'People are out celebrating themselves, marching down the block in front of God and everybody." I think he doesn't understand, but then I don't really, either. "See?" says the idea man, who is elected Drill Sergeant at once, a battlefield commission, "we'll do all the parades."Įvery few floats and I dissolve into tears again. They are thinking, "Yeah, yeah, we'll be in all the parades." The whole bunch of them lift glasses to their faces at precisely the same time, coordinated, as if they planned it. I think they must have been formed as somebody's idea at a bar one late, hot SaturdayĪfternoon, and I see him spinning the story of what they should wear and the things they could do, and the slow agreement of his buddies on stools around him. They do a Chaplinesque ballet, formation, no formation, EF-EF-EF HUTTON, turn and fall into one another and collapse. Nave's Patrola makes its way down the road, a group of guys wearing World War I Uniforms handlebar mustaches and doughboy hats. They twirl one another in jitterbug circles, doing the splits, taking huge gliding strides up the block and back down, winged feet of spring, the girls in short red skirts, shiny new tulips. A group of formation Rollerbladers is next. Radio stations throw bumper stickers to the crowd. The karaoke flatbed goes by blasting music and alcohol bravado. One of the marchers carries a sign saying "JUSTICE" and another saying, "Thank You Petaluma." This kicks off another round of weeping, for the homeless who had only one place to go last winter, and for the gratitude on the signs. The Petaluma Human Services float goes by blowing bubbles and pushing strollers. The coach stops and he pushes down on that brake for real every 20 yards or so for the people to admire.Įvery dairy in the country is represented by a flatbed truck and polyester dancing cow. His face is a still life of rough roads and low pay, hard biscuits and determination. One of the drivers pushes down on the wooden brake pedal with his boot. The coach is pulled by four impossibly huge Percherons, chestnut, gleaming, reflecting the sun back at the people stacked four deep on the sidewalk for blocks. He scouts two blocks ahead, past the traffic light at Kentucky and Western streets for Indians and or robbers. A hired gun escort rides alongside, his horse pacing and pawing nervously. Ridden by Western-clothed women, brown eyes looking off into an imaginary sunset from under their Stetsons and the most wonderful, a real Wells Fargo Stagecoach with two serious looking drivers up top and lady passengers inside. I leap off the curb to take pictures of Peruvian Pasos, the riders in cheap capes and straw gaucho hats, quarter horses I also stop crying whenever any horses go by. He tells me to stop worrying and have the cry. I say, "How come this happens to me? Every time." He is used to this ritual misery with me. My husband puts his hand on my wet cheek. When I do this I stop crying for a minute. Even though she's grown up, I want her to know I am here to see her, and cared enough to take a picture, so I keep pawing my camera and checking the number on the film. The girls at the salon where she works are marching. I reach down and fool with my camera in its nylon case. So I cry some more for him and his memories and the goodness of brothers. He was in the war, and he is saluting his brothers in arms. The sound of his loud whistling and clapping at the Vietnam truck still rings around his head. And then I think how the schools don't ever have enough money and yet they are germinating all these little music seedlings, just from will, just from stuff found around the community, around the house, and I'm gone, I'm full-out crying. I'm glad now I wore the big sunglasses and the droopy gardening hat. There is nowhere for them to go but out my eyes. Tears begin swelling from somewhere mid-throat and escalate toward the top of my head. I imagine the bandleader, a round-shouldered guy in a badly fitting tweed jacket saying, "just wear black, something you have around the house, don't go out and buy anything. The junior high school band wearing black jeans and baggy black shirts, presses forward - stomp stomp stomp -splaying a march a row of clarinets, a row of saxophone players, two rows of girl flautists.
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