The small towns of Elk Horn and Kimballton embrace their Danish roots and host Tivoli Fest on Memorial Day weekend, a celebration that includes a 5k race between the towns' iconic Danish windmill (Elk Horn) and Little Mermaid fountain (Kimballton); aebleskiver feed at the fire station; Viking reenactment, Danish dancing, and--of course--a parade.
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| Tivoli Fest 2021: My teaching colleague dancing, my 5k t-shirt, Harrison eating aebleskiver, and Dan watching the ill-fated parade. |
This was the 41st year of Tivoli Fest after last year's event was COVID canceled. I've been attending since I married my Danish Iowa farmer Dan 37 years ago. I ran the 5k for what must have been my 25th time, and I came in first among the six women in my age division by lumbering along a few paces ahead of my fellow sexagenarians.
But it's the parade I want to talk about.
Dan and I settled our lawn chairs on the hill north of the fire station to watch the antique cars, local service organizations, and family hayracks roll on by. The air was cool, but the sun was warm. I settled into the benign pleasure of a small-town parade. I clapped as the saddle club rode by, then for the Class of '56, and a float announcing a Father's Day breakfast in a neighboring community.
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Parades are a funny thing if you stop and think about it. Ninety-five percent of us line the streets to watch the other five percent puff their feathers for our entertainment. It's a fine way to spend thirty minutes.
Usually.
Yesterday an episode tainted the experience.
It began with a cluster of children dashing into the street for candy. Yes, this can be expected at a small-town parade. But we also (used to?) expect parents to corral their kids back to the safety of the curb and admonish them for darting too near tractor wheels for Tootsie Rolls.
Saturday's children within my line of sight were Artful-Dodger spunky, puppylike in their exuberance. But their parents seemed oblivious as the children inched ever closer to the floats and tussled with increasing ferver for each box of Dots.
And then:
An eager candy grabber--maybe 6 or 7 years old--en route to a knot of bubblegum, blindsided a toddler and knocked her over.
What happened next surprised me because it was unexpected and yet, in retrospect, predictable:
The mother of scooped up her toddler, then turned with Jerry-Springer rage to admonish the older child. She gestured dramatically toward his mother and shrieked that he had "knocked over my baby."
Yes, this was unpleasant. The unrestrained boy was, yes, at fault. But the cussing mother of the toddler didn't help matters.
And then:
The mother of the boy rose up with fury in her eyes. Each woman shouted in defense of her child. Yet neither seemed to consider the role-modeling she was doing for her dear ones in the moment.
I elbowed my husband to warn him I was primed to jump up and break up a fight (the teacher in me), when, thankfully, the women were drawn back to composure by their families and friends.
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This was unsettling on various levels. First, it was simply unpleasant to be accosted by such anger in the midst of a holiday parade. Second, I was dismayed at how willing people were to shreik at each other.
As I considered it later, I wondered: Were these mothers perhaps energized by the adrenaline rush? Excited by a chance to publicly display anger and threat? Invigorated by asserting their defense of their children to a crowd?
It's probably a stretch to blame politics or social media for a small, nasty parade scene. But I have seen too many videos of anger-filled tirades (Hmmm...Jan. 6? "Karens" confronting store personnel when asked to wear masks? News commentators shouting over each other without compunction?) to be surprised when incivility slimes its way into our face-to-face interactions.
I do not know who the people fighting at the parade voted for in the last election, or if they even voted. But I do know that alongside the American and Danish flags that traditionally line the Elk Horn streets, Trump flags are still flying in this deep red county. And all of us have watched the line of acceptable behavior inch closer to what we used to call despicable.
There is anger bubbling at the surface in small-town Iowa. And it seems we now have tacit permission to let it loose.
It sort of ruins a parade.
Enough.
Be well.
Write.
Allison
