The beginning of the parade comes abreast of me, kicked off by the local high school marching band. Their uniforms are green and black with gold trim, the colors soaking up the bright afternoon sun as the teenagers march in sync with solid beats thumping through the air. It’s a symphony of trumpets, trombones, and clarinets, their sound echoing down the town’s main street, heralding the start of festivities. Deciding to enjoy my extended stay rather than get annoyed, I cheer and clap with the rest of the townsfolk.
Next come the floats, each as unique and whimsical as the town itself. One float is adorned with a tongue-in-cheek motif of duct tape, chains, and garden hoses, along with the usual assortment of colorful balloons and flowers belongs to the hardware store. The next is decorated with beautifully crafted paper swans in all sizes, an imaginative design created by the town library.
The ladies’ garden club comes next. Each woman is wearing a more elaborate hat than the last, all of them gathered inside a float made to look like a makeshift flowerpot teeming with flowers. The senior ladies wave continuously, their faces glowing with pride, their outfits vibrant against the bouquet of blooming flowers surrounding them. The float oozes pure love for nature but is somehow filled with a competitiveness that makes me grin. I cheer louder for them, getting lost in the sheer joy rippling through the crowd.
The joyful shrieks of children pull my attention. An old-fashioned, bright red fire truck rolls out onto the parade path. The local firefighters, dressed in their uniforms, are perched atop the vehicle, tossing handfuls of candy. The sweet treats rain down on the kids, and they scramble to collect as much as possible, their screams of delight filling the air. The truck, the firefighters, the candy throwing – it all feels wonderfully quaint and reminds me of simpler times when joys were found in shared community experiences. Despite being a stranger here, I feel welcomed.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I notice the parade is finally nearing its end. I’ve enjoyed the festival, but I need to get on the road. I doubt that a town as small as Lublin Harbor has a hotel inside its borders. I don’t want to get stuck on the highway in the dark looking for lodging.
I sigh in relief when the final float turns a corner onto Main Street. Everyone around me starts cheering even more loudly at its arrival. Colorful confetti rains over everyone’s head, and the high school band, now assembled in the field behind me, plays a grand march.
Atop the float stands Koko, the bakery owner, looking effortlessly elegant. The float is like an ode to grains and the harvest, covered in wheat stalks and sheaves of other golden crops, all reminiscent of an autumn harvest. Koko’s dress is a shimmering fall of fabric, draped in warm golds and rich purples. Her costume reminds me of the Statue of Liberty’s robes, cascading down her body in glittering pleats. It makes me think of the story of Cleopatra cruising along the Nile on her golden pleasure barge. I do a double take when I realize that next to Koko is a huge white dog, an enormous hound, dusted from tail to snout in a shimmering gold powder that catches the sunlight. Whoever thought to add wings is a genius – the dog looks like some kind of shimmering canine angel, ready to leap off the float and fly off into the sunset. The dog is clearly a very good boy who stands at Koko’s side, his tail wagging slowly and a happy canine grin, seemingly unbothered by all the noise and commotion.
Koko stands tall and proud on the float, some kind of wooden spindle hanging from her hand. In the sunlight, Koko glows, an otherworldly aura surrounding her, making her seem larger and more regal. I squint against the sun, trying to understand what she is holding. Is it a wooden ornament? A children’s spinning top? Something large and red is wrapped around the thin, pointed top.
I squint, trying to figure out what I’m seeing. It’s wool or cotton. Mesmerized, I watch as Koko plucks and twists the red cotton. In her other hand, she dangles the spindle, which reminds me of a whirligig. I finally figure out that Koko is spinning wool, but the demonstration I once saw on a school field trip was at a wheel, not using a free-held device like Koko has.
I’m unsure how long I stand there, staring open-mouthed as her float rolls past, effortlessly spinning raw materials into a thin, fine thread. The spindle hangs suspended mid-air, twirling with a speed that it blurs. I’m super impressed that Koko can spin yarn on a moving float without even having to watch her hands.
I assume this is some kind of tradition for the festival. She displays an impressive familiarity with a traditional practice. Only then do I remember to breathe, a smile curling my lips as the float comes near.
I’ve forgotten about Mango in my arms until he nudges my chin, demanding that all my attention be on him and not the procession.
“Wow, Mango, isn’t that cool?” I whisper to him, scratching him under his chin. I point toward the float. He follows my finger, but instead of sharing my delight, he takes one look at the dog next to Koko and startles, hissing loudly.
Mango, my normally chill, lazy lump of a cat who usually behaves as if he is the king of the castle, suddenly decides he’s my stalwart guardian and the dog is his mortal enemy. Most days, Mango’s only concerns are his naps in the sun and occasional treats. But as the float comes abreast of us, Mango’s fur puffs out, and his back arches. I can feel his claws unsheathe and prick my forearm. Before I can react, he erupts into a horrible caterwaul that echoes around the square.
