The Amherst Chirp

It is a decidedly dreary fourth of July, with highs of 72, cold gusts, and threats of rain. The man driving the miniature tank seems on edge.

The Amherst 4th of July Parade staff just advised a young boy to urinate in the bushes in front of the Wilson Admissions Center, just left to where I am sitting in the grass. The boy, apparently uncomfortable with urinating so close to a strange young man with a bicycle helmet on, runs to his mother. The boy is now in the process of urinating in the bushes north of Kirby Theater.

I relocate to the front of the Alumni Gymnasium. There are electrical outlets for me to charge my camera and computer. I hear bagpipes. There is a group of people practicing their choreographed shaolin kung fu. I realize how cold it is.

A man, wearing a kilt and a huge drum is frustrated at the lack of accessible bathrooms. I offer him directions to Webster. He declines the offer and walks off.

A line dancer says, “It’s going to rain more.”

A fellow line dancer, visibly irked by the first line dancer’s comment, shakes her head. “No, no – I don’t think so.”

“Looks like it.”

The second line dancer woman squints her eyes at the first line dancer woman and points a solitary, red-white-and-blue-painted finger at the chest of the first line dancer woman. Slowly, she says, “Would you stop being so negative. The rain feeds off of your negativity. Think positively.”

The rain comes down harder.

With three pulls of its horn, the Amherst Fire Department Rescue 1 signals calls the World War II veterans to their positions at the front of the line. They assemble and begin their march.

A cacophony of police, fire truck, and ambulance sirens begins. Via loudspeakers, police officers greet onlookers in a manner more suitable for pulling someone over than for a parade.

Children begin to assemble on the side of the road, their eyes eager and searching. They know something I don’t.

The rain starts to come down a bit harder. I put my camera away and notice that water has started to smudge my writing. The parade continues.

I finally understand what the children in front of me are up to. They have done this before. Passing cars are spewing candy. The children stir and begin to squeal excitedly. The first round of candy meets the air and they tense.

Bagpipers start to play. Recording them is a struggle because I do not want to get somebody’s child on my camera, lest I be accused of a universally-maligned form of sexual deviancy. I shut the camera down.

Vintage cars and military vehicles pass. I am not sure what to make of their presence. It dawns on me that none of the passing cars have thrown any candy in my direction. A man in the back of a blue pick-up truck gestures that he would like to send me a Tootsie Roll. I decline. I hate Tootsie Rolls.

Atkins farms gives the kids small bags of donuts and I regret standing so far from the road.

Men on dancing horses amble by. The parade is winding down where I am standing.