Friday, July 04, 2003
JULY 4, 2003: 8:00 am
I am waiting in a crowd of 500+ people for the annual Heritage Festival 5-mile Race to begin. What kind of person gets up before 8:00 am on a holiday in order to run five miles through thick-as-soup air that is already pushing 80 degrees? Looking around me I see significant numbers of men with military haircuts and trim physiques, teenagers so full of energy that they nearly levitate, toned, tanned women many with impressive abs, ancient men and women who say that this morning’s heat is nothing, you should have been here for the run in 1948—“now that was a scorcher”—and the occasional just regular old folks like me. Why do I do this? Not exactly sure. It is somehow fun to push oneself a bit though as my finishing time of 47 minutes and change indicates, I don’t push myself very hard. A few serious runners (you can tell them by the “Fredericksburg Area Running Club” t-shirts, $100 shorts, and determined expressions) finished in just over half my time; some of them proceeded to run the course in reverse just to rub it in on all of the rest of us mortal folk.
JULY 4, 2003: 10:00 am
The run is over; even the slowest stragglers have come and gone. I took my son back to the car to change my shirt. He proceeded to smash his face on a metal pole and cut his lip. He’s only four and he has already had more emergency room visits and broken bones than I have had in my entire life. We realized that as long as we are downtown in Historic Fredericksburg’s Old Town, we might as well stay and watch the parade. Everyone loves a parade. I remember taking a trip up the coast in Massachusetts and stopping in a little town near Cape Ann (Rockport perhaps). The dividing stripe that went down the middle of the road was red, white, and blue, rather than our standard white or yellow. The day we were there wasn’t the Fourth of July but it was opening day for Little League. The local teams proudly marched down the street following a decked-out fire truck. Always remembered that. So here we are at a Fourth of July Parade in our own town. What more can a nostalgic sentimentalist (who chokes up when people sing “The Star Spangled Banner” at rodeos) ask for? Well, even I have to say that the parade was pretty lame. The whole thing lasted barely more than 10 minutes. No marching bands (a lone bag-piper and a few cars with blaring stereos constituted most of the music), a handful of antique fire trucks but no sirens, some souped-up motorcycles, a rag-tag band of kids on their bikes, a few clowns, some civil war re-enacters (who looked as disheveled as the poor original troops must have looked) and a singing girl walking with a float on a wagon, and the thing was over. Poor Miss Spotsylvania (or was it Miss Rappahannock) had to walk for heaven’s sake (no nice convertible for her; she didn’t look too happy in her high heels). The only redeeming feature of the whole thing was that leading the parade were veterans, WWII, Korea, Vietnam etc., marching with pride. And people stood and clapped. On the Fourth of July, that’s just how it should be.
On the way home from the parade I got to thinking. While my initial reaction was to lament the feeble attempt at a parade, I concluded that this wasn’t all bad. I am somewhat familiar with a state and society that have raised the art of public display to a technical perfection that is probably unrivaled in the world. If North Korea puts on a parade, prepare to be dazzled and overwhelmed. But then again, if North Korea puts on a parade, chances are you had better be there standing on the side of the street cheering your heart out displaying your endless devotion to the fatherland and its Great and Dear Leaders. Not to do so may end you up in concentration camps. So, if most of the denizens of Fredericksburg chose to stay home and neither participate in or view the parade celebrating the beginning of our own fatherland, at least they can do so secure in the belief that no government-paid snitches are taking notes. And that’s a good thing!
A good chunk of the people who didn’t bother with the parade were actually in downtown FXBG, they were walking the streets that were filled with booths selling trinkets, gadgets, gee-gaws, and, of course lots of delectably artery-clogging food. The trim run-5-miles-a-day-before-breakfast types were more of a minority here. Much more in evidence were the don’t-mind-if-I-have-another-sausage-since-I’ve-only-had-two-this-morning type. Still, nanny-state advocates notwithstanding, this is our right and by golly, those French fries do smell good!
Our kids have done this before and knew what to expect. Look at stuff we’ll never buy. Stop in the misting tent and cool off. Get faces painted by long-suffering volunteers. Jump up and down in the moon bounce because everyone knows 92 degrees is not nearly hot enough. Watching a dozen kids leap and bounce for the sheer joy of it made me wonder why there aren’t moon bounces for grown-ups. We have too many inhibitions: I’ll get hot and sweaty; I’m not dressed for it; I’ll pull a hammy; and, of course, I’ll look like a fool if I actually have a good time in any way that doesn’t involve large quantities of alcohol (of course then, it is positively expected to enjoy being silly).
JULY 4, 2003: 1:00 pm
We’re at the pool. It is 95 degrees out but the water is still cold (rained all day yesterday). Doesn’t seem to slow the kids down. Even when lips are blue and teeth chatter they insist that they’re not cold, or at least not cold enough to stop. Whoever instituted the hourly “adult swim” break is a bona fide genius and should receive annual payments of thanks from all the parents who would still be at the pool otherwise. There are a few more people here than usual but still not the teeming masses one might expect. This pool is one of the best things about this neighborhood.
JULY 4, 2003: 4:30 pm
Nap has been enjoyed. The deviled eggs are made. We’re just marking time and enjoying the cool air-conditioning until its time to begin grilling, gluttony, and, of course, copious amounts of fireworks. Gotta’ love this country!
