Parade? I’m Supposed To Be In A Parade?! (Or, Whatcha Doin’ Tomorrow?)

Things have been busy.  (Insert heavy sigh and take a vitamin here.)

So.  Sugar bought a grooming business, that we already know.  He’s still working for The Man, I’m still working for The Man, and the BabyBoy is The Groomer (you thought I was going to saw he’s The Man).  The grooming business also boards animals so this week we are almost slam-up full, plus two resident cats and a foster dog. 

This past weekend was also the Gopher Hill Festival here in the little town.  Once upon a time this area was called Gopher Hill after the indigenous Gopher Turtles, but when the railway came to this area, Gopher Hill was not considered a classy-enough name.  The name was changed to Town-That-Will-Not-Be-Named, because sometimes I trash-talk my little town, even though white woman speakum truth.  So.

One of the features of the festival, which started last Thursday night, was the Pet Contest.  The only requirement was that the pets be alive.  I suppose it would be awkward if someone entered their My Little Pony, and I can completely understand why such a rigid rule is necessary.  Anyway, here we are in the South, and as of the day before the contest, only 2 pets were signed up.  I’m from the South, just not from this area, but, again, I totally understand that Southerners are great procrastinators, and that we ARE going to get a round tuit. 

The pet contest coordinator lady drafted the BabyBoy and his dog, the Awesome Otter, to be in the Big Dog Contest.  They won 2nd place out of a large field of 3 entries.

After work on Friday, the BabyBoy and I headed over to the festival to eat some festival food and listen to the music provided by the live bands.  He saw the pet-contest-coordinator lady who apparently wears a lot of festival hats, and she told him, and I quote, dear Lord I quote, “See you tomorrow in the parade.” 

Notice I say “In”, not “At”.

It seems that we, as in the grooming business, are signed up to be “In” the parade. 

This was a total surprise to all involved (“all” being 3 people – me, the BabyBoy, and Sugar). 

*****

We have no float.

We have no banners or signs to carry.

We have no T-shirts or hats with logos.

We have no plan.  Which does not necessarily create a problem, because if we have no plan, how can we fail?

*****

The theme of the festival this year is to honor our military, past and present.  We have some clothes that have red, white, and/or blue, especially if you count the Atlanta Braves ballcap.  We have red leashes.  After that the groundwork gets a little thin, if indeed that is possible.

So.  Bright and early on Saturday morning, we pile two dogs and ourselves into Old Yeller, and we head to the grocery store to buy candy to throw at the little chirrens on the parade route.  In a moment of sheer genius, I pick up a large box of Milk-Bones.  To throw at the little chirrens on the parade route. 

We head to the grooming salon which we transform, through sheer willpower, into command central of our Gopher Kingdom.  I find one of my knitted-and-felted backpacks, bright stoplight red, and stuff it with used dog toys and collars that did not sell to hand out on the parade route (to the little chirrens).  BabyBoy finds a tote bag from the Brighter Day Health Food Store in Savannah and dumps the candy in it, along with a tennis ball and a muzzle.  Awesome Otter wears her American Flag scarf (made in China), and Mr. PackettHead wears a camouflage bandanna.  (In some of the photos, you can hardly find him because he is, ummm, *camouflaged*.)

*****

We found where the parade was lining up.  We found someone who knew something and told us that we were in spot number 37. 

We're here!

Some parade organizers had hammered tall stakes in the ground about every twenty feet or so as placeholders.  Number 36 was not there yet.  The maroon car at number 35 was some kind of local beauty queen.  The Boys and Girls Club in right behind us in the number 38 spot.  I hope the Boys and Girls Club bus driver is paying attention while he’s driving, and does not hit the occupants of number 37.

Still no one shows up to claim the number 36 spot.  That’s a lot of vehicles ahead of us.

Cowboys on the hoof.

A whole passel of cowboys show up.  But still no one claims the number 36 spot. 

Still no one is in the number 36 spot, but what about all those cowboys? Surely not.

More cowboys.

Empty. Spot. Horses. Beyond.

The BabyBoy and I talked about the logistics of walking behind a lot of horses. 

I recognized one of the cowboys.  Mr. Floyd assured us that they would be walking at the end of the parade.

Mr. Ed is the man, not the horse.

Then we saw the clean-up crew that would be following the horses.

These guys mean business.

The parade started right on time.  And that story will have to wait for another day.  I need to go take another aspirin and wrap my knees.

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2 Responses to “Parade? I’m Supposed To Be In A Parade?! (Or, Whatcha Doin’ Tomorrow?)”

  1. Becky Says:

    Random thoughts from me as usual. I like to think of your hamlet as the Voldemort of cities since it shall not be named. And no. 37 makes me think of the old number for Loudon County way back when. So I guess y’all were just automatically signed up for the parade, then? A wonderful southern story here.

    Like

    • ruthrawls Says:

      I remember when the license plates in TN had the number of the county, according to the population, as the first number. Memphis was 1, Nashville was 2, Knoxville was 3, Chattanooga was 4, etc. When Loudon County dropped to #41 from #37, Ma had a hissy fit because she knew good and well that there were people moving INTO, not OUT OF, the county, and someone had obviously counted incorrectly.

      Like

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