celebrating my hometown

I just got back from a trip. I arrived back in my hometown in the middle of a parade. Or the biggest audience in the world for a traffic jam. Yes, that’s probably the most traffic our downtown sees all year, total. Note, also, the lack of buildings on several blocks. This is what we’re dealing with.

But we have small-town pride! Some storefronts on the main drag have put up displays showing off the town’s past, as well some advertisement for our exciting town festival:















And here we have another lovely example, right on the parade route. There’s nothing like grabbing some business during the town’s big event.
Another parade highlight: Marching Q-tips.

After the fire trucks made their way back to their garages, the bands stowed their instruments and uniforms, and the crowds dissipated, I headed “uptown” to the festival. Houtzdale Days, as it is called, involves cramming several canopies and concession stands onto one street corner around the firehouse. Nothing better burn down for these three days or we are in BIG trouble. Local businesses, churches, and organizations run most of the stands in an attempt to raise funds and support for their various causes. My sister’s 4-H club had a stand this year, with much of the organization being done by my parents and cousins. I suppose for my family it was 4-H or soccer this year, and since the latter had occupied their time for the past I-don’t-know-how-many years, 4-H won.

As small as the deal is, everyone comes out of the woodwork for it. Driving through town becomes a game of round-abouts for three days, and don’t even think about parking anywhere within reasonable walking distance.
The poor residents of that block probably can’t even leave their homes for fear of having to park in the next town over. But sometimes people just need to squeeze in where they can. And other people need to keep them accountable.

I took some time to wander around the street party a few times, seeking food, entertainment, and people I’d recognize. I managed to cobble together a filling dinner of pirogi and halupki for $3, avoid spending any money on plastic ducks floating in a wading pool, and identify a handful of people who didn’t recognize me at first, if at all. It was an oddly enjoyable feeling to roam semi-anonymously among my old townsfolk. I didn’t feel like a visiting outsider, but I didn’t feel like a native, either.

The last thing I checked out before heading home was the BINGO game in the fire hall garage. What would Houtzdale be without Catholic gambling?