4th of July Musings

(Granted, a few days late).

Since I'm already off, the 4th of July week (yes, week - because unless you are a blue collar worker, I defy you to tell me you worked hard last week, if you were working at all) doesn't have the same vacation feel for me as it does for most. We don't generally go anywhere or do anything special, but we do always attend our local-yokel parade/community gathering and corresponding fireworks event.

The parade is always worth it, especially if you are the kind of person who enjoys observing the local color such events bring out. Of course, these days not even the smallest communities totally avoid the kitsch of universal media culture. Hence, at our little parade, we witnessed a little old man and woman driving a classic old tractor with a stuffed chicken attached to the front of it, followed soon by a pick-up full of poor souls stuffed into Sponge-Bob, Cinderella, and Super Mario costumes. My personal favorite was the "Buckle Up With Jesus" license plate on one of the old Chevy's that crawled by. Oh, and the Wyfe also got hit on by a WWII Marine veteran signing her up for a raffle ("Just write your name and phone number here, and I'll give you a call sometime when your husband's not home.") And truly, there is comfort (and a smug sense of "Hey ACLU-types, here's mud in your eye!") to be had in the public prayer offered up, followed by a rousing rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner. In any case, have a look:



The grand marshal carriage - that horse can't be enjoying itself on the hot asphalt, I imagine.




Our congressman, Bob Etheridge. One of our friends said, "How 'bout I run out there and ask him for his take on amnesty?"



I'll admit it - the local high school band (which really is renowned throughout the state) always gives me goosebumps when they play the usual 4th of July repertoire.



Which makes this parade more certifiably rural and Southern? The cavalcade of tractors, or...



...the requisite Junior Miss? You make the call.



This speaks for itself. Can you say 92 degrees, anyone?

Oh, if only my beloved muse was around to put such a gathering to use. It would have been right up her alley.