Spring in Jordan’s Bend is filled with new awakenings. Flowers bloom and the shade from pin oak trees set the perfect stage for watching a parade. Sidewalks along the businesses lining the parade route on the square downtown are filled with parents and their children. It was a scene straight from any other all-American small town in the 1970s.

Among the crowd are dignitaries, such as Mayor Clifford “Cliff” Anderson and his wife, Claire. The unlikely pair have served as the mayor and first-lady of Jordan’s Bend for nearly eight years. As the end of his second term approaches, Cliff is yet to declare for re-election.

“Remember what I told you, Cliff. Stick to your notes, stand up straight and speak loudly enough so that people can hear you no matter where they are downtown.”, said Claire. “After all, the voters need to remember your name and what you have done for this town.”

“Oh, Claire. Everyone in town knows me.”, Cliff responded. “You know I don’t like tooting my own horn.”

“Be that as it may. Stick to the script.” Claire spent the next few moments pushing out wrinkles in Cliff’s suit that only she could see. Next, her gaze fixed upon the curly tufts of salt-and-pepper locks ringing the bald crown of her husband’s head. Although she was of average height, Cliff’s stature never rose to the levels she anticipated; height-wise, strength-wise or otherwise. But she didn’t put in twenty-five years of wifely duties to start over now. She had to accept that the roly poly man-child in front of her wouldn’t turn out to be governor or senator material. It just wasn’t in the Play-Dough. At least he was rich.

Claire, on the other hand, came from more modest means. Her mother died in childbirth. She was raised in foster homes, too many to count, before she packed her bags and moved her slender frame topped with shoulder-length brown hair from the east coast half-way across the United States to Jordan’s Bend. Her purpose? To get as far away from her past as possible, or at least as far as bus fare could take her.

Sheriff Darrell Sparks approached. “Mayor, it’s time. Do you want me to fire my pistol to get the party started?”

Darrell “Sparky” Sparks was a first term sheriff who, despite being the great-grandson of the first lawman of Jordan’s Bend, was not at the front of the line when swagger was being handed out. But despite this flaw in his demeanor, his sense of the law and protecting the town was strong.

“That won’t be necessary, Sheriff.”, mayor said. “I’ll use the microphone instead.”

Mayor Anderson walked off the sidewalk in front of Wagner’s General Store toward the event platform near the base of the statue commemorating the founding of Jordan’s Bend. The city square was unlike most others. The square was actually a circle with some of the original businesses still in place, passed on from generation to generation. The large, open area within the circle was the perfect place for speeches, craft fairs crowds of all kinds to gather.

Mayor Anderson climbed the steps of the platform and tapped on the microphone. It was his routine. He liked the squeal it made. Much better than a gun shot.

“Friends and neighbors, welcome to the centennial celebration of the founding of our fair city.”, Mayor Anderson said as he thrusts his arms into the air above his head.

On the sidewalk, Claire’s lips moved slightly with every word her husband said, as if she were a ventriloquist.

Mayor Anderson spoke of Samuel Jordan, the first man to settle in the area. How Samuel named the area because of the bend along the Pine River where he settled and raised a family. Because of Samuel Jordan, residents now have a thriving town where prosperity was high and crime was low.

“Today, we salute Samuel Jordan with a statue created in his likeness. Ladies and gentleman, I give you – Samuel Jordan!” And with assistance from Sheriff Sparks, Mayor Anderson pulled down the large brown cloth to reveal a statue of fifteen feet, from ground through base to the very top of Samuel’s head. There he was. Dungarees. Shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. One foot on a stump. The other planted firmly on the ground. A double bit axe in his right hand. His left hand wiping his brow as his face tilted slightly to the sky.

The crowd of two hundred erupted in applause. The high school band launched into “Hail to the Chief”.

After an appropriate time and before the applause ended, the mayor said, “Let the parade begin!”

Claire’s eyes were fixed upon her husband’s as he walked toward her, a pensive smile on his lips.

“Well, how did I do?”, he asked. “Excellent.”, she said. “Every word. Every nuance. Just as I wrote it and exactly how we practiced.”

Mayor Anderson’s smile grew wide. They turned and walked down the street.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t have talked about that old cabin on the hill, the things that happened there and what came next? Wouldn’t that have fit with talking about the history of the town?”

Claire stopped abruptly. The mayor turned back toward her when he noticed she wasn’t at his side.

“We decided never to reveal that information.”, she said as she lowered her eyes with a piercing gaze. “There is no benefit to everyone knowing what lies beneath.”

“Ok, ok!”, he cowered and turned his head. “Look! Ice cream!”

His gait sped up, leaving Claire behind. She stood there, rolling her eyes, whispering under her breath the mantra, “At least he has money.”

(To be continued.)