I imagine a large eraser rubbing back and forth and seconds later I lack enough substance to stay awake. I nod off on the back of Jerry's motorcycle.

We have to get me some coffee, I said a bit later.

How was your nap, Jerry asks.

After closing the bar and getting to bed after 3 am I was back up and in town for the Labor Day Parade that swirled its flags and banged its drums along the main streets. I was up and down and across and back again with the camera. As I had described, community pride swells on Labor Day, unlike any other time or event, pushing people from their homes toward the street. Toes slipping off the curb, residents glanced uphill anticipating the first sight or sound that the procession would soon pass by their eager faces and leave in its wake a path strewn with candy, confetti, and horse droppings. Year after year the town's groups both public and private roll, march, or skip past in celebration.

Kneeling beside a float where children's heads peek down at me, decorative flags clutched in their fists, I swipe bubbles from my view and ask for their names. From behind me a man shouts: you dropped your notebook! He called out just as I felt it slip from my waist band where I wedge the flip pad. It's easy to reach and easy to stash right there at the small of my back. Got it! I swiped the fluttering thing off the pavement.

More than two-and-a-half hours later I was near the grand stand as the last tractor rolled by and a line of traffic, which marked the exact place where the regular world pushed to resume, followed a police car. Waiting there for Jerry to find me on his motorcycle, I watched as volunteers promptly cleared the potted mums, stacks of hay, and makeshift stage assembled on the back of a flatbed truck. Someone released a cluster of balloons that would rise until it burst. Bye bye balloons.

Soon I am back on the bike where I nod off.

The dogs only got a brief time in the woods today chasing tennis balls.

Ugh.