This is not a post about my lack of seeing Mel Gibson in a kilt, this is a post about a little town in New Hampshire called Freedom. It's a bit like stepping back in time. All the locals know each other, the ladies in the church all sew together, everyone says hello when you walk down the street. It's lovely. My family has a house on a lake in Freedom. My brother lives in Freedom. My uncle has a house in Freedom. I was almost born in Freedom. We go back, Freedom and my family.
Every year they have Freedom Old Home Week, and to kick it off there's a parade. Hang out with my mom long enough and she'll be happy to tell you that the ONLY parade she has ever missed is from 1980- the year I was born. I haven't lived that down.
The incredibly talented sign holder on the right is my niece.
The parade itself is a jumble of things, fife and drum bands, community bands, camps, town clubs, animals, antique cars. Any and all can enter, and everyone gets a ribbon. At the end of each parade come the fire trucks, my favorite. Since the town is so small, the parade goes down main street, turns around and comes back. A parade so nice, you have to see it twice! While they are turning around a band plays and people mill around and say hello.
My parents and my littlest nephew.
Everyone scrambles to get back into their spots to watch the excitement one more time...
OK,maybe it IS a post about kilts.
My other nephew. Handsome devil.
Shriners!
It's a lovely day in a lovely town.
Dammit, twin, knock it off. I've never seen Braveheart either.
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