Despite a mild drenching, smiles abound at Freedom Fest

The sky was consistently gray through the morning. The rain hung in the air, a mist that never quite became a downpour until after noon. By then, most of the marchers had dispersed and the last of the crowd was picking up their lawn chairs to leave.

Vendors wandered, their wares safe in plastic bags as some sang out "Cotton candy, just $1." But they found few takers; uncovered, the sugary sweet seemed likelier to melt from the rain than in one's mouth.

Scattered drops had been misting since early morning, while parade organizers on four-wheelers zoomed up and down the city streets, directing marchers to their line-ups in a flurry of activity.

A low hum of conversation came from a crowd that lined the streets gradually, taking their time to sit down curbside under cloudy skies. One woman's voice rose above the murmur, wishing: "Rain, rain, go away ..."

Just before 10 a.m., a radio crackled in one of the waiting classic cars -- news of recession, unemployment and war, followed by "American Pie," with Don McLean singing "bad news on the doorstep, I couldn't take one more step ..."

But before the song could go further, it was drowned out by happier noises -- the sound of many thousands of steps about to be taken: the cacophony of sirens, the stray roll of a high school band's drummers eager to march down the street, and the report of guns -- blanks fired in a salute by proud veterans flying the flag. The parade was officially under way.

Standing on the Freedom Festival Float, Queen Allison Young and her court waved under umbrellas, their bright smiles almost eclipsing the giant yellow smiley-face decorating the float that stood out in sharp relief to the rainy day. John Mellencamp's "Small Town" boomed through the speakers as around a dozen air-inflated multicolored streamers waved to the crowd.

Within moments, the rain and bad news were forgotten.

"It's great," Young said. "A little wet, but great."

From the curbsides, the crowd watched, many under their own tents, tarps and umbrellas.

"I'm a die-hard," said Linton's Jean Ann Kirk, watching as she and her daughter Valory, 18, sat under red white and blue covering.

"I'm 48, and I've only missed one parade because we were out of town. I've been here when it was 100 degrees, and I've been here when it was 70. One thing: I've never seen it storm."

Nearby, Nadine Roush, the secretary for Linton-Stockton's Chamber of Commerce, listened close to her walkie-talkie for the same reason: Lightning, not just rain, was the one thing that could scuttle the day.

"The only time we'd call it off is if there's lightning," she said. "But things are going as they should."

Andrea Perkins found the best seat in the house to beat the rain -- temporarily, at least. She parked her chair underneath the trailer for the Greene County Soccer League, watching the wheels cautiously.

"My husband would probably like to run me over," she said, laughing.

Up on the trailer, Aubrey Davenport, 9, still probably would have traded Perkins seats: Her own was a bit damp.

"My butt's wet!" she shouted, jumping up from where she'd sat.

The dampness posed other problems. On the Greene County Salvation Army's float, rows of brightly colored neon smiley faces stuck atop posts were feeling down as their grins, courtesy Magic Markers, bled and ran. Underneath them sat a few dozen damp stuffed animals.

"The rain is making them cry," Cindy Chudy said with a smile. "We figured everybody loved smiley faces, stuffed animals and clowns, so that'd make them smile."

Chudy's daughter Ashley Young, 19, provided the clown, her multicolored pigtails sticking out at odd angles from her temples. But she fretted that her costume was better suited for Halloween than Independence Day.

"I don't want to come across like some scary, killer clown like in that movie 'It' or something," she said, laughing.

Walking down Main Street in a gaggle of ghouls, goblins and gypsies, members of the Harrodsburg Haunted House had no such qualms. For them, trick-or-treat came early as they publicized the popular spookshow's 30th year.

"Brains!" shouted one zombie, Roger Alexander, his face messily made-up with gaping wounds and gashes as he loomed large over a crew of children, aiming jokingly to scare the kids into listening to their parents.

"We've gotten everything from absolute terror to laughter to people wanting to join us," he said. "We've had 6-year-olds comment that we're not scary, and we have had grown adults drop to their knees in terror and almost (pee) their pants."

Some marching Saturday had, however, seen scarier things and lived to tell the tale. For them, a few raindrops were nothing.

Maria Jeffers, a volunteer with the Greene County chapter of the American Cancer Society, knelt atop her organization's float, covering the white bags that typically contain candles to honor survivors with purple bunting, keeping the rain away.

"It's our first year to be in the parade," fellow organizer Brenda Everett said. "Hopefully we will be in it every year."

Nearby, about 20 camouflage-clad veterans of the Avengers, Indiana National Guard's Alpha Company, Task Force 1-151, stood near the high school for photographs, smiling proudly.

Last summer, they were still fighting in Iraq. Now, welcomed home safe, and walking a route bedecked in patriotic bunting, the soldiers were met with a steady stream of respectful applause from a grateful crowd. The veterans walked in loose formation, friends and brothers in arms now glad to be back.

"You see all this red, white and blue, and you see all these flags flying, and then you really know what the Fourth of July means, and why we wear these uniforms," said Staff Sgt. J.D. Wilson. "It's great to have them home ... we're very honored, and very proud."

As the parade neared its end, State Rep. Bruce Borders sang Elvis songs to the crowd, his white jumpsuit decked out with rhinestones and turquoise. Cradling his microphone, he reached into his car and retrieved a Winnie the Pooh, handing the bear to little Adriana Jackson, 3.

Adriana, almost smaller than the stuffed animal, clung tightly to the bear for a moment before her grandmother Katie Hensley retrieved Pooh, taking him under her umbrella to keep him dry.

Her granddaughter frowned for a second, then turned back excitedly, waiting for more candy to be tossed.

"That all?" she said laughing, moments later, as the parade wound down. "Where's more? Where's more?"