Pub date

Pub date for The Gift of an Ordinary Day came and went, the book’s arrival in stores eclipsed in our house by the fact that Henry was heading back to college and summer really was coming to an end.  I said good-bye to him at 5:30 in the morning, as he and his dad were leaving for the airport, and I was leaving to drive to Boston for a TV interview on Fox News.

It was dark when we all left the house, and I drove south on empty highways. This was Labor Day, after all, and it seemed clear that the whole world was sleeping in.  The sun rose, and I calmed the butterflies in my stomach by telling myself that no one was even awake at this hour, let alone watching the news on TV. . .

Three hours later, I was back in New Hampshire, standing across from the general store in Francestown in the midst of a holiday crowd as we awaited the beginning of the Labor Day Parade.  It was a glorious afternoon, and in this part of the world anyway, Francestown was the place to be.  There were artists selling crafts, an ice cream social in the church, sheep to pat and felted slippers to buy, used-book tables, and a flea market full of unexpected treasures.  Jack arrived with some friends; I ran into my brother and his wife and their small children; all sorts of familiar faces.

The theme of this year’s parade was The Games People Play, and families had created floats paying homage to everything from Scrabble to Dominoes, Tug-o-War Redneck Style (lots of mud involved) to Hangman–with a real gallows and noose. In a nod to 20th century reality, one float featured an old sofa and a bunch of teenaged boys playing video games.

Every vintage fire truck within thirty miles had been spruced up and brought over, along with a few antique cars, showy horses, and marching bands.  There was even an 1860 horse-drawn hearse on display, complete with a tiny coffin riding in the back.  The Temple Cloggers danced by, followed by a team of quick-stepping toe-tappers of every age and body type.  Jack had said he didn’t care much about watching this hokey old small-town parade; we’ve come every year for the last five, ever since we moved to New Hampshire, and the novelty has worn thin for him.

But in the end,  he couldn’t resist the pleasure of seeing it all through his two-year-old cousin’s eyes.  Gabriel waved and clapped for every man, woman and child, every critter and vintage car and siren-blower.  And I realized that I was having as much fun watching sixteen-year-old Jack watch two-year-old Gabe watch his first parade, as I was having watching the parade itself.  Which is why hokey small-town parades live on, I guess, and why they are so special.  Part of it is about dusting off some cherished relics from the past, and bringing them back out into the light of day, about coming together and making things, about spectacle and pomp and noise.  But it’s also about bringing along the next generation, instilling in them a sense of what really matters in life:  tradition, community, an appreciation for the places that we live, our shared history, and the people who are our neighbors.

That night, I rummaged around in the freezer for something I could make for dinner.  Steve and Jack and I had planned to go out, to celebrate Pub Date, but in the end no one was really in the mood.  Henry was gone, and we sort of missed him already. Jack was heading back to school in the morning.  It was getting late and we were all tired.  I didn’t really need dinner out at the end of this long, full day.  We’d had a parade, after all, and that turned out to be enough.