Lögberg-Heimskringla - 09.07.1982, Síða 6

6-WINNIPEG, FÖSTUDAGUR 9. JÚLÍ 1982
Come one, Come all,
Come Papa Kristinsson
by LaDonna Breidfjord
Backmeyer
It was the Fourth of July. A great
crowd of people gathered on both
sides of Main Street to await the
beginning of the parade, small
children on the backs of their
fathers, arms wrapped tightly
around Daddy's neck, squirming
tots in the arms of mothers, the
middle-aged and aged settled into an
assorted variety of folding chairs,
and children sitting squat on the
curbs. They were all sweating. They
were all waiting. Some of the
children, tired of sitting or standing
in one spot for so long a time, rest-
less, pushed at one another and
chased one another in animated
circles over the wide expanse of
carless street that lay between the
two great crowds of townsfolk,
some of whom were not of the
town, but who, because of some
slight strand of friendship or
relationship, became a part of the
town on this one hot day of the year.
And every so often a patrolman
would come past, walking, or with
his rump rooted to the seat of a
slow-moving motorcycle. He would
motion to the wild and unruly
children, ordering them to clear the
street, and they would obey him, for
the moment. And the hour wore on.
More and more often, some one per-
son in the crowd would pull out a
pocket watch or flip up a wrist to
check the time. Then he or she
would look up the main street in an-
ticipation. The parade was late; it
was always late.
Bera Kristinsson had brought her
papa into town to watch the parade,
just as she had on every Fourth of
July for as long as any of the people
of Harbinger could remember. She
had brought him into town and she
had helped him from the car.
"Here, Papa," she had said as she
opened his folding chair for him.
"You sit right here till I come for
you at noon. I'll be here at noon."
Then louder, "Papa, did you hear
me?" The old man scowled at her.
Then he wiped the dampness from
his brow with the hanky she had
placed in the hand that didn't hold
the watch. There was no one else to
take care of the chores. Bera got
back into the musty car and headed
out the narrow and dusty country
road. Papa Kristinsson watched as
the car travelled across the wind-
swept prairie toward the farm. He
watched as the road narrowed into
nothingness. Then he turned his
hoary head to the street before him
as the car became a mere dot that
disappeared at the bend of the
world.
The old man dozed off and on as
the children around him became
more restless. Mothers grabbed sons
by shirt collars and daughters by the
arm in a useless attempt to calm that
energy that had been generated
through inactivity. Infants cried.
Fathers cursed. Mothers became
distraught. The children's clean
clothes became dirty as they con-
tinued to run and to fall. Some of the
children skinned elbows; some skin-
ned knees. Handkerchiefs were
pulled from breast pockets and
purses. Dirt was wiped from small
faces; beads of perspiration were
mopped from damp brows. The
people waited and they were impa-
tient in this waitng. Pap Kristins-
son sat quietly on his folding chair
and waited with them.
Then, only after the waiting and
watching and restless movement
had reached a point at which it was
very near unbearable, the first
sonorous tones of the Harbinger
High School Band could be heard,
faint .at first, so that only a few from
the miserable and sweating and
swearing crowds could hear, then
ever more intense and powerful as
the band pushed onward, toward
the loud murmur of people. And the
noise of the crowd quieted as the
splendor and grandeur of the parade
came majestically forward. For this
moment the people did not know
fear, nor hunger, nor poverty, nor
illness; there was no past, nor was
there any future. There was only
this celebration of the end of one
war, fought long ago. And the child-
world of the celebration obliterated
everything but this one timeless
moment in time. Bera Kristins-
<son's papa lifted his aged and
shriveled head — and he smiled.
He smiled as the Harbinger High
School Band passed before him, the
faces of the musicians turned for-
ward, toward some point nearing in-
finity, their plumes bobbing to the
prancing rhythm of their step. Fami-
ly and friends cheered; tots were
lifted even higher.
Boom-ta-da, Boom-ta-da, Boom-ta
da, Boom. Majorettes twirled theii
batons, flung them high into the air
and caught them again as they fell to
one knee, their long and shining
hair touching the earth as they bent
forward. Sunlight sparkled on
metal. Shadows danced upon the
ground. And girls, placed atop
flower and crepe-paper floats, toss-
ed hand-blown kisses and candy-
kisses into the crowds as the cheer-
ing of the people gave way to ap-
plause. The drums rolled and
clowns skittered back and forth
across the street, from one side to
the other, in and out, between the
floats and the prancing horses,
around the marching units, and
around the opulent convertibles that
transported the mayor and the coun-
cilmen at the crests of their back
seats. The shrill whine of the sirens
sounded above the roll of the drums
and sunlight caught the flashing of
revolving lights. Papa Kristinsson
sat quietly — and he smiled.
He smiled as the children, those
who were not Cub Scouts, Boy
Scouts, Girl Scouts or 4-H members,
trailed behind the official cars and
trucks at the rear of the parade.
These non-members-of-any-
organization created a procession all
their own and caused the unity of
the parade to disintegrate into
chaos. Some of the children attemp-
ted to march. They hoisted their
knees high into the air in an effort to
mimic the noble strut of the band.
Other children walked or ran or
stumbled awkwardly. Each moved
to a differing rhythm. The children
pushed wheel-barrows and doll bug-
gies; they pulled wagons and wob-
bly toys;^they rode bicycles,
tricycles, quadricycles and scooters.
Streamers were draped over handle-
bars and twisted through spokes.
Crepe-paper had been wadded up
into crinkly balls that somewhat
resembled flowers, and had been
poked into every available space.
Papa Kristinsson smiled at those
children who had dressed dogs and
cats in doll clothes and baby clothes,
and at those who had then tied the
dogs and cats into the wagons and
wheel-barrows and doll buggies. He
smiled as some of the dogs and cats
managed to break free after much
wriggling and biting, and as the
animals, after finding themselves
free, ran down the hot and dusty
street in a frantic attempt to flee the
hands of their captors, howling,
screeching and yelping as they ran.
The cheering and applause of the
crowd gave way to a general feeling
of amusement, and Papa Kristins-
son smiled.
Then the last tot, carrying a
miniature American flag in one tiny
fist, marched alone in the emptiness
of the street on short and unsteady
Iegs, too slow to keep up with the
other children. The mother of the
infant-child, seeing white traces of
tears upon the small and dusty face,
reached for her son with outstretch-
ed arms. And the boy abandoned his
flag to the dust of the street at the
old man's feet. Papa Kristinsson
smiled.
It was noon. Some of the crowd
had gone home for lunch, others
had drifted to the restaurant, or to
the lunch counter in the corner
drugstore. Many had retreated to
the bars. Only Papa Kristinsson re-
mained in the emptiness of the hot
and silent street when Bera drove
up. He was cold, but he smiled as
his wizened eyes stared steadily and
eternally into infinity.
Bera screamed.
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