If you’ve never attended a 4th of July parade in a small town, I recommend you do so, and soon. 

            Chairs and blankets had been set up the day before on the sides of Ludington Avenue from the courthouse seven blocks west past House of Flavors, local breakfast and ice cream spot and home to the Guinness World Record for longest ice cream sundae. It ended four blocks further, at the turn to the lake. Riding the two minutes from Dad’s house reminded me how comfortable small towns could be. 

            We took the drive through Stearns Park Beach. Covered stands bracketed either end, selling candy and snacks and refreshments. Vehicles filled every angled parking spot on either side. The beach was filling up with canopies and chairs. A breeze blew off the lake.

            I sat in the back seat with Paul, arm outside the window, soaking it in like a puppy on its daily ride. Larry rode in the third row, drumming his thighs. 

Ludington Avenue was shut down with wooden sawhorses wrapped in red, white, and blue tape. We took a side street past a marina and around a bend where a massive ship floated on the water. 

            “You remember the Badger?” Dad called from the front passenger seat. 

            “Of course,” I said. “Last coal-fueled passenger ship in the U.S.” 

            “And home to an underrated game of BINGO on the way to Manitowoc.” 

            Meredith drove and eye-rolled at our erroneous factoids. We went two more blocks and parked in a lot behind a used furniture store. 

            Paul stretched and checked his phone. “Hey, Lar, are the girls making it?” 

            “Darlene, if she can get a flight in. Had an anniversary party with some colleagues. Ashley’s somewhere in Europe. Told me she’d send pics from wherever she ends up celebrating.” 

            Dad was wearing a short-sleeved button up shirt covered in red, white, and blue fish. He held an art book in one hand. “Remember the time we played the Haufbrau House? I don’t think they allowed American bands after that.” 

            “You smashed like twenty mugs, dude.” Paul checked his hair in a side mirror.

            “Twenty-one, actually.”

            “But who’s counting,” Meredith said. “Shall we?”

            Larry took a long breath, pulled a cooler from the trunk, and said, “I both hate and love this shit.” We walked around the corner to a packed Ludington Avenue. The chairs and blankets were full. It was The Rolling Stones at Red Rocks. Music from  WKROCK played from speakers on poles next to a bar called The Mitten. Henrietta and Mariah sat in red chairs under a canopy on the curb in front of it. Henrietta ran up to me.

            Mariah said, “Hi, Fender! Long time no see! You made it.” She squeezed my forearm. 

            “Well if it isn’t my Nintendo buddy! And yes, I did, thank you.” I gave Henrietta a high five. She jumped to slap my hand. 

Dad went to her and held the book out. It had a picture of a half-drawn cat with the title, Twenty-Five Prompts. “I didn’t forget. A good friend of mine swears by this book.” 

She glowed while flipping pages. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Have your dad send me photos.”

            There were so many people at the parade that the old gray-haired members of Spin Cycle blended in. We sank into chairs. Larry cracked a beer and slid it into a koozie that said, “Ask me about my band.” He handed it to me and took another koozie out that said, “Don’t ask me about my band.” Paul side-hugged Mariah and kissed her on the cheek. 

            Dad drank coffee from a Thermos. Meredith was already chatting with a woman in overalls and a red bandana. 

            Children sprinted across the empty street, giggling with each pass before the parade began. 

            Red Rover, Red Rover, send Fender over. 

            “Something like that,” I said.

            “What’s that?” Dad said. 

            “Nothing. Just my overactive imagination. It’s good to be home.”

            He squeezed my shoulder. “It’s good to have you back.”

            WKROCK’s host, local legend A.J., a guy who once asked Dad for an interview in the grocery store as part of his meeting locals on the streets series, asked the crowd for a moment of silence. An instrumental National Anthem played over the speakers. 

