First came the members of the Royal Canadian Legion, replete with flags. Then came a marching band from a nearby town, a bevy of horseback riders, a singer on the back of a flatbed truck and a whole bunch of local parade entries who flung bubble gum, wrapped candies and unfrozen freezies at the kids in the crowd.
Then came the motor home with Texas licence plates. Huh?
Lumbering in the middle of the small-town parade was an enormous vehicle with a red-faced Texan at the wheel. It took a few moments for the crowd to assess its lack of signage, bunting or raison d’etre. But they soon understood that Mr. and Mrs. Texan, perhaps obeying the shortest-route directions from their global positioning system, had somehow blundered into the thick of things.
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You know how gaps can appear in parades, somewhere between the politicians-in-convertibles and the local 4-H light horse club kids?
This parade was no exception. The Texans found a gap and then found themselves waving to crowd-lined streets and shaking their heads apologetically for lack of candy.
Oh, to be a fly on the wall, and hear their conversation:
“My, my, Tex. These people sure are friendly. And here I thought Texas was the friendliest place around.”
“Yup.”
“But why are they shouting and demanding handouts? The recession must be really bad in these parts.”
“I hate to tell you this, Sue-Ellen, but I think we took a wrong turn back there.”
“What! Why won’t y’all ever ask for directions?”
“Guess we’ll just have to ride it out, sugar pie.”
“Land sakes! I’m hiding in the back! Let me know when we’re out of this mess and back in the panhandle!”
“OK, but do you mind if I throw your breath mints to the crowd? “
