Parade Day

Parade Day



“Cheese,” says Timmy’s Dad. We giggle obligingly and preen for the brown box in his hands. My face fixed in my brightest, cheeriest, cheekiest grin. Just as Mr. Limbert snaps the photo.

All day, since the parade, the adults have all had a great laughing, hysterical time at the two of us, Timmy and I. After so many hours though, the joke has gotten stale. We made a goof. We’re dumb kids, what do we know?

But it’s dark now, and they’re still poking each other and chuckling. Sneaking peeks at us periodically. Shoulders shaking in silent laughter, Mrs. Limbert passes us to switch on her new outside lamp. She does it proudly, flicking the little lever installed by the front door. The glare from outside bounces off the cooling, ticking windows.

Timmy holds his cap gun loosely dangling from his thumb. His hand resting against the sofa sectional where we were herded a while ago. The knees of his dungarees are see through, but his red holster is neatly threaded through the loops at his waist. Plaid shirt buttoned to his throat. Every once in a while, his eyes catch mine on the sly and he grins. Crazily, from cheek to cheek. A dimple appearing from nowhere.

My pinching, twisting fingers are raw. They must escape Mothers notice though and she crosses the room to button my cardigan up to my chin. Like I’m cold. It’s the fourth of July. Newspaper crinkles under my butt.

“Whew,” she says breathing deeply, then laughing again. “You need a dunking, that’s for sure.” She aims herself back towards the kitchen. Soon the telltale sounds of thwunk shugga shugga shugga drift out as her finger finds the right hole and wheels(cranks?) the dial around the telephone. Calling another one to relate the stupid antics of me and Timmy.

Without even lowering my eyes, I can see the large greenish stain covering one entire leg of my gingham trousers.

Horse poop. At least I was right.

My glance goes down in spite of me and comes to rest on the scuffed, tainted toes of my saddle shoes. I have no doubt that I will be elbow deep in saddle shoes, cleaner and polish later on. Turning my wrist a little, I check the cuffs of my sweater. Thank heavens there ain’t nothing there.

High laughter peels out from the kitchen. Dishes clank and the smell of cooked onions still lingers. Soon we’ll be off for home.

The short walk home is done with only one stop at Mrs. Ferris’ porch to tell the tale.

What started as a small argument between two five year olds has now toured the neighborhood. Sparked by the clown scooper patrol.

I was positive it was horse poop they were cleaning up. Timmy just as adamant it was dog. Could have been either. The dog drill team had done a series of loops and lines. Followed by the gleaming Palomino posse.

But this poop was large and green. Not like what we stepped in around the house. It had to be horse.

Escalating quickly from nuh-uh’s, to IS SO’s, to outright chin-to-chin defense, our fight over whether it was horse or dog poop was more of a show than the parade. Our Mothers abandoned us in helpless mirth, wondering loudly to any that might hear ‘Who’s children are those?”

That’s when the push happened. I found out up close what kind of poop it was.