Abandoning all survival instincts, a feral war cry erupts from Mango’s mouth, the likes of which I’ve never heard from my pet. Before I can react, the giant white dog lunges across the float in response, knocking into Koko with a force that sends her reeling sideways.
His large paws scrabble across the small floor space of the float as he barks at Mango, crushing some of the bunches of wheat.
I watch in horror as the hanging spindle swings wildly out of Koko’s grasp. It spins through the air, twirling and twisting, end over end. The world seems to slow down, and I feel my heart thump heavily against my chest, pounding out a rhythm of impending doom as it flies through the air.
Before I can shout a warning, the spindle arcs in an unsteady trajectory toward my parked car. I let out a choked gasp as the sharpened end lands with a sickening crunch, embedding itself deeply into the back windshield of my vehicle. The impact sends a spiderweb of cracks splaying out from where it’s lodged. My mouth gapes as the entire town freezes alongside me, staring at the spindle sticking out of my back window like a sword embedded in stone.
“Oh, no! Sema, look what you made me do!” Koko exclaims, rushing off the float and toward my car. That breaks me from my frozen trance, and I dash across the street to my car, ignoring the staring townsfolk.
“Is this your vehicle, dear?” Koko asks.
I nod my head, unable to form words. “I was about to get back on the road,” I inanely babble.
“Oh, well, I mean… You can’t drive it like this. It’s too dangerous.”
She’s not wrong. My shoulders drop when I realize I’m not going anywhere, and now I have to call my insurance company. This is gonna suck. And my rates are probably going to go up.
“Can someone find Rog for me?” Koko calls out to the lingering crowd. The way she says the name Rog, it rhymes with cog.
An enormous, lumbering man in blue overalls and a great bushy beard steps out of the crowd. He strolls towards us, a grease-stained rag hanging from his pocket. He wears a blue and white trucker hat with ‘Svarog’s Garage’ scribbled on it.
“Everything okay here, Mayor?” the man I assume is Rog asks, his mouth stretching into an easy grin as he wipes the sweat off his forehead. Now that the excitement seems to be over, most of the crowd starts to head away, mostly back into the park.
I blink, casting a glance at Koko, “Mayor?”
Koko waves her hand dismissively. “I’m merely a humble servant of this town.”
Humble my ass, I think to myself. I get the sense that Koko is many things, but humble isn’t one of them.
“Rog, do you think you can fix… uh… what was your name again?” Koko looks at me expectantly, so I provide my name. “Do you think you can fix Ms. Blackwell’s car?” Koko asks, her gaze softening as she surveys the damaged vehicle.
“I prefer Lily,” I respond absently.
Rog stretches his back, hands stained with oil and face ingrained with the lines of years at the workshop. He runs his fingers through his thick beard, tugging on the ends, and gives the broken car window a dubious stare. “Well, Koko,” he sighs, sucking his teeth in thought before finally shaking his head, “I’ll need to order a new window for this one, and delivery could take a couple of days.”
My jaw drops in dismay. “A couple of days?” I exclaim, clutching Mango to my chest. “What am I supposed to do till then? Is there a car rental place around town?” I ask, looking around the town dubiously, betraying my growing concern.
Koko looks back at me sympathetically, twirling a golden curl around her finger. “I’m afraid not, dear. It’s not something we usually need here. Could you maybe stay in town until the window arrives? I’ll obviously cover your stay and the repairs for your car. It’s all my fault, after all. Well… mine and Semargl’s, but he’s very sorry. Aren’t you, Sema?”
The dog sitting at Koko’s side lets out a single deep bark of apparent agreement. Sema is watching the exchange with sharp eyes and ignoring Mango in my arms. I don’t know much about dog breeds, but I think the dog is some kind of all-white husky or maybe a Samoyed. Whatever he is, he’s enormous. He must’ve lost the fake wings in the chaos, but his fur still sparkles with gold dust in the late afternoon light. I look down at my cat, worried he will panic again, but he gives the dog one lazy look before closing his eyes and snuggling under my chin.
There’s a moment of silence while I mull over my options. It’s not like I have much choice, and this town, strange as it is, doesn’t appear threatening.
“Fine. I can stay for a few days,” I relent, my voice just above a whisper. “I’ll stay… at least until the car gets fixed. Um, do you guys have a hotel here?”
Koko shakes her head at me, “We’ve got a couple of places you can stay. Why don’t you pack a quick bag with enough stuff to hold you over for a few days and come into my shop? Rog will get your car to his garage, and we can get you all set up in the meantime.”
I gape open-mouthed at her, “B-but I don’t—” She cuts me off with a wave.
“Nonsense,” she says, her gaze locked on mine. There’s a steeliness there, hidden beneath the soft exterior. A stubbornness mirroring my own, “Consider it a welcoming gift.”
