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For five days, every day that week leading up to the start of the festival, it had rained, and no one thought Saturday would be any different. So nobody was quite prepared for a picnic when they got up Saturday morning to clear blue skies and dazzling sunshine. There would have to be compromises – Mrs. Dawson hadn't made her strawberry-rhubarb pies the night before, thinking the day would be a washout, nor had the Kiwanis men marinated any of the chicken. People swarmed the market looking for boxes of crackers, frosted cupcakes, and packages of sliced salami and cheese that they hadn't bothered to pick up during the week because the forecast had been so grim.
Even as people began to gather in the park for the kickoff parade, there were trenchcoats and umbrellas to be seen tucked into baby strollers and draped over arms. The smart ones remembered to bring plastic tarps to put under the picnic blankets, and the rest soon found the seats of their pants uncomfortably damp. Before long, the orange and red balloons began to appear, tied to the wrists of toddlers in raincoats, or attached to a circle of lawnchairs in a “saved” spot on the grass not too far from the port-a-potties. All the rain had made everything lushly green, and the grass was ankle-high. Despite the occasional look skyward, though, the weather seemed to be in full cooperation.
DeeAnn tried to look like she was enjoying herself, walking around the park in her red “Event Coordinator” sweatshirt, a whistle around her neck and a large black walkie-talkie bouncing off her butt and chattering away. The last-minute reversal of fortune had sent the organization committee scrambling as soon as daylight broke. Twelve hours of setup somehow needed to happen in four if there was going to be a parade. She smiled and waved to people she recognized as she walked through the park, halfway paying attention to the conversation on the radio in case someone should call her name. “Next year, I am only doing the donut tent,” she said softly to herself.
“DeeAnn, are you there?” the radio finally obliged her. “DeeAnn, please check in.”
She stopped and unclipped the big black handset from her back pocket. “I'm here, Art, what do you need?” Her mind flashed through any number of likely disasters, and for a moment she thought she heard the distant rumble of thunder.
“If you could make your way back to the A/V tent, could you please have a brief conversation with the sound guy for the rock band. Apparently he was unaware that their opening act was a parade, and he's a little displeased about not being able to do his sound check while the middle school band is warming up in the parking lot.”
As if on cue, there came the whine of an electric guitar on top of the muffled twittering of piccolos. DeeAnn laughed, waved at her neighbor who was trying to catch her eye from the other side of the field, and marched in the direction of the stage.
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