chattering conversation spills out, cheerful laughter, people talking, tables lined up under the windows, a gathering of non-charading folk. They like being here. They like who they are. They like this life ... and have come to accept it fully, without displays of ego or arrogance or haughty pretense. Although likely there is some, it's petty and inconsequential and the locals need each other. They know it.
The food tables are set up near the stage: one for entrees, one for deserts. Above the stage droops an American flag, hung vertically as a curtain. Both tables brim with food, casseroles, a cardboard box piled with dinner rolls, chartreuse and chowder-blue baking dishes laced with floral designs, tinfoil trays cupping deviled eggs, barbecue cocktail weenies, Jell-O topped with Cool Whip and raisins, five-quart ice cream buckets of Cole slaw.
"Excuse me! I just want your attention for just one minute to let you know of a couple things that are going on. There'll be door prize drawings ..."
Nobody listens. Dolly climbs onto the stage.
She inserts index fingers between lips, whistles a pierce: 'SCUSE ME! I HAVE AN ANNOUNCEMENT! ... THERE IS A DRAWING FOR DOOR PRIZES BY THE KEG; A DOLLAR TO GET IN ON IT. I HAVE INCREDIBLE GIFT CERTIFICATES AND PRIZES. SO DO GET IN ON THAT. THERE'S ALSO A LIQUOR DRAWING OUT THERE! (Rocking heel to toe in flip-flops) I ALSO HAVE TWENTY BLUE POKER CHIPS HIDDEN. THERE ARE GIFTS FOR EACH ONE FOUND. THEY'RE HIDDEN AROUND THE TOWN HALL AND FIRE BARN AREAS. THE PRIZE FOR ONE OF THE POKER CHIPS IS A GOLDEN DOLLAR COIN, THE NEW SAKAJAWEJA COIN! AND WHEN YOU FIND ONE OF THOSE--where's Ruth Ann Roggow? She was here--SHE WILL BE THE ONE IN CHARGE OF HANDING OUT THE WINNING COINS! SO IF YOU CAN'T FIND HER, COME TO ME AND WE'LL FIND HER. ANY OTHER QUESTIONS OR ANYTHING?"
"What about Bingo?"
"THE BINGO WILL START AFTER LUNCH. AND I HAVE INCREDIBLE PRIZES FOR TWENTY GAMES OF BINGO ... SO STAY! THERE'S GOOD PRIZES LACED THROUGHOUT THE WHOLE THING."
"ENJOY YOURSELVES. THANK YOU FOR COMING! AND ... WE WANT TO EXTEND A SPECIAL HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ELMER FLIKUSS! (Clapping and cheering)
Backstage, a 15 x 30-inch sheet cake, bristling with barber-striped candles and sparklers is being lit by a youth with a cigarette lighter. The candles balk, he jerks, curses quietly when his hand gets too close to candles lit earlier around the outer circumference. The frosting reads "Happy Birthday Elmer." A stenciled bass leaps above the cardtable, giant jaws gaping. Impatient, Dolly seizes the lighter and finishes the remaining candles. Magically, an electronic "Happy Birthday" starts buzzing from somewhere inside the cake ... that unmistakable tinny sound popularized in the 1980's by greeting cards and light-blinking Santa Claus lapel pins.
Dolly and youth
slide the cake forward to the table's edge. She takes over, both hands supporting
from beneath, heaves it overhead and steps down from the stage, negotiates
the flaming tribute through the fond crowd. It's deposited before Elmer. Dolly
asks everyone to sing happy birthday, she starts loudly, others join in quietly,
discreetly. Elmer beams, then stands, leans, and blows hard. A great column
of smoke rises, caught up into the
ceiling fan and whirled through the rafters. Dolly's song ends and everybody
claps. Elmer is elderly, and having difficulty extinguishing the flames, so
she leans across and finishes the job with one huff, then bows. More applause.