A Fifties Fourth Poem by B. V. Dahlen

I remember dragging lawn chairs from Aunt Ginny’s garage to the corner, and settling in to watch the parade. Newly scrubbed fire engines, that came from nearby towns, were manned with proud and dedicated volunteers, bedecked in boots and hats and sparkled in the sunshine. The Elks, The Moose, Knights Of Columbus, VFW and Kiwanis guided trailers adorned with patriotic themes... crepe paper covered by ardent auxiliary spouses in cramped garages.

Along the route, high school bands with braided shoulders and tasseled boots, strutted their stuff. Cub Scouts, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, Brownies, Indian Guides, and Mrs. Susan’s Dance Class in leotards, cavorted by, waving flags.

Aging veterans, smelling slightly of mothballs, their chests resplendent with many medals, some still trim enough to fit into uniforms stored in dusty attic trunks, were mounted in ancient Jeeps. The crowd was stirred to well-earned cheers.

And finally, every local kid who cared to decorate a bike with patriotic colors, peddled to the finish.

The fragrant smoke, from the grill, where Uncle Frank presided, lured us back to burgers and hot dogs, cole slaw and potato salad. Later, the watermelon juice dripped scarlet from our chins like Mercurochrome on scraped faces.

We watched the little ones, as parents cleared away the remnants of our feast, then trudged, lugging chairs, blankets and mosquito chasing punks, to the park. We watched with oohs and aahs as the sky exploded over our heads. Our ears were covered, but starlit showers burst in the heavens and glittered in eyes too hypnotized to blink.

Then finally, in one thunderous, rattling roar, the climax turned our night to day and ceased. Turning to go, in silence, still slightly deafened, towards family cars that waited under the streetlights in front of aunt and uncle’s place, and fully sated, we headed home.