Life Goes On (4 page)

I
t was Dale Hinshaw's idea for Harmony Friends Meeting to build a float for the town's Fourth of July parade. He'd been badgering us for years to participate, but we had resisted, even when he'd pointed out that every other church in town had a float in the parade. “For cryin' out loud, the Catholics got a float and they ain't even Americans. They're Vaticans. We got foreigners in this town who'll build a float and march in the Fourth of July parade, and we won't.”

That is not entirely accurate. We'd marched in the 1976 bicentennial parade dressed like the old-time Quakers who founded Harmony in 1824. My chief memory of growing up in this church was being forced to wear humiliating costumes at public pageants—a bathrobe in Christmas Nativity scenes, a bedsheet draped over my shoulder when I played Jesus at the Palm Sunday pageant, and clothes like those belonging to the man on the Quaker Oats box as I marched down Main Street in view of my friends.

Since that time, we have not had a youth group at Harmony Friends Meeting. The children in our meeting hit adolescence, get
wind of some scheme by the adults that will earn them the ridicule of their peers, and promptly flee to the Methodist youth group.

For the past four years, I had labored to begin a youth group, carefully nurturing the faith of the church's young people, only to have Dale scare them off when he asked them to gather at the school flagpole on the National Day of Prayer wearing T-shirts that read
A Prayer a Day Keeps Satan Away
.

I was able to woo them back by promising Dale we could have a float in the Fourth of July parade so long as he left the youth of the meeting out of it. I had a vested interest in this. My older son, Levi, had been eyeing the Methodists, and I didn't want to give him one more reason to bolt.

It's not easy being the child of a pastor because of people like Dale. Dale believes God has called my entire family to ministry. He quizzes my sons about their beliefs and whether they've given their hearts to the Lord. When Levi had turned ten, Dale informed him he'd reached the age of accountability, and that if he died now, he'd go to hell unless he'd accepted Jesus as his Savior. He gave my son Bible tracts to place in the school rest rooms on the toilet tanks, just in case a child's appointed time to meet the Lord occurred in a bathroom stall.

Fortunately, building the Fourth of July float has distracted Dale. He formed a Float Committee—Asa Peacock, Harvey Muldock, and Ellis Hodge. At their first meeting, Ellis suggested building a replica of the meetinghouse along with a banner reading
You Have a Friend at Harmony Friends!
Asa had hoped for something a little snazzier, preferably something involving his new tractor, while Dale
was pushing for a float that would convict people of their sins and bring them to their knees in humble repentance.

Dale has been spending a great deal of time at the Bible bookstore in Cartersburg surveying the merchandise. He's ordered bulk quantities of Bible tracts to distribute along the parade route. One of them is called
Why Is Mary Crying?
According to the tract, Mary is crying because Catholics are worshiping her instead of her son, and Dale believes it's time someone set the record straight.

Another tract is
Flight 581,
which tells about a couple who were on their way to Las Vegas to pursue a variety of sins and perversions, only to die in an airplane crash. Thankfully, they were seated next to a minister who was going to Las Vegas to start a new church and was able to lead them to the Lord before the plane hit the ground.

But Dale's favorite tract was called
Reverend Tremendous,
about a beloved pastor who was active in ecumenical affairs and social justice work, but forgot that he was saved by grace and not works, so went straight to hell for his efforts. Dale gave me one of those.

In mid-June, after much negotiation and compromise, the Float Committee settled on a design—a ten-foot plywood replica of our meetinghouse made by Ellis and pulled behind Asa's tractor. In what can only be described as a stunning lapse of judgment, they left it to Dale to select the Scripture for the banner. He settled on Jeremiah 26:6:
“I will make this town a curse for all the nations of the earth.”

“Don't you think that's a bit negative?” Asa asked Dale. “It's just a Fourth of July parade, after all, not a revival.”

“You know, Asa,” Dale said. “If you wanna tickle people's ears, that's your business. But I think it's time somebody in this town stood up for the truth.”