I am waiting in a crowd of 500+ people for the annual Heritage Festival 5-mile Race to begin. What kind of person gets up before 8:00 am on a holiday in order to run five miles through thick-as-soup air that is already pushing 80 degrees? Looking around me I see significant numbers of men with military haircuts and trim physiques, teenagers so full of energy that they nearly levitate, toned, tanned women many with impressive abs, ancient men and women who say that this morning’s heat is nothing, you should have been here for the run in 1948—“now that was a scorcher”—and the occasional just regular old folks like me. Why do I do this? Not exactly sure. It is somehow fun to push oneself a bit though as my finishing time of 47 minutes and change indicates, I don’t push myself very hard. A few serious runners (you can tell them by the “Fredericksburg Area Running Club” t-shirts, $100 shorts, and determined expressions) finished in just over half my time; some of them proceeded to run the course in reverse just to rub it in on all of the rest of us mortal folk.
JULY 4, 2003: 10:00 am
The run is over; even the slowest stragglers have come and gone. I took my son back to the car to change my shirt. He proceeded to smash his face on a metal pole and cut his lip. He’s only four and he has already had more emergency room visits and broken bones than I have had in my entire life. We realized that as long as we are downtown in Historic Fredericksburg’s Old Town, we might as well stay and watch the parade. Everyone loves a parade. I remember taking a trip up the coast in Massachusetts and stopping in a little town near Cape Ann (Rockport perhaps). The dividing stripe that went down the middle of the road was red, white, and blue, rather than our standard white or yellow. The day we were there wasn’t the Fourth of July but it was opening day for Little League. The local teams proudly marched down the street following a decked-out fire truck. Always remembered that. So here we are at a Fourth of July Parade in our own town. What more can a nostalgic sentimentalist (who chokes up when people sing “The Star Spangled Banner” at rodeos) ask for? Well, even I have to say that the parade was pretty lame. The whole thing lasted barely more than 10 minutes. No marching bands (a lone bag-piper and a few cars with blaring stereos constituted most of the music), a handful of antique fire trucks but no sirens, some souped-up motorcycles, a rag-tag band of kids on their bikes, a few clowns, some civil war re-enacters (who looked as disheveled as the poor original troops must have looked) and a singing girl walking with a float on a wagon, and the thing was over. Poor Miss Spotsylvania (or was it Miss Rappahannock) had to walk for heaven’s sake (no nice convertible for her; she didn’t look too happy in her high heels). The only redeeming feature of the whole thing was that leading the parade were veterans, WWII, Korea, Vietnam etc., marching with pride. And people stood and clapped. On the Fourth of July, that’s just how it should be.
On the way home from the parade I got to thinking. While my initial reaction was to lament the feeble attempt at a parade, I concluded that this wasn’t all bad. I am somewhat familiar with a state and society that have raised the art of public display to a technical perfection that is probably unrivaled in the world. If North Korea puts on a parade, prepare to be dazzled and overwhelmed. But then again, if North Korea puts on a parade, chances are you had better be there standing on the side of the street cheering your heart out displaying your endless devotion to the fatherland and its Great and Dear Leaders. Not to do so may end you up in concentration camps. So, if most of the denizens of Fredericksburg chose to stay home and neither participate in or view the parade celebrating the beginning of our own fatherland, at least they can do so secure in the belief that no government-paid snitches are taking notes. And that’s a good thing!
A good chunk of the people who didn’t bother with the parade were actually in downtown FXBG, they were walking the streets that were filled with booths selling trinkets, gadgets, gee-gaws, and, of course lots of delectably artery-clogging food. The trim run-5-miles-a-day-before-breakfast types were more of a minority here. Much more in evidence were the don’t-mind-if-I-have-another-sausage-since-I’ve-only-had-two-this-morning type. Still, nanny-state advocates notwithstanding, this is our right and by golly, those French fries do smell good!
Our kids have done this before and knew what to expect. Look at stuff we’ll never buy. Stop in the misting tent and cool off. Get faces painted by long-suffering volunteers. Jump up and down in the moon bounce because everyone knows 92 degrees is not nearly hot enough. Watching a dozen kids leap and bounce for the sheer joy of it made me wonder why there aren’t moon bounces for grown-ups. We have too many inhibitions: I’ll get hot and sweaty; I’m not dressed for it; I’ll pull a hammy; and, of course, I’ll look like a fool if I actually have a good time in any way that doesn’t involve large quantities of alcohol (of course then, it is positively expected to enjoy being silly).
JULY 4, 2003: 1:00 pm
We’re at the pool. It is 95 degrees out but the water is still cold (rained all day yesterday). Doesn’t seem to slow the kids down. Even when lips are blue and teeth chatter they insist that they’re not cold, or at least not cold enough to stop. Whoever instituted the hourly “adult swim” break is a bona fide genius and should receive annual payments of thanks from all the parents who would still be at the pool otherwise. There are a few more people here than usual but still not the teeming masses one might expect. This pool is one of the best things about this neighborhood.
JULY 4, 2003: 4:30 pm
Nap has been enjoyed. The deviled eggs are made. We’re just marking time and enjoying the cool air-conditioning until its time to begin grilling, gluttony, and, of course, copious amounts of fireworks. Gotta’ love this country!
