That twinge of pride watching a small town parade

Here comes July, our hottest and driest month of the year (oof!). But it’s also the month that serves up a double dose of local festivities since July includes both Independence Day on July 4 and our state Pioneer Day on July 24.

So, if you’re a fan of parades and that proud tingle in your spine as the pageantry rolls past, then July in Utah, despite the heat, is your month.

There’s a song from the soundtrack of a very old movie, “I Love a Parade.” That sums up my own sentiment pretty well. I do, indeed, love a parade.

I love them all, but especially our small-town parades. There’s just something about these local processions that captures a slice of pure hometown Americana. There’s also the bonus of being personally acquainted with most everyone who passes by, whether on horseback, in a vintage car, riding a float or flatbed truck, or even pedaling down the street on a unicycle.

Yep, there’s the town mayor and spouse, waving to the citizenry from the back seat of a 1933 Oldsmobile convertible. There’s your neighbor on his favorite Appaloosa, decked out in authentic mountain man regalia.

There’s the teenage girl you know from church, waving from atop a festooned float as one of your town’s royalty. A little girl in a star-spangled outfit canters along on her miniature horse. A little boy in motocross gear deftly steers his small ATV from one side of the street to the other. A neighbor proudly leads her two alpacas.

Then comes the marching band—only one, mind you, instead of the six or seven you’d see in a big-city parade. But at least you actually know many of those high-stepping young musicians from the local high school.

You’ll see Gene driving his 1953 Ford Jubilee tractor and Jim behind the wheel of his 1929 Ford Model A coupe, both just as proud as peacocks. Following them is the color guard made up of your local Scout troop and the venerable members of your local VFW and American Legion posts.

There are trucks, cars, vans and floats promoting local businesses, all tossing handful after handful of saltwater taffy to eager youngsters, along with your town’s police officers and firefighters. The grand marshals, some sweet elderly couple everybody knows and loves, are stylishly escorted in a horse-drawn buggy. And you probably even know the poor fellow with the unenviable task of following behind that buggy with a scoop shovel.

Sure, I wouldn’t mind someday seeing the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York or the Rose Parade in Pasadena. I might even be persuaded to attend, just once, the flamboyant Mardi Gras parade in New Orleans.

But I don’t think I’d trade one of our charming local parades for any of those famous spectacles.

For one thing, they’re too crowded. I’d have to stake out a spot on the sidewalk days in advance. Here, I can wander down to Main Street with a folding lawn chair under my arm just five minutes before the parade begins and still find an excellent place to watch.

They’re also simply too impersonal. There may be countless marching bands in perfect step, but I wouldn’t know any of those musicians. I might enjoy seeing an enormous Buzz Lightyear balloon, but I’d miss seeing Ol’ Gene on his 1953 Ford Jubilee.

The fun of a local parade is that anyone can be in it. Just grab some red, white and blue crepe paper and decorate your bike, throw on a rainbow wig or put a leash on your lazy brown alpaca, and you’re in.

Parade season is upon us, and you can bet I’ll be there, waving enthusiastically to friends and neighbors in the procession while trying to beat some of the neighborhood kids to that ubiquitous flying taffy.

And at many points during this half-hour procession down Main Street, I’ll be watching with a lump in my throat because this is a perfect slice of true Americana.

My soul is rooted deeply in the soil on which I stand.