Like hundreds of small towns around the West, Paonia will celebrate the Fourth of July with a parade down the main drag (Grand Avenue, in our case) and festivities in the park. It’s the annual Cherry Days event, some 62 years old, awash in tradition and punctuated by occasional sparks of innovation. There will be the inevitable Clown Band in their ancient red and yellow costumes, the Shriners in their miniature cars, the handsome horses, the cherubic children stained with cherry juice and sticky with cotton candy, the Cherry Day Queen waving from a float, the cherry cook-off, the barbecues, the carnival rides. The “new” events this year include a cake walk and a bed race, and a bunch of us from High Country News are participating in the Ladies’ Precision Irrigation Shovel Brigade, complete with accordion accompaniment.
I’ve attended Cherry Days off and on since 1953, when my father brought me, a six-year-old with a pony tail in a dress of cherry-print fabric. As a budding politician, my father was campaigning in the Democratic stronghold of the county and took me along, while my mother remained in the Delta hospital with my new baby sister. At one house we drank thick fruit juice — made from home-canned peaches, apricots and plums — and at a potluck luncheon we ate batter-fried chicken and thick slices of chocolate cake. I remember that year especially well because it was so unusual to be alone with my father, and I was treated like a star wherever we went, everyone congratulating us on the birth of my sister.
In 1971 I was pregnant with my first daughter, and my sister and I attended Cherry Days together. The hippies had recently invaded the town, planting their organic gardens and converting the fruit orchards, starting new schools for their bright-eyed ragamuffin children. They dressed in torn jeans and and tie-dyed skirts, the men daring to wear their hair long, the women going bra-less. Like everyone else, they were out in force on the Fourth, standing along the parade route between grizzled ranchers and close-lipped farm wives. My sister and I were standing by a couple of older ladies who were shocked and disgusted by the newcomers. Their tongues were wag-wag-wagging with vitriol and I was pretty shocked myself by the depth of their anger. At one point I burst into tears, perhaps a combination of the hormones of pregnancy and the impact of the women’s hatred. My sentimental sister — reduced to tears herself merely by watching the Clown Band — tried to comfort me.
This year the “newcomers”– the old hippies and their now-adult kids, the thirty-somethings who’ve more recently come to town seeking a rural life — are running the parade. They control of the Chamber of Commerce. They’re continuing the traditions, but trying to breathe new life into the old forms. And this year, I’m curious to see who’s sporting the patriotic paraphernalia. Some of us didn’t wave an American flag during the Bush years because it felt like supporting policies we despised — but now perhaps we’ll be donning the red, white and blue. At any rate, I’ll be playing Sousa’s Stars and Stripes Forever on the accordion — a first for me.
So the celebration continues. Whether it’s about patriotism and the founding of our country, or about a sense of community, we gather every year. I’m hoping the Ladies’ Precision Irrigation Shovel Brigade draws laughs and appreciation from everyone — oldtimers and newcomers alike — along the route.
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