An Unfortunate Fourth

An Unfortunate Fourth

It was the Fourth of July, 1957, and my boyfriend Mac was going to march with his Explorer Scout Post in Covington’s Fourth of July parade.  He invited me to come along and watch the parade, and since I didn’t want to stand there by myself among the spectators, I asked my sister Connie to join us.  Why Connie, I don’t remember, because she and I didn’t get along very well, but nevertheless she was the one who accompanied us.

We piled into Mac’s pride and joy, his white 1954 Ford convertible, which he had freshly washed and waxed.  We drove to Covington with the top down, the breeze blowing our hair.  It was going to be a great day.

We arrived at the beginning of the parade route where all the marchers and floats and horses and whatever congregate to get checked in and lined up.  Mac parked the car and told us to wait in it while he found out where we should go to meet him after the parade.  I saw him talking to several people, then he talked to a woman all decked out in red, white, and blue.  I saw him point us out to her and hand her something, then he walked away and I didn’t see him again.

The red, white and blue lady came over to the car and cheerfully introduced herself.  She had the car keys, and she got in, saying, “I’m driving.  Mac will find you at the end of the parade.”  I thanked her.  Obviously, she was going to position the car at the end of the parade route so Mac would have it there when the parade was over.  How nice of her! 

I wasn’t a driver, so I didn’t pay attention to where she was taking us, until I realized we had driven right into the muddle of people and floats and cars readying themselves for a position in the parade.  Someone fastened two rather large American flags to the door handles of the convertible, and someone else Scotch taped some red, white, and blue crepe paper to the hood.  Two more people fastened a banner on the side of the car.  I didn’t see what it said, but no doubt it was the name of the VIP who jumped into the back seat and sat up on the top of the seat. 

I turned around and looked at Connie who was also in the back seat, and I’m sure my face mirrored the look of wide-eyed horror on hers.  We were going to be in that parade!

Now there are plenty of young girls who enjoy being in a parade, riding in a shiny white convertible, smiling and waving to the crowd.  I was never one of them, and neither was Connie.  We couldn’t say anything, we couldn’t do anything.  Everyone was cheerful and enjoying a grand Fourth of July.  We heard the music swell as the bands stepped out. 

And then we were off, ever so slowly, riding along what seemed like 100 miles but was probably about two miles, on Madison Avenue in Covington, where every single person in the Northern Kentucky area was standing along the parade route, waving to us.  Oh, there was some dignitary or another in the car with us, but as far as Connie and I were concerned, we were the ones exposed and on display.  Have you ever desperately wished you could become invisible?  Have you ever wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out?  Have you ever just tried to shrink yourself down to about one inch tall?

There was only one good thing.  The flag they had fastened to the door handle on my side was blowing right in my face.  I gratefully hid myself in the red, white and blue folds of Old Glory, so probably no one even saw me.

Many, many years later, Connie and I were able to laugh at that experience.  But at the time she was fuming at me for getting her into it.  She swore I knew we were going to be in that parade, though I assured her I wouldn’t have gone at all if I had known.  Mac just marched in the parade, and when he found us at the other end, he was hot and sweaty and tired.  He asked how we had enjoyed the parade and we said, “We didn’t!  We were in it!”  He thought it was a lot funnier than we did.

I still enjoy parades—watching them, that is—and every time I go to one, I think of the one I was, albeit completely by accident, actually in.