I'd forgotten that, like so many things, small-town Fourth of July parades make me weepy.

As the house-on-fire float passed me, I said, "That's great!" the way a drunk might declare, "I love you, man!" Surely the Cub Scouts wondered about me, too.

Magnificent floats. And trucks and flags and horses. Candy. Tossed, along with nuts and Cheetos and who knows what else, by parade participants. I stood across the street from my house, so the candy wouldn't land on my lawn and attract vermin.

Neighbors held a yard sale of their late father's handmade furniture, crafts and knick-knacks. I bought a chest of drawers as the rain....oh, the rain; how it did rain. Some fella came over and I shared my umbrella while we chatted. Fun. Pleasant. Not flirtatious. (At least, I didn't think so.)

The seller and his brother made a plastic tarp for transport, while I ran back to my house, promising a quick return. "I had some laundry on the bed," I explained when I came back, "And worried that my unmentionables* might be showing." They cracked up, one clapping his hands in delight. I added, "They weren't, but you never know."

They carried the drawers into the house and upstairs, thanked me for my small kindness to their father. Little enough, I assure you.

It was damned awkward to return, but I'd begun to think about a quilt to hang on the wall, or a short chair for typing. The quilts costs six times more than the handmade bureau, though. (Funny; In school, I'd learned that "women's work" always gets coopted by men, sooner or later.)

In between, I wandered to the town green, where musicians played folk and blues. It continued to pour. The music of Newport with the weather of Woodstock, I thought, disappointed that I had no one to say it to.

A townsperson said hello and told me she was heading for her car. I regretted for the rest of the day that I didn't think to walk her there with my umbrella. Hoping to make up for it, I offered to help a woman struggling with bags and a car door. She declined. Did she think I was up to no good?

I noticed some commotion at the front of the green and walked over to investigate. The local lodge, it turned out, was holding an open house. Thirties music filled the space. I wanted to dance. The Charleston**--(though I don't know how to do it).

I have no natural curiosity. So I can't say I ever thought twice about the town hall. Apparently, it was glorious in its heyday and is being restored. Curved balcony, historical artifacts, Masonic trappings, deocrative friezes. I bought a CD to help with the effort, and hoped it was the same music being played. (I'm not sure it was. Sounded better in the hall than in the car.)

The historical society was open, too, and I paid it a visit. Then, the neighbor's yard sale and home. A beautiful day. But I have to admit, lonely.

*At my first apartment, I had a dear neighbor who called underwear "unmentionables."

**Once, my grandfather, who had Parkinson's at the time, got out of his chair with effort, then executed a perfect Charleston for my benefit.