Page 121 of Ripped & Shipped
Chris chuckles. “Let’s go.”
We walk around the row of stores just in time to catch the start of the parade. It’s a group of dads on riding mowers, and some with push mowers, walking in formation. They’re all wearing sock sandals, white tank undershirts, and khaki shorts. The guys with push mowers do a slow synchronized spin, and then they continue to march forward.
Some of the men on riding mowers have someone seated with them, holding cymbals and clashing them at random, unpredictable intervals. There’s no rhyme or reason to the presence of the cymbal players. But hey, this is Bordeaux.
On the final John Deere, bringing up the rear of theDad Squad with Dad Bods, as they’re called, is Duke’s dad, Walt Satterson. He’s got a boom box perched on his mower, belting out quasi-patriotic tunes likeBorn in the USA,Yankee Doodle Dandy, andParty in the USA.
Just behind the Dad Squad comes a series of floats all decorated to pay homage to corn. In front of those is the Miss Corn Husk convertible. Riley is perched on the top of the back seat and she’s waving at everyone as she passes. I send her a thumbs up, and she mouths,I’m so itchy! back to me. I give her a sympathetic shrug.
Chris reaches down and slips my hand into his, and we stand there holding hands, watching the rest of the parade. Later, we find his friends and lay out a blanket from the back of Chris’ truck so we can watch the fireworks. I settle in between his legs and lean back on him. Our heads tilt upward so we can watch the colorful explosions overhead.
Every so often, Chris plants a soft kiss on my temple. We get all sorts of side-eye looks from people. Tonight, I’m setting all that aside. Nothing can taint the elated feeling of knowing Chris and I are actually together. I can barely allow myself to accept the reality, but every time I look in his eyes, it’s all right there—the way he feels for me, written all over his face.
Right when the grand finale erupts with repeated bursts of spiraling, swirling, starry light, the sound of a cow fills the town square.
“Oh, no,” Chris says, laughing through his words. “Is that Lulabelle?”
People abandon the rest of the fireworks show as mayhem breaks out.
Apparently, Lulabelle found the floats, which are covered in corn, wheat, and hay, and she’s going to town—literally—helping herself to the cow version of an all you can eat buffet.
One person shouts, “We’ve got to surround her.”
Another says, “She’s eating the floats!”
“Someone get a trailer!”
“Where’s Jed? We need Jed!”
Lulabelle looks up, realizing she’s now the center of attention. A group of men have organized and are trying to hem her in from six points, like a human cinch.
Lulabelle’s smarter than that. She heads straight through the gap between two of the men, and runs through the town square, trampling picnic blankets as she goes.
People start shouting and waving their arms.
Cooter’s voice is louder than the rest. “Would you’uns pipe down! Yer all agitatin’ her like nobody’s business. Everyone needs to get a hold of themselves!”
No one listens, so he puts his two fingers in his mouth and lets out a long whistle. People stop. Lulabelle, who has been running in circles, dodging people, and slightly bucking at times, also stops.
Cooter shouts again. “What we need here is some organization. Listen up.”
Surprisingly, everyone does. Except Lulabelle, who is now drinking out of the base of the town fountain.
Under Cooter’s direction, a few men gather some wheat and corn from one of the floats. He sends Bubba to get the trailer. Then he selects a group to slowly cajole Lulabelle toward the spot where the trailer is parked.
I lean back into Chris. He wraps his arms around me as we watch our townspeople capture the cow so she can be taken back to her farm.
“This town sure can band together when it matters,” I mutter.
“Yeah. They sure can,” Chris agrees.
Happy 4th to each of you!
Are you shooting off fireworks or barbecuing or in a parade? I want to know.
This year, I wasn’t in the parade, but there were definitely fireworks – see photos of me and @got.your.six.now. Mmmm. Snap, crackle, pop! Independence is overrated, girlies! Lean on a man—a good man. And let the star-spangled sparks fly between you.
Add to that a runaway cow #smalltownproblems and a #buttdial which shall not be mentioned or talked about ever again, and the day was a well-rounded tribute to our nation’s fave holiday.
