Eileen Loveman Daily Posting

From last year at this time....

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It was hot.

It was the kind of hot where when you look at the blacktop on the road, the air rising above it is wavy and mysterious, as if some kind of magic spell was being cast.

In a way, it was.

Those kind of hot summer days bring back lots of wonderful memories and paving the way for newer ones.   Even though I have traded the blacktopped walkways of my memories for the cool patches of farmland, there are times when the two will collide.

Growing up in white suburbia on the east end of Long Island (read wealthy) I was surrounded by an eclectic mix of kids with pedigrees a mile long and names to match.  There were tennis lessons, music lessons and trips abroad, with clothes and attitudes to match.   Birthday parties were catered, as were bar mitzvahs and any other celebrations one could think of.  One friend got a role on Broadway when we graduated high school; another a choice place at Julliard.

Then there was me.

Somehow my parents ended up in the middle of this monetary melting pot, as my father was an executive and my mother an artist.    I knew the talk and could walk the path, but wasn’t sure if I wanted to go down the road of success in quite this fashion.

But even though there were differences in perceived life styles and the trappings that go with it, we all had one thing in common.

We all loved a parade. 
 

My mind’s eye see the thin bent old man, who was at every parade, carnival, festival or other community event, taking pictures with his unwieldy contraption of a camera, lights popping and batteries clicking away.  He seemed to be everywhere then, and I learned later that he was a reporter for Newsday, the newest newspaper in town.   He lugged that big black monstrosity with him as if it was part of his body; a giant white light bulb appearing as if it was a third eye.

It is the season of parades, as all the surrounding towns and hamlets have their own fire departments and ambulance corps.  The quietest group of good Samaritans, they are there when you need them and silent when you do not.   Beginning in May and ending around Labor Day, the weekends are filled with festivals, parties and family functions that make the catered birthday parties of my youth a pale comparison.

So it was with a love filled heart that I stood on the sidelines once again, watching my beloved in his crisp uniform, standing proud with his brothers/sisters in arms, as they marched through the sweltering heat of the sun yesterday.  It was a hot one for western New York, but everyone anticipated the wall of heat that we knew was heading our way.  

The sights and sounds were reminiscent of those times on Long Island, as well as the newer ones spent here on the Lake.  Our town had its annual Homecoming Celebration, but there was another parade in a nearby town as well this bright Saturday morning.   As a reporter, I was assigned to cover the parade and take as many pictures as I could.   I smiled as I remembered the big black monstrosity as I clicked away on my digital camera, moments before snug and secure in my purse.

Parades bring out the best in people, young and old.  The patriotic and the quiet, the young and the old, everyone loves a parade.   Men in old army uniforms stand on the sidewalk, hands to their temples in a permanent salute of solidarity and respect.   They did it back then; they do it now.

But most of all, looking into the eyes of the one I love, having walked 5 miles in the hot sun of a Saturday afternoon, as I offer him a beer and a kiss, and just a touch of awe to witness this month after month, year after year.

Driving home in the early evening, exhausted and drenched with sweat, I offer a prayer of thanksgiving, to be able to see it and to never grow complacent, for it never to become “just a parade.”

It is the summer of summers, with many more to come.