Our village�s Fourth of July festivities, to have taken place today, have been rained out. AJ would have been extremely disappointed if he hadn�t been so tired. There is a good chance he might have dozed off during the parade (which typically lasts all of fifteen minutes) anyway. He had been very excited about decorating his tricycle this year, however, and had elaborate plans to mount flags on his handlebars, something he must have remembered from last year�s parade.

The parade starts at the top of the largest pond and proceeds down the hill to the river. The route is about a quarter of a mile long. There is no question that there are more participating in the parade than watching. Children with horses decorate their steeds with rosettes and ribbons. Others paint their faces and roller blade (a somewhat hair-raising proposition, given the steep hill on an S-curve in the middle of the route), others decorate bicycles, tricycles and wagons. Dogs march with stars-and-stripes bandanas slung around their necks. Children pelt the few onlookers with candy; the token political figures smile and wave from old fashioned cars while their aides hand out pencils tied to business cards. Our village has only about five hundred residents, so it is perhaps the smallest Fourth of July parade ever organized, but it is one of those events that make you realize that Mayberry isn�t a total figment of someone�s imagination.

When the parade gets down to the river, the real party begins. There are games and face-painting for the children, a bar for the grownups and a barbecue for everyone. Kids run around screaming with red, white and blue face paint dripping from their cheeks. The grownups get slowly sloshed and make thinly veiled attempts to hide it. Sooner or later someone jumps in the river and several others get dunked while trying to retrieve the jumper. After dark, when the children have mysteriously disappeared into their homes, a band plays at the riverside while the grownups who haven�t passed out or taken on child care duties dance in the moonlight.

I think the poor weather may actually be my fault somehow. This morning, I hopped on my bike to head to the pool. It was sunny and beautiful, although already quite warm and humid. I was looking forward to my swim. I parked my bike, dumped my gear on a chair, stripped down to my bathing suit and jumped into the pool. At that instant, it began to rain. Hard. So hard, that it was painful and I actually considered that it might be hail. I cowered under an umbrella with the lifeguards for a few minutes, but when the rain failed to stop, I grabbed my sodden belongings and fled home. As soon as I got into the house, the rain stopped, the sun came out, and the birds began to sing. I changed into a dry shirt, threw my gear in the car, and drove back to the pool. As soon as I got out of the car, it started to rain again. This time it was still sunny. Feeling certain there was a curse upon my head, I gave up, returned home, and took a shower. We spent the morning shopping instead. This afternoon will be more domestic. I�m editing an article for a friend of mine while poaching a chicken for a salad. When AJ wakes from his nap, we�ll be making Crazy Conductor�s Cappuccino Brownies for tomorrow�s family gathering.

(The recipe was named by its originator, a former choral director of mine. She used to make these brownies for me and the other students who would house and dog-sit for her while she was out of town.).

Each July 4, as at each Christmas Eve, my husband�s entire extended family gathers at someone�s home for a feast. Last year we hosted for the first time. On the day before the party last year, we were frantically washing windows, setting up borrowed tables and chairs, untangling the volleyball net, and making about six dozen trips to the store in search of things we�d forgotten. I�m looking forward to being a guest tomorrow, with brownies as my sole responsibility.

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