Asa let it go, reasoning that amidst the customary chaos of the parade, no one would likely notice their float.

Harvey Muldock leads the parade in his 1951 Plymouth Cranbrook convertible, and is followed by my father, driving his 1939 Farmall Model M tractor. Then comes Harvey's brother-in-law, Bernie, the town policeman, who runs his siren, which people don't mind since it drowns out the high-school band, which follows. Behind the band is the street department in the town dump truck, then the fire department riding on the tanker, followed by the Shriners from Cartersburg on their minibikes, wearing their fezzes and weaving in and out like a braid of hair. After the Shriners, Clevis Nagle pedals his old-fashioned bicycle, with its big front wheel.

Those are the professionals. After them come the amateurs—the Little League teams, the church floats, the bowling teams from the Starlight Lanes, and a politician or two, passing out candy.

It's the same parade as the Corn and Sausage Days parade in September, except for the Sausage Queen, who sits enthroned in the backseat of Harvey's convertible, waving to her subjects.

The Fourth of July parade is held in the afternoon. Then we go home for a nap and a bite to eat. After that, we reassemble at the town park at dusk and sit in our lawn chairs on the hill above the pool to watch the fireworks, which are shot off from the center field of the Little League diamond.

When I was growing up, Huey Gladden from the street depart
ment was in charge of the fireworks. But in 1976, in a valiant attempt to play the national anthem using fireworks, while rushing from one launching tube to another, he stumbled, fell upon a tube just as a Roman candle was lifting off, and very nearly achieved orbit.

These days, Darrell Furbay, the fire chief, sets off the fireworks. Although he lacks Huey Gladden's creativity, it is a comfort to enjoy the fireworks without worrying about a fatality.

The day before the parade, my boys and I washed and waxed the tractor with my father. It's been in my front yard the past two summers, after my father gave it to me, believing it would cure me of depression. I did cheer up shortly thereafter, so I'm not discounting its curative powers.

My father and I have taken turns driving it in the parades. It was my turn this year. At first I'd resisted the idea, but then I discovered I enjoyed navigating the tractor up Main Street past the stores and knots of people, waving and throwing candy.

“Can I ride with you this year?” Addison asked, as we polished the tractor.

“I don't think so, buddy. It isn't safe. You might fall off my lap.”

“You could pull me behind you in a wagon.”

I thought about that for a moment. “Yes, I suppose I could do that.”

I phoned Ellis Hodge that evening to see if he had a hay wagon we could borrow, which he did. Addison was elated.

Levi let out a snort. “You'll look like a dork,” he said to his little brother.

“Then so will you,” I pointed out. “Because you're riding with us.”

He began to whine, as only an eleven-year-old can.

“No complaining,” I said. “Mom promised Deena she'd help her at the coffee shop. So you're stuck with me, kid. And I'm on the tractor, which means you will be too.” I said it in my “And that's that!” voice, to stifle any argument.

The morning of the Fourth, the phone rang while we were eating breakfast. It was Asa Peacock, clearly distressed. “It won't start,” he said. “I've been trying for two hours to get it running, and it won't start.”

“What won't start?”

“My new tractor,” Asa moaned. “I called the dealer and he said the computer must be out of whack. They gotta order in some parts from Atlanta.”

“Gee, Asa, I'm sorry to hear that. Can you use Ellis's tractor?”

“He's got it taken apart, workin' on it. Can you pull the church float with your tractor?”

I once heard of a mental illness that causes otherwise rational persons to occasionally behave in illogical ways. I have long suspected I suffer from this malady, for the next hour found me at Dale Hinshaw's house, hitching my 1939 Farmall Model M tractor to a hay wagon bearing a replica of our meetinghouse and draped with a banner reading, “
I will make this town a curse for all the nations of the earth.”—Jeremiah 26:6.

Dale was stacking cartons of tracts inside the model. “The Catholics get this one,” he said, holding up a copy of
Why Is Mary Crying?
“And the liberals get
Flight 581
or
Reverend Tremendous.
It don't matter which one.”

