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start until eleven, but because parking would be a scarce commodity and traffic would be atrocious, I thought it wise to leave early.
    I parked in front of my parents’ house and went in to wait for the parade to start.
    “Hi, Chelsey! Hi, Mandy, baby!” Mom said. “I went to the farmers’ market and got all fresh vegetables for later today—Jersey tomatoes, sweet white corn, and zucchini. We also have burgers, hotdogs, and chicken on the grill. I got you a bottle of that wine you like too, that Dornfelder.”
    “Thanks, Mom!” I said. “Do you want to go to the parade with us?”
    “No thanks, sweetie; we have too much cooking to do around here.”
    I fed Mandy her bottle, then put her down for a nap. I helped my mother shuck the corn and cut up the zucchini. “Where’s Dad?” I asked her.
    “I sent him to the grocery store to see what they had for dessert,” my mother said.
    My dad was still at the store when Mandy woke up from her nap. I changed her diaper and put her in her stroller. I grabbed a beach chair for myself and walked down to Main Street to join the other spectators. I knew Mandy didn’t know what was going on yet, but I always loved the parade and I wanted to share my traditions with her, even if she was too young to understand.
    It was a small parade, but people came out in droves to see it. The beating drums wafted through the air before I could see any musicians. It was bright and sunny out with a high of eighty-six degrees predicted for the day. The bay breeze kept the temperature comfortable.
    A bright red fire engine led the parade. We watched a showcase of colorful and lively floats stream by, created by various local groups including the Boy and Girl Scouts, the Historical Society, and veterans’ group. The Boat Club members dressed in pirate costumes. The school marching band had the crowd swaying to the beat. Clowns were throwing sweets and Frisbees, encouraging youngsters to dive after them.
    The air smelled like popcorn and hotdogs from street vendors selling their goodies. I was enjoying the sight of the baton twirlers in their adorable red, white and blue costumes when I spotted the first of the classic cars slowly following down Main Street. It was a nineteen sixty-six Ford Mustang convertible painted canary yellow. The mayor was propped up inside the vehicle above the windshield, waving to the crowd.
    As she neared us, I saw something sailing through the air toward her. It was hard to make out, but it was white and looked a lot like a golf ball. Then splat ! An egg hit her in the ear and splattered all over her face. A second egg had already been launched and as she tried to wipe yolk off her face, splat ! Another one hit her in the head.
    The crowd gasped. The mayor ducked down in the car and covered her head with her arms. The driver couldn’t go anywhere as the parade was merely inching along. At least ten more eggs pelted the car, its driver, and Mayor O’Donnell. Splat, splat, splat. I could hear her cussing and shrieking. Everyone looked around to see where the eggs were coming from. Then I spotted him—Mr. Triggers, holding an empty carton.
    Foot patrols had been strolling along the parade route and they caught up to Mr. Triggers, who was leaving the scene. They wrestled him to the ground after he led them on a short foot chase. Mr. Triggers wasn’t very speedy at his age and weight. The police caught him quickly.
    “Holy shit,” I said after it all went down. “Oops, pardon my French.” My daughter couldn’t talk yet, but I had forgotten that there were other children in the vicinity, who might repeat my colorful language. Then I laughed my butt off.
    After the parade, I walked back to my parents’ house to find my father busy putting burgers on the grill. My mother was preparing a tomato salad.
    “You’re not going to believe what just happened!” I said to my mother. I told her the story, and she laughed too.
    I found my cousins, James and Daisy Primer,