I don’t know if I’ve ever been in a parade. If I have, I don’t remember it. That might be the case with L thirty-plus years from now, but we’ll remember it, K and I: L’s school had a parade yesterday.
There was a pre-parade performance/cheer,
with a Cycling Corps actually leading the parade in (with one or two very wise little girls in helmets),
followed by some marchers complete with banners,
followed by the youngest toddlers’ escort.
L’s group was the very last, with L marching as something of a walking Statue of Liberty.
“Don’t let her see you,” K suggested before the parade began. “She’ll want to leave her group and come over to us.” Perhaps it was an unnecessary concern, for she marched past us with a big smile and obvious pride, and continued marching.
She was somewhat intrigued by her own shadow, though.
A photographer was there with a rather substantial collection of equipment, obviously a pro or a rich amateur: anyone with two Nikon D3 bodies…
Finally, everyone gathered at the base of the flag to sing “You’re a Grand Old Flag,” I guess to the flag. It seemed strangely idolatrous and sweet at the same time.
A picnic followed, with L continuing her usual aversion to meat. No hot dog for her, thank you — just a bun.