In the morning, we met S.'s dad, D., on a suspiciously subdivision-looking street in their little town. He was the first one there, other than one kid in a motorized kid-car and an Army Humvee with some associated soldiers in desert fatigues. We festooned* the old fire truck with garland and balloons and ribbon while wearing plastic tiaras, and kids gathered in front of us on bikes and wagons and carts pulled behind lawn mowers.
When the parade started moving, the kids went first, in one messy, chaotic mass, and the dozen or so cars and floats trailed along behind. S. threw candy in big scoops until halfway down the eight-block parade route she had thrown it all and just had to stand on the back, waving. I turned the crank for the siren, gleefully watching the faces of the parade goers as they figured out that the siren was actually turned by hand. As we pulled into the parking lot at the end, a new fire truck was heading out. "Need some help?" D. asked the driver cheerfully, but the driver didn't get it. "Uh, no," he said flatly, and we laughed fit to bust.
The fire truck took 2nd place in the cars category, second only to the Army Humvee, which won out of pure patriotic duty. We should have gotten first. We were robbed.
Back at the house, kids ran around and through the grownups. I made lifelong friends with T. and D. by handing them each a SunChip as I passed. After eating, everyone sat around wishing it was warm enough to swim in the pool, but I felt myself nodding, and I crept off to nap on the couch.
Story from S. concerning the period after I fell asleep: "Why is she lying down?" H. asked S.
"She's tired. She wants to take a nap." S. said.
H. looked at me in confusion. It was clear on her face that this adult concept of napping for fun does not yet make sense to her.
End story.
We exclaimed, "Beyoooutiiful!" at the fireworks in honor of some guy who sat behind us last year and said that about every single flare, and all around the valley around and behind us the smaller fireworks popped up in competition with the big show.
At the end of the day, after the fireworks, we did as any patriotic 'Merkins would do: we got out the shotgun and shot at the sky above the hay field across the road. "I think I got a bat," D. said.
That sucker has quite a kick. My shoulder is bruised right along the nerve that leads to my golf elbow problem. "I don't think," I said, raising my arm experimentally on the drive home, "that I'm going to be able to move my arm tomorrow."
...
* I might possibly have written this entire post solely for the opportunity to use the word "festooned." It's been floating through my head ever since we, you know, festooned the fire truck.
When the parade started moving, the kids went first, in one messy, chaotic mass, and the dozen or so cars and floats trailed along behind. S. threw candy in big scoops until halfway down the eight-block parade route she had thrown it all and just had to stand on the back, waving. I turned the crank for the siren, gleefully watching the faces of the parade goers as they figured out that the siren was actually turned by hand. As we pulled into the parking lot at the end, a new fire truck was heading out. "Need some help?" D. asked the driver cheerfully, but the driver didn't get it. "Uh, no," he said flatly, and we laughed fit to bust.
The fire truck took 2nd place in the cars category, second only to the Army Humvee, which won out of pure patriotic duty. We should have gotten first. We were robbed.
Back at the house, kids ran around and through the grownups. I made lifelong friends with T. and D. by handing them each a SunChip as I passed. After eating, everyone sat around wishing it was warm enough to swim in the pool, but I felt myself nodding, and I crept off to nap on the couch.
Story from S. concerning the period after I fell asleep: "Why is she lying down?" H. asked S.
"She's tired. She wants to take a nap." S. said.
H. looked at me in confusion. It was clear on her face that this adult concept of napping for fun does not yet make sense to her.
End story.
We exclaimed, "Beyoooutiiful!" at the fireworks in honor of some guy who sat behind us last year and said that about every single flare, and all around the valley around and behind us the smaller fireworks popped up in competition with the big show.
At the end of the day, after the fireworks, we did as any patriotic 'Merkins would do: we got out the shotgun and shot at the sky above the hay field across the road. "I think I got a bat," D. said.
That sucker has quite a kick. My shoulder is bruised right along the nerve that leads to my golf elbow problem. "I don't think," I said, raising my arm experimentally on the drive home, "that I'm going to be able to move my arm tomorrow."
...
* I might possibly have written this entire post solely for the opportunity to use the word "festooned." It's been floating through my head ever since we, you know, festooned the fire truck.
No comments:
Post a Comment