Not much going on in Strawburg, Pennsylvania, down in the river valley. It's almost November which means the Tourism is starting to pick up again. The annual Revolutionary War reenactment happens every year from November first to November third, rain or shine. Every year the reenactors get together and wear their authentic period-accurate costumes, each competing to see whose is the most authentic, with the fewest modern day giveaways. No cell phones, of course. And if you need glasses, well, you better go without, unless you know a guy who can make those real old timey wire spectacles in your prescription. Some of the long time reenactors would go that route out of necessity, but not Old Man Lawrence. He refused wear his glasses while he was in uniform, said it wasn't authentic and he couldn't bring himself to do it, so he had his daughter-in-law Sarah Lawrence drive him over to where the big event was happening out past the edge of town.
Farmer Fritz donated one of his fields every year to host the big battle reenactment, it was always whichever of his four planting fields had been rotated to grow plain old switchgrass that year (it's good for the soil, Farmer Fritz explained to me once). Cars would line up, Farmer Fritz and his family would wear orange reflective vests and wave people into orderly lines of parking spots all up and down, like they were planting a crop of cars that would sprout people, and those people would then trudge the long tractor path across to the other side of the field and set up their folding chairs. Everyone would watch as the reenactors would run period-accurate military drills, and there was a fife and drum corps that played there alongside the color guard, three men holding a giant wooden flag with the bottom of the pole slung into a belt holster in the front.
Farmer Fritz would always watch the color guard do their thing. He genuinely enjoyed fife and drum music. He had no less than seven different CDs by seven different fife and drum musical acts sitting on his shelf next to his big HiFi stereo, which he listened to often. He'd watch the color guard marching around his grass field as they held those three flags, flanked by twin riflemen holding those fake solid wooden drill rifles, and when the breeze would pick up and blow the flags around, the farmer could see them in their full glory. The American flag was the tallest of course, topped by an eagle. It was a flag Farmer Fritz deeply loved, albeit in his subdued and polite Catholic Farmer way. This time of year wasn't the time for public patriotism, so he'd keep it to himself, but he did love that flag. It reminded him of when he served, and why, though he especially didn't talk about that.
The next flag he saw was the Pennsylvania flag. It was plain blue with a big, complex coat of arms slapped right in the center and he absolutely hated that damn thing. It was the least attractive flag imaginable, Farmer Fritz thought to himself. It's impossible to draw. How has anyone ever managed to manufacture a Pennsylvania state flag, he'd wonder to himself. The seal featured sheaves of wheat taken from the seal of Philadelphia, a plow from the Chester county coat of arms, a wreath of corn and olive, and two horses plus an eagle. It's too busy, he thought, too ostentacious. He hated that flag.
Then there was the smallest flag, the flag of the town of Strawburg. It was just a simple green background with the monochrome shape of a Mountain-Laurel flower on it, the state flower of PA. He loved that flag. It was simple, he thought, classy. Minimalist, almost. He was glad that it had beaten the other proposed design which was just a hideous abomination, he thought. It had been when he was in Freshman year at Strawburg Catholic, he remembered that the town council decided that Strawburg needed a flag and it held a contest. The council picked two possibilities, and they decided on the simpler one. The other had been a large green X shape over a yellow field with the white sillhouette of a deer on it, an 8-point buck, a beautiful deer to bag, granted, but not a very good design for a flag with an already very ugly combination of colors. Farmer Fritz had very strong opinions on vexillology for some reason he wasn't entirely clear on.
So, the tourists flock to Strawburg, as though suddenly remembering that it exists again. Sometimes they'd spell it "Strawberg," with an E, which annoyed the locals to no end. This time of year there is also a motorcycle festival, outside of town in the opposite direction, at the Harley-Davidson dealership. There are always great legions of bikers with their loud, American-style pipes chopping along the streets, giving Strawburg both the most noise pollution it has ever had, and the most locked doors it has ever experienced. Normally people in Strawburg don't really lock their doors. "Who the hell out here would rob me? I know everyone," most people think. "If they come out this far," most folks think, "they've earned it." But not when the bikers are in town. Most of them are really just motorcycle hobbyists from elsewhere in the state, or some from Ohio, God help 'em, but the folks in Strawburg don't like it. The sound reminds them of Hollywood movie images of biker gangs, riding into small towns, disturbing the peace, breaking the hearts of a few girls and then leaving town before the Sherriff could snag them for being a general nuissance. So they locked their doors when the bikers came into town.
The motorcycle festival would run a great parade, a sort of procession from the Harley dealer down the entire length of High street, and they'd use a loophole in Pennsylvania law to ignore every single red light and stop sign and yield sign in the entire town, making sure to make their engines as loud as possible. Some locals would close their shutters and blinds, but some would sit on the front stoop for hours in advance, waiting for the ruffians to come rumbling through so they could gawk at the shiny bikes and wonder what the elaborate embroidery on the back of some of their leather vests actually meant. The whole affair lasted about 20 minutes, tops, but it was always the most excitement that Strawburg experienced for quite a long time, at least until next year.
~[MD]