Grandpa Rode at the Front

For America's two hundred and fiftieth birthday on the Fourth of July, our small town in Iowa held the biggest parade in its history. And my grandfather, who's ninety-four and the oldest veteran in the county, was chosen as grand marshal.

He was nervous. He hasn't liked a fuss since he came home from Korea. But my grandmother told him he was going, and that was that.

He rode at the front of the parade in a red convertible from 1959, wearing his old Army cap and waving at the crowd. Behind him came the high school marching band, a dozen tractors, the 4-H club with their goats, the Shriners in their tiny cars and a float that the library made, shaped like a giant birthday cake.

People lined both sides of Main Street, four and five deep. When his car passed, they stood and clapped. Kids waved little flags. An old friend of his saluted from his wheelchair, and my grandfather saluted back.

That night, sitting on the porch watching the fireworks, he said, "I didn't expect that." He held my grandmother's hand for the rest of the evening.