He loaded a box on the wagon.

“What's in there?” I asked.

“Salvation suckers,” he replied. “I got 'em at the Bible bookstore. They got the plan of salvation written right on 'em. See?” He held one up for me to inspect.

“Those are as big as Frisbees,” I observed.

“Got to be, to get all the Bible verses on 'em.”

“What are you going to do with them?” I asked.

“Throw 'em to the kids.”

“I don't know, Dale. What if you hit someone in the head? They're pretty heavy.”

“Better a concussion than to roast in hell.”

I made the boys wear their nice clothes since we were representing the church. Levi began moaning about my choice of vocations. “How come just because you're a minister, I have to do this? Why can't I just stay home?”

“Because no one's here to watch you. Your mother's helping Deena and I'm in the parade, so that's that. Now stop complaining and get dressed.”

“Okay, but I'm not handing out anything.”

“That's fine. You can stay inside the float and pass things to Dale. No one'll even see you.”

“You're crazy,” Addison said to his brother. “This'll be fun. All our friends will see us and everything.”

Levi smacked his forehead. “Well, duh. Like I really want my friends to see me riding on some dorky church float.”

I had a fleeting recollection of plodding down Main Street on a donkey during the town's annual Palm Sunday pageant. I was eleven
years old, Levi's age. It had been our church's turn to supply a Jesus, and the finger of fate had settled on me after it was discovered that Herbert Stout, the other boy in our church, was allergic to donkeys. The elders didn't want a Jesus with hives. So I was not without sympathy.

“No one will see you,” I promised Levi. “Just stay hidden inside the float and you'll be fine.”

But I could tell he wasn't pleased, and that the Methodists were looking more attractive every moment.

The parade began at the elementary school, went north on Washington Street four blocks, hooked a left onto Main Street, looped around the town square, then headed back south to the school. It was always exciting to see whether the front of the parade would bisect the rear of the parade, as it did in 1976 when everyone and their brother marched in the bicentennial parade. But this year, Harvey missed Owen Stout, our perennial town board candidate, by a good twenty yards.

Levi stayed crouched in the church on the float the whole time, handing out fistfuls of tracts to Dale, who distributed them to people who in his estimation needed saving. Addison passed out the salvation suckers, eating one for every six he gave out.

Everything was going fine until the fire department's tanker passed in front of Grant's Hardware and the engine backfired. Bystanders later said it was the farthest they had ever seen an animal leap, when Billy Grant's pet ferret, the one I'd given him, jumped from his arms and began sprinting among the Shriners. It dodged Clevis Nagle on his bicycle, scattered the Little League teams, then froze as my 1939 Farmall Model M tractor with its original steel
front wheel bore down. I swerved to miss it, causing the church to slide from the float and land upside down on the street with a splintering crash. Levi, though unhurt, was lodged in the steeple, his legs opening and closing in the air like a pair of scissors. Billy Grant's ferret had scrambled up Dale's leg and was perched on his head, causing Dale to speculate that God had indeed made our town a curse for all the nations of the earth, just as Jeremiah had predicted.

This was the picture Bob Miles snapped for the front page of the
Harmony Herald
, alongside an article about Billy Grant and his pet ferret and how he'd come to own it. Bob also interviewed Dale Hinshaw, who prophesied that this was the first of many catastrophes God would visit upon our town for our sins.

“I'm never going to be in a parade again, Levi told me that night, after the fireworks.

“I said the same thing when I was your age.”

“Then how come you were in the parade today?” he asked.

I thought for a moment. “Because Asa Peacock asked for my help, and he's my friend.”

“Is Dale your friend?”

“I wouldn't want to go on vacation with him,” I said, “but I don't wish him any harm.”

A car turned in front of our house, it's headlights casting shadows against my son's bedroom wall.

“Is it always like this in the church?” Levi asked, after a while.

“Always like what?”

“You have to be with people you don't like.”

“Sometimes it's like that. But there are also a lot of wonderful people.”

“I'm still not going to ride on the church float ever again,” he said.