Here I sat, no, not broken-hearted, but reading something awful about the shootout in Waziristan, when the phone rang. It was The Little Woman. "Honey," she said she always calls me Honey, 'cuz I'm so sweet "could you go to the store and get some hot dogs and chicken legs for dinner this evening?"
We have company this weekend, The Little Woman's Cousin David and his family, from Mississippi and Ohio. We're going to fire up the grill and do dawgs and chicken feet, so it'd be to our advantage to have some of each on hand. So I put on my yellow hat and got in The Little Blue Car and drove away. I noted on the way to the store that there were a lot of people sitting along side of the street in their beach chairs, but the store wasn't crowded and I soon had my yessir, yessir, three bags full, and headed for home.
I made it as far as the stop sign. 4th of July week is coming up, and it's the week yes, the entire week of the Riviera Beach Carnival, sponsored by the helpful fellows of Volunteer Company 13. And we start off the carnival in the traditional manner, with a real by-God American Firemen's Parade.
If you're a lover of firemen's parades, you know what I'm talking about. If you've never been to one, let me try to describe it. There is no purpose to a firemen's parade except to have a parade. It's not even, despite the 4th of July coming up, despite the flags on display, an especially patriotic event. Many places have theirs in August, or even in September. Usually a politician or two makes an appearance, but even that's not really necessary. What's essential is firetrucks: pumpers, ladder trucks, utility trucks, boats on their trailers, tankers, you name it. Fire companies from miles around send their trucks, polished and spiffy, to appear in The Big Parade. Manning them are the volunteer firemen, the guys who put in hours of training for the privilege of riding the trucks to fires and emergencies.
You can't have a parade with only trucks and ambulances and police cars, even though the visiting firemen blow their sirens and wave to people as they go by. So firemen's parades have a few marching bands from the local schools. And there are pom-pom girls. I love pom-pom girls. They range in age from pre-school to, I would guess, the upper reaches of junior high. There is no purpose to a pom-pom girl other than to look pleasant. They may have actual pom-poms or they may carry batons, but they serve no more useful purpose than a vase of flowers. I always want to hug them.
I say that firemen's parades aren't patriotic, but I mean that only in the national sense. They're an expression of a community's pride in itself. The hulking vehicles are our vehicles, paid for with a combination of tax dollars, bingo games, bake sales and teen dances. The guys manning them are our guys, guys and girls who live and work in the community and devote the time to doing the training, keeping up the trucks, and rushing to fires and emergencies. The marching bands are our kids, and the pom-pom girls our daughters. So we put them on display so we can admire ourselves. The trucks go by, lights flashing and sirens sounding. The bands march and play, often in tune. The pom-pom girls march, sometimes in step. Dogs bark, sing along with the sirens, and sometimes run alongside the trucks. Hat sellers and trinket salesmen will be happy to sell you things you don't need, but that you want because you don't want to forget that you went to the Big Parade. After the parade, the visiting firemen will drink beer out of plastic cups, swap stories, and flirt with the local girls.
There aren't any pom-pom girls in Waziristan. They might not even have any firetrucks. If they're really lucky, someday they might. 
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