When the 4th of July dawns in Jubilee Station, the weather has taken a break from nonstop heat. You sit down with your morning tea on the back steps of your house, watching the squirrels try in vain to reach the bird feeder. Despite the early hour, you can already smell a hint of charcoal and lighter fluid in the air. As the kids across the way chase each other with a garden hose, you lean against the chipped metal railing next to you, and you breathe deeply.
The town parade kicks off on the college campus at noon, giving you a few hours to tidy up around the house. You make a strawberry shortcake that you can bring to Grace’s house for the holiday edition of the baked potato buffet.
When your chores are done, you head down to College Avenue, where you find Grace and her family waiting for the parade to begin.
Grace’s partner, Matthew, calls out, “Hello, You! Quick, you’re just in time. Do you watch movies?”
You say, “Yes, of course.”
Emily’s partner, Chris, says, “Then you can settle this once and for all. What’s the best ever movie parade?” Chris motions to the rest of the group to stay silent.
You scratch your chin and say, “Hmm. I can’t think of that many. Actually, I can only think of two – Ferris Bueller, and The Fugitive.”
Matthew says, “That’s right… now, can we even say which one of those is better?”
You answer, “That would be a tough call. They’re both pretty great. And isn’t it funny that they’re both in Chicago?”
Chris replies, “It’s amazing that they’re both in Chicago.”
Matthew looks up at you and says, “I just don’t think we can crown a single winner. They’re so different. It’s apples and oranges, really.”
Chris slumps back in their seat and protests, “Why can’t fruit be compared?”
Emily hands baby Claire over to Chris and says, “While you’re pondering that, my love, take your incomparable child for a moment. She wants you.”
Grace beckons you to her side. As she leans away from the film critics, she says to you, “I don’t know about any of that, but… can I tell you about something cool?”
You say, “Yes, please.”
Grace says, “There’s a sensory zone for this parade. Down the hill, in front of the library. You should go check it out. We’ll be here, and we’ve got a chair for you when you get back.”
You say, “Thank you!” And you start down College Avenue, walking behind the crowds that are gathered on the edge of the sidewalk. Before you even reach the official sensory zone, you see signs on the parade route reminding fire trucks and others to take a break from sounding their horns. There is also a broad green line painted across the road.
Crowds are gathering in the sensory zone, just like everywhere else. But conversations are happening as a low murmur, and for the first time since you neared College Avenue, you can hear bird song again. There are big coolers on tables in front of the library, serving up cold water and iced tea. You take in the quiet that the town is creating together here, and you savor an easy breath.
You spot Mayor Ashley sitting on a camp chair with her youngest kid, who is nestled in her lap, and wearing over the ear headphones. The Mayor waves you over with a big smile, and reaches up to hug you with one arm, whispering, “It’s so great to see you!”
You whisper back, “You too! But don’t you have, like, official duties today?”
She scoffs. “We’re not real big on ‘official’ around here. Besides, I have like 72 deputy mayors. Are you sure you aren’t actually one of them?”
The grand marshals of the parade, a quartet of kids from Catto Elementary, ride by in the back of a pickup truck, waving silently to the crowd, and signaling the official start of the parade. Following them is a newspaper-themed float bearing the winners of the Town Gazette scholarship contest, and then, the ladder truck from Jubilee Station’s volunteer fire company, which has doused its lights and switched off its engine so it can coast through the sensory zone.
You sit down on the curb next to Mayor Ashley and her child, who is fidgeting in the Mayor’s lap with evident excitement. Mayor Ashley herself also starts to fidget, and she smacks you lightly on your shoulder, pointing toward the source of her delight.
Jubilee Station’s ballet school is hurrying into place in front of the library. The dancers are wearing wireless earbuds, so they can perform silently while keeping time with their music. The parade stops behind them as the corps of 16 dancers take their positions. The dance unfolds, slowly and elegantly, in front of you.
Mayor Ashley leans over and whispers, “Isn’t this beautiful?”
You whisper back, “Yes, it’s extraordinary.”
She says, “I genuinely love Alvin Ailey and all the modern stuff? But I’m a Balanchine girlie at heart.”
You rest your hands on your knees, enjoying the intricate choreography as the dancers weave through each other’s paths. Their movements are so smooth that it looks like they are dancing through water. You feel the pebbly texture of the concrete curb beneath you, and as you relax your eyes to take in the entire dance, you draw an appreciative breath.
When the ballet concludes, the dancers form a circle, their backs to each other, and they take a bow. The parade goers on both sides of the street hold their hands in the air and wiggle their fingers in appreciation.
Mayor Ashley’s wife, Lauren, arrives with their other two kids. The kids each pat you on the head when they arrive, as if they are playing Duck Duck Goose, tickled to have an adult down on their level. You hold up your hand, and they give you high fives as they sit down next to you on the curb.