How I came to love small-town life on the Fourth of July

When I'd had my fill of city life, I fled to a small town out West that you've probably never heard of. Family and friends thought I was nuts.

I arrived near midnight on July 1 and drove deserted streets, passed pitch-black storefronts and houses, then checked into an isolated motel. Family and friends were right. I didn't belong here.

The next day, alone and lonely, I sat at their Woolworth's soda fountain and whimpered, "I can't live here." And then, more loudly, "What was I thinking?"

Francine the soda fountain waitress heard me. "About what?

"Living here. I can't do it."

She looked me over. "Where you from?"

"Minneapolis."

"Your Motel 6 for now."

I must have looked and sounded pathetic — lost. I know I felt that way.

"Don't worry, hon'. We'll fix that." Francine telephoned her ex, Rex Love, owner of three small apartments above the Copper Kitchen Café; the next morning I awoke in a cozy efficiency next door to Francine, Frank and their twin 3-year-olds. Just like that.

Then, long before dawn on the Fourth of July, Frank knocked softly on my door. "We need your help, friend." Would I quick take away Sally, their humongous St. Bernard? "She died sometime in the middle of the night." They didn't want their twins seeing her "like she is."

The Animal Control shack at the edge of town was dark. I honked once. A burly long-haired fellow appeared in the window and pointed at the "Closed for July Fourth" sign. I sighed and pointed at Sally stretched out on the back seat. He came outside to look, sighed back and gently carried her away.

Sally was more than just the family pet, it turned out. Merlin said that everyone knew her, because each morning she'd stroll Main Street by herself and nap in Lithia Park.

In her adult years, Sally pulled a mini-sized covered wagon in the July 4th parade. Last year a "Sally for Grand Marshal" petition garnered hundreds of signatures, but Merlin explained she lost out to Bill Highland, the high school principal, "by a hair."

After delivering Sally to Merlin, I found a note on my door from Francine inviting me to join her and the kids in front of the Copper Kitchen where she'd reserved a space to watch the parade. In the city, good luck with that. But here? Here's how. From this town's Chamber of Commerce: "While all space is public and not guaranteed for any individual resident or guest, following our traditional honor system for reserving space would be best done with the use of nontoxic chalk."

Frank couldn't join us. As a volunteer "parade observer," his assignment was keeping an eye out for violators of two (of the 33) "Official Fourth of July Parade Rules and Regulations":

"No squealing tires; burning rubber; visible exhaust; NO WHEELIES!"

Up East Main Street marched a color guard of elderly war vets in uniform carrying flags and shouldering pretend rifles. The Kiwanis, Elks and Lion's Club marched out of sync in their corny-looking (to me, anyway) hats and vests. Folks applauded politely for The Friends of the Library, Garden Club, Peace Choir and Amigo Club but whooped and cheered for the "Married Men's Lawn Brigade" on their spiffed-up riding mowers and the police department's three-man bicycle unit performing figure-eights. Not-so-talented hula and belly dancers seemed out of place for a small-town parade to me but not anyone else. Someone nearby pointed at one. "There's my neighbor! Hi, Marsha!" Satin-sashed beauty pageant contestants waved slow motion-like from flatbed trucks. Gorgeous, jaw-dropping clip-clopping horses passed within feet of us (I'd never stood that close to clip-clopping horses) and clown cowboys broke ranks to let kids pet their mules. Souped-up vintage pickups were reserved for VIPs like the mayor and his wife.

All the while word spread along the parade route about a farewell-to-Sally gathering at Lithia Park Pond before the "Here-Ye-Here-Ye-Come-One-Come-All!" town picnic. After Frank eulogized Sally, the family sprinkled her ashes into the pond. Some children stood quietly and lit their July 4th sparklers. Some grown-ups removed their hats. It was lovely.

That done, we headed to the all-you-can-eat corn feed where you lined up to dunk your cob into a crock of hot melted butter. As darkness came, you lined up again if you wanted to read a portion of the Declaration of Independence on the band shell. A singalong with the community band followed. I figured the grand finale would be our national anthem. It wasn't. Instead, we sang "Happy Birthday to You." After all, this town reasoned, what's the Fourth of July but a big birthday party?

And then, of course, fireworks!

Afterward, I phoned my parents and told them about the Fourth of July in my new home.