Teenage beauty queens. Little kids riding training-wheeled bicycles that are decorated with a zillion American flags. Fancy vintage cars. Marching bands. More teenage beauty queens, these even prettier than the others. Then more kids on bikes with a mega-zillion flags.
The Fourth of July parade in the little Pacific Northwest town where we live is One Amazing Event. In a competitive country like the USA--this is, after all, an election year, when our two Presidential candidates seem to be wrestling one-another in a down-and-dirty smackdown to see who can appear to be the Most All-American, the most Red, White and Blue--my town should win some kind of award for celebrating a very sweet, old-fashioned kind of Star-Spangled-Bannered day. The rest of you in your small towns needn't try for this award, sad-sack losers that you are. You stay home on your Main Streets, at your Mom’s Diners, your JoeBob’s Bar and Grill. My town is the Best in America. We are going to be recognized by the Whole Wide World as the Champions of Patriotism. The rest of you aren’t even close.
...Or...at the very least, my town puts on the Best Fourth of July Parade.
The Best.
I was there today. I saw it.
