🎺🏛️🌬️🪶📋
We had been briefed a week before Windswept’s annual, must-have parade. Principals had briefed us teachers; there was a mass issuance of consent forms.
It was a parade to die for. A chance for the town’s mayor to –
Represent himself.
The bald-headed gentleman usually did so with aplomb,
The day arrived with due fanfare. Headcounts were meticulous – it was necessary that everyone be present. Windswept needed to show the other towns that it could hold its own.
With that in mind, there were rehearsed reminders for its people. Needless to say, seating had been carefully assigned pre-parade. Everything and everyone had proper placements.
We dutifully instructed students not to embarrass the school with unofficial chatter.
🎉📣🌬️🪺📑
The aisles stirred with trepidation. Windswept’s flags were at full mast; they were waving synchronously, almost in a march. The town’s lone stadium was filled to capacity; no one dared to miss the town’s event of the year.
Then, the raised whispers of children. Ripples of laughter that spectators made little effort to suppress.
I looked up to see –
The wind hovered over the stadium, coming in from Windswept’s east quarter. It rid the stadium of excess heat. It took beautifully misshapen white clouds across a panoramic blue sky. The responsible breeze did its job well.
One element, however, remained unaffected. It appeared professionally secure; his head moved little, holding it in its rightful place. The wind respected its malleability.
Just as it did the flags.
The birds respected its size.
🏫🎖️🌬️📋🪶
But-
A student almost pointed. The rest of my charges were getting amicably restless.
Some observations were best left unvoiced and unrecorded.
Also, we had a tight schedule to keep and could not afford disruptions.
I took preemptive action. The moment was far from appropriate. Our responsibility as teachers was not to evaluate; the paperwork would take care of that.
🏫🎖️🌬️📋🪶
There were other concerns. It was late; our charges were famished. I proceeded obediently to the organizer’s outpost to collect our promised rations. The commemorative parcels that were the hallmark of each year’s parade.A sign of the town’s tangible gratitude. Their absence would diminish attendance.
But they were insufficient. An issue of demand exceeding supply.
Distribution, therefore, was selective. Saved for the best. So the parcels were calculated, with teacherly optimism.
Some students were deemed eligible; they received them.
Others did not.
The organisers were also short of a communication device; they borrowed my megaphone.
“Everyone, other than the rations we do provide, the stalls at the back of the stadium are open.”
The grumbles from the ground were faint, but obvious.
It was an organizational oversight. We would see to it, I was sure. Ever the trained professional, I patronised the stalls, and lulled waiting stomachs.
We moved along quietly, and the music resumed.
🌬️🪶📋
The bus ride back to the school was uneventful, though abuzz with childish chatter.
“I never realized that about him.”
“He gleamed.”
‘Yes, it was the hallmark of the ceremony.”
They had thankfully forgotten about the ration lack. We could forget about documenting that.
I had not forgotten. There was a lot to record.
Monday did arrive, regardless. A meeting was scheduled for the day.
A day when we would laud the mayor for his impeccable performance, speech and achievements.
There was also a lot to praise the organisers for – the outstanding food that managed to satisfy a group of otherwise exhausted and attention-lacking students.
It met our school’s exceptional standards for nutritional adequacy. The menu’s items were carefully curated to satisfy every hungry stomach. And they met caloric expectations.
And so the meeting proceeded as usual, with all the necessary documentation.
Without the hair.
🌬️🪶📋
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The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 