Fanny, where have you gone? Some folks say you’re winning poker tournaments in Vegas; others swear you’re riding across America on a Harley with your twenty-something bimboy on the back. But there was a time – golden days, really – when no Kingston Fourth of July parade was complete without you perched atop the cab of a Kingston Lumber truck, martini glass in hand, waving a feather boa at your adoring public. Kingston Lumber may still run “Fanny’s Fleet,” but Fanny has fled.
I saw a Kingston Lumber truck go by yesterday, and it answered my question: Are they still labeled “Fanny’s Fleet”? Well, yes they are.
The old-timers remember Fanny. For years we cheered on an ever-changing panoply of Fannys, even hairy, balloon-bosomed specimens more Manny than Fanny. Aside from an overload of eye-makeup, the one constant we could rely on was a lighthearted disregard for political correctness. Come home, Fanny.
Our irrepressible and fondly remembered Fanny is just one example of why, for 119 years, Kingston has been the place to celebrate Independence Day. Sure, Seattle has fireworks choreographed to music, and that other Washington flaunts a fife-and-drum corps dressed like Minutemen and giant, inflated Uncle Sams, but small towns are where the Fourth of July really happens. Where else will you find the hawg heaven of a motorbike battalion that sets off every car alarm in town? In what metropolis are all the big trucks invited to drive down Main Street and throw candy to already hyperactive and screaming children (and adults, let’s be honest)? Life is sweeter in a town where you know at least one person in every parade unit; literally sweeter, since shouting out a candy-thrower’s name is a great way to bring the Tootsie Rolls sailing your way.
I remember when it was Kingston’s volunteer firefighters who lighted the aerial displays. I remember when it was common to see a shopper loading up on Sputnik Sparklers and Nuclear Salutes at the firework stand while puffing on a cigarette. I remember when household furnishings like beds and bathtubs were pressed into service as race vehicles.
Yes, I’ve done my time dodging bottle rockets at the slough. I’ve dined on countless community breakfasts and barbecues and ended my Independence Day patriotically stained in red (ketchup), white (coleslaw dressing) and blue (blueberry sauce). My first parade participation was atop my parents Kingston Home Heating fuel-oil truck, along with five other Campfire Girls, all of us in hats of Peter Max-style stars and stripes (which shows just how desperate for “floats” Kingston was 40 years ago). My second and last in-parade experience was a year or two thereafter when, dressed as an Indian princess, I lead my braided and beaded pony through town on a cool and cloudy Fourth. All fine and well for me and the pony, but not so much for my shivering, loin-cloth-clad little brother whom I’d cajoled into riding said pony, and who wishes to remain anonymous (no problem, Bill).
Well, it’s a new millennium and things have changed, but not too much, I’m happy to say. My boys occasionally march in the parade, though they seem to prefer to sit with our contingent of family and friends and scream for candy. It’s a shame they’ll never know Fanny, that erstwhile queen of Kingston and matron saint of small town celebrations everywhere. Alas, Fanny, we knew thee – but only briefly and not all that well. We never had the chance to kiss our Fanny good-bye.
Wendy will be spending the Kingston Fourth of July parade wrestling her boys in the street for candy. Read her past columns and other work at www.wendytweten.com.
