Every summer my family and I went to watch the hometown parade: Shriners circling on mini motorcycles, marching bands, horses with braided tails, always a cartwheel or two from local cheerleaders, the neighbor in a clown costume they only wore once a year. But, inevitably, the parade ALWAYS began with the cavalcade of emergency vehicles.
Every firetruck, ambulance, and even a few County Sheriff rovers would make their way down the street, wailing their sirens and honking their horns. Come to think of it, it's rather advantageous no one ever had an emergency occur during parade hours. ‘Twould be an awful pity to know your house burned down because the firetruck was double parked between the sequined swan, the foam cowboy, and the Man-of-the-Year convertible. Chalk up the charms of simple suburbia!
Anyway, I always found this great civic fun and not the least bit problematic until I heard a chorus of sirens outside my window and got EXCITED. "The parade's about to start!!! I've got to get down there and secure a front row seat!!" That was my first thought. Not "oh, no! Someone's in serious trouble!! Make sure the pathway is clear!!" The sound was stirring and enticing! Not repellent, like it should be!
I have been conditioned since childhood to associate the sound of multiple sirens with cheering and festive parading rather than with their intended use: EMERGENCY NOTIFICATION.
"Come closer, little one," the sirens sing to me, "and taste of my salt-water taffy." For years they've lured me in--inching ever closer to their tear-proof tires--when they should have been teaching me to steer clear. Thank heavens I wasn't driving in front of them; I probably would have rolled down my window and waved rather than pulling off to the side and letting them pass.
Perhaps it's spite at having been mislead, but I just imagined how ironic it would be for a firetruck to catch on fire.
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