4TH OF JULY PARADE

1995 Alpena, Michigan

No stirring music announces the approach. No Seventy-Six Trombones, nor Stars and Stripes Forever that used to thrill my children and me as the bands and flags passed by years ago.

Only a slowly moving police car sounding its siren periodically, followed by a car towing an oversized rigid American flag on a trailer. Silent.

Then a dozen men in battle helmets and camouflage. Desert Storm, I think at first, but no. As they come nearer, there is no parade formation, no marching step; no banner or label. Gray-painted faces, blank expressions, large automatic weapons held loosely, some with infra-red scanners attached, one man festooned with machine gun belts. They walk along slowly, seeming uncertain, surrounded by a crowd like this. As one young soldier half turns toward a cluster of small boys, his automatic weapon inadvertently points into their midst. A nearby soldier growls a command, and he sheepishly raises the muzzle to point skyward and moves along. Silently.

Now World War II veterans are passing by with their battle flags, and the crowd applauds the elderly men and women who fought fifty years ago. But I gaze thoughtfully after the silent, camouflaged men. I am a stranger here, and I wonder what I am getting into . . . . try to recall which Michigan town has the militia. Are these gray-faced men defenders of America, or of some private political credo? I don't know whom to ask. Keep silent. Watch the parade.

Children scramble into the street for the candies tossed from almost every vehicle. Here is the parade marshal in a car far back in the line; there comes a beauty queen, young and serene on her float. Pre-teens in motor-powered go-karts spurt back and forth with a roar, looking back over their shoulders at friends in the crowd, oblivious to the children scurrying for candies. Only one woman restrains her grandchild until they pass.

And here, can it be – yes – finally a real live marching band! Raising their trombones and trumpets to the sun, the lone drummer rapping out a catchy marching rhythm in counter-point to the music. Then they, too, are gone – the only real band to march in the entire hour-long procession. We are back to fire engines, trucks advertising local businesses, boat safety organizations, children's bicycle groups, all of them throwing candy. Finally, two police cars end the procession, followed by campers and RV's reclaiming the highway, and the crowd breaks up.

Old folks with their folding chairs, young families with baby strollers swirl around me as I stand people-watching on this fine summer day. What sense of heritage would my own children get from this parade if they had been here? What would I tell them about what it takes to make a nation? A partial answer, at least, came from an unexpected direction. For there was a second parade soon afterward, at the edge of town. The Vietnam veterans held their own procession, perhaps still searching for an identity from an ambiguous era. Maybe reminding us of a task done for small thanks. Or expressing bitter grief for companions who did not return.

Not many spectators stay, only one or two deep along a couple of blocks on a cross-street. Some of them attracted by the “Traveling Wall” replica of the Vietnam monument in Washington, featured this week at the town's museum near by. A bearded man near me in the small crowd wears the legend “Vietnam Veteran” on his cap, and under those words a row of campaign ribbons.

The parade is not long. Police car and rigid flag-on-a-trailer again. Then massed flags, borne by a truckload of disabled veterans whom I feel moved to salute.

Then a platoon of middle-aged men and women marching to a traditional cadence chant. The tenor voice of a sergeant sings a phrase, the response from the ranks full- throated and firm:

Sound off! ONE, TWO!

Sound off! THREE, FOUR!

Bring it down! ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, ONE TWO - THREE-FOUR!

If I die in Vee-et nam . . . . IF I DIE IN VEE-ET NAM!

Mail my body home to Mom . . . . MAIL MY BODY HOME TO MOM!

Pin my medals to my chest . . . . PIN MY MEDALS TO MY CHEST!

Tell my girl I did my best . . . . . TELL MY GIRL I DID MY BEST!

The sound gradually fades as they march on: Sound off! One-Two! Sound off! Three-four!

Bring-it-on-down-now! One-two-three-four one-two – three-four! . . .left. . . left. . . left . . .left . . .

A woman breaks ranks and runs up to the man in the veterans cap, standing next to me. “Pete, they want you to march with them!”

He shakes his head. “No . . . I don't want to . . .”

I want to ask him about it; want to get his story. But something in the mixture of emotions on his face tells me this is a private moment.