Cowfeathers Farm to Foxcroft Farm: 4th of July. This is it- Middle America.

My favorite Boyscout!

Here comes The BAND!

And my favorite Drum Major!

Conducting of The BAND happens whilst walking backwards!

Well, the big celebration of Independance Day is done. Around here, the 4th of July means Ashville. Ashville is a small town, in truly small town America. Their time to shine is the 4th of July. The whole town gets in the mood, with tidy, green sponge lawns, flags and swags hung on porches, red, white and blue plastic flowers in terra cotta pots. The park in the center of town hosts the carnival. Rides assembled in minutes carry your children high above the crowd, fried food abounds and you can buy fuzzy pink camouflage hats bordered in hot pink feathers. The festival is known for it's Ashville Men's Club Fish Fry. Thousands of pounds of ocean perch are fried in vats created by a Men's Club member in the 1930's, slapped between two slices of white bread, smeared with mayo and called a sandwich.
But why we end up in Ashville for the 4 days of the festival are the parades.
As a young child in New Jersey, I remember some parades. There was a big one at Halloween time when we dressed up and walked for what seemed like forever. And, on the 4th of July and Memorial Day, my Dad would organize the neighborhood kids into a parade with oatmeal container drums and elementary school recorders, flags and marching about. There may have even been some fake bandaging of heads and arms for authenticity.
As a little older child in Connecticut, I was in a parade once. On Memorial Day, I rode my pony with a few other Pony Club kids in the parade from the post office (one room building just off the Redding Center) around the center (a grass triangle surrounded by the old Town Hall and the church) and then we stopped an grazed on the grass while some flags were placed around the rock in the middle of the center green. Ta Da! A parade.
Well, let me tell you, parades are serious business in Central Ohio.
And, an occasion does not mean one parade. There are always several. For the 4th of July celebration, there was one on Friday, one on Saturday and the biggest one of all on Monday, the actual 4th of July.
First off, they start with the boom of a cannon, right on time. Then, the police come on motorcyles, followed by more police cars, then firetrucks and ambulances. Then the color guard with the flag, followed by Boyscouts. This is the formula for the start of a parade. Then comes the assortment of queens, babies on cars and floats.
The floats are things even I, with my limited parade experience, had familiarity. There are no shortage of farm wagons in this area, and every so often they get gussied up, covered in wadded up bits of tissue paper and get pulled down the parade route.
The queens and the babies on cars were a newer phenomenon.
The queen thing wasn't entirely new. I think I was even in a parade once as a Barnum Festival Queen, but I had forgotten about that until now, in fact, as it made almost no impression upon me. It was a busy time in my life, and I remember it more as just another thing I had to get to.
But in Central Ohio, we have Queens. LOTS of them. Every small town seems to have it's own festival, and every festival needs a Queen. The first time I went to this parade, I think I was mostly speechless. Now, I'm just excited to see what Queen will glide by next in her red, white or blue ball gown, crown perched atop her head. The Coal Queen, the Swiss Fest Queen, the Zucchini Queen, the Wild Turkey Queen, the Moonshine Queen.... really, there are dozens.
The thing I really don't think I'd every seen was the babies on cars.
There are contests for "Little Miss" and "Little Mister", with all sorts of age categories, that would've put me into a mathmatic coma had I been a "entering Mother". The 34-47 months age group....I lost track of my kids after 6 months, when they became half a year old.
For this contest, part of it includes dressing your tot in red, white and blue and perching them on the hood of your car, or the top of the car, feet dangling through the sunroof for you to grab in case of swift acceleration. The kids are pressed, curled and sometimes-(super creepy) have on make up. They often look comatose, but invariably keep a smile plastered on their faces and their cupped hands tilting back and forth in a Stepford Wave. Every so often, you see one destined for politics, who looks at faces in the crowd, really waves and sells the belief that sitting on the hood of a black Camaro in 96 degree weather is a real hoot.
When the horses come by, you know the parade is over.