Turning Over Independence Day

I hesitated before gearing up for my hometown Fourth of July parade in Birchwood Village, Minnesota. These days, mixing politics and patriotism can be a bit like putting baking soda in vinegar. You know it’s non-toxic, but it sure can bubble over quick. Birchwood’s parade is mostly about coming back to see the family and red wagons done up in crepe paper. Still, I pulled on the turquoise boots anyway and the suffragette style sash that read Dept. of Peace. Two years ago I’d walked in the parade in this same get-up and noticed more than a few tight-lipped smiles.

The Birchwood Village band has one performance each year. Everyone is welcome -- professionals, school kids, and middle-aged folk who dig their trombones and piccolos out of the attic. The band was well into their half-hour pre-parade practice when I crossed the wide lawn where we assemble. Red, white and blue balloons bobbed beneath the grape arbor waiting to be tied carefully to the handle bars of trikes.

"Where are your birch bark legs? Where’s the pink wig?", I asked my dear friend Anne. Lithe, long-limbed and a life-long resident, Anne has been our majorette for years. This year, though, there’d been some confusion, and she’d thought she wasn’t needed. Plus, she was happy to not have gobs of white paint to wash off. Being a village icon is taxing in unexpected ways!

"They need someone to lead the band. Will you do it MJ?" Endowed with all the modesty of Professor Harold Hill, I popped to the front before another clown could snare the spot. Then, there I was, at the head of the village band, stepping out onto the county road, passing the police cars with whirling lights stopping traffic, wearing my Dept. of Peace sash at the head of the parade!

Boy, was it fun! Department of Peace, yes, yes! All the faces were shiny. It was a beautiful morning. Wrinkled hands, cubby little fists, waved our flag. Patriot and partisan melted together. I remember the one-finger victory signs we peace demonstrators received four years ago. This year, peace was patriotic, again.

Birchwood is on the shore of White Bear Lake. Every year, shortly after Independence Day, depending on the heat, a dense green fog clouds the surface of the water. It looks yucky, but if you’ve been here a few seasons you start to recognize that the lake is turning over. In hydrological alchemy, the bottom becomes the top and the top sinks low. Afterwards, it’s so clear you can see the depths, down even to stuff at the bottom you’ve forgotten got dropped.

Mary Jane LaVigne