            I bowed my head, checking in with closed eyes. The light was bright inside me before I asked any questions. The sunshine had something to do with it, but so did my clarity. Images from the trip flashed across my vision. Chicken wings in Mobile. Old typewriters at Mondo’s. “You can’t make new old friends.” But you can. Meredith’s story on repeat. A guy decked me in the eye. What was his name again? Don Otto. Deacon and Casey Kasem. Film on the Rocks. My father in the photograph would not fade. I wasn’t Marty McFly, but I’d preserve his memories, even if Dad couldn’t. Eating Toads, Big Sky, and a mountain trip with the sweetest old couple in the world. Paul and bourbon and stacks of baseball cards that the young store clerk was still entering into the cash register. My toes wet with rogue river mud. What piece of rare Americana had EJ unearthed today? Larry acting as my Samwise, wearing his bucket hat and sunglasses at the 4th of July Parade in quaint and cozy Ludington, Michigan, home to my favorite person in the world, Brett Carradine. 

            The Ludington Fire Department began the procession with its horns blaring. Firemen and women hung from the side of the truck tossing candy at the same velocity as the firehose. 

            Next came the high school marching band, decked out in orange and black. Larry air drummed along with their rendition of “Stars and Stripes Forever.” 

            On and on the the parade flowed, a float made to look like houses in mid-construction, a float turned into a pen with two pigs and a goat, two men on unicycles tossing candy so accurately that a pack of Smarties landed directly into Henrietta’s lap.

            The smell of cooked meat came from the open windows of The Mitten. A cotton candy cart stopped behind us and spun sweet sugar into the air. 

            I knew nothing about cars, but many old ones drove slowly past, with old-timers and youngsters alike behind the wheel. Several military veterans proudly wore their bomber jackets and saluted the crowd. 

            The Harvest Pageant queen sat atop the back seat of a convertible in a simple white dress, crown atop her head, a look of happy embarrassment on her blushed face. What was in store for her life as she sat there at 17, waving to a crowd like a musician playing her first sold-out show?

            The parade went on for an hour and twenty minutes, including decked out buses for the University of Michigan and Michigan State, each playing their competing fight songs. 

            The parade ended with the Clown Band, a group of local men, women, and now–adolescents, who dressed up as all manner of clown and traipsed down Ludington Avenue playing horns and drums and accordions. One of them carried an old, oversized camera and halted in front of our crew. He acted shocked when he saw the three men together, and then honed in on Dad. He framed him with the camera, hit the button, and then pulled a big square from the side of the camera. He flipped it over to show us Dad’s picture: a grinning orangutan. 

            The crowd had a swell chuckle. 

            The clown put the picture back into the camera and clapped Dad on the back. “Good to see you, Brett. I’ll be at the show later.”

            Dad clapped him back and said to me, “That’s what makes you a local. When you know the orangutan guy from The Clown Band.” 

            After the parade, we went to the American Legion on James Street to chase hot dogs and cheeseburgers with three-dollar pints of cold beer. The Clown Band ended the parade there and played a rousing set on the lawn. Children with American flag face tattoos bounced up and down on the teeter totter and giggled flying down the slide. Larry spun a group of them on the small merry-go-round. Dad and Paul worked a busy bar, effortlessly moving past each other while mixing drinks and pouring pints. After the Clown Band, a group of high school kids played a set of original music. Their sound was raw, but had the inklings of that something, that psychic connection.

            “What do you think, should I sign them?”

            I looked up from my plate of baked beans and coleslaw. Deacon held an old school glass bottle of Coke. He wore a short-sleeved button up, shorts, and loafers. I hadn’t stopped sweating all day. Deacon was dry as driftwood. 

            “Your track record with young up and comers is strong. Worth a shot.” 

            “Good to see you.”

            “Good to see you, too.”

            He strolled to the end of the bar and made a show of slapping it until Paul noticed. The faces people make when they see an old friend after a long while are what fuels the earth. It’s the fire at its core. Deacon embraced Paul, and then Dad, and the jokes instantly flowed alongside the drinks. A sweaty Larry came in from merry-go-round duty and pounded a beer. Meredith drew pictures on a napkin as Paul’s daughter sketched in her new drawing book. Cynthia drank from a mason jar and watched the skinny kids on the stage play their damn hearts out. 

            Happy 4th of July. 

            “You, too.”

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