Photo: Emily Carriveau
Growing up in Delano, I looked forward all year to the town’s Fourth of July celebration. You could feel the excitement building as June came to an end. By July 1, anticipation turned into something you could see and hear. Carnival rides rolled into town on oversized trailers, parked in neat rows at Central Park, waiting to be assembled.
My parents would drive me by the park almost daily, so I could catch a glimpse of which rides had arrived. Blankets would appear along the parade route days in advance, duct taped to sidewalks as families “claimed” their spots. In the days before social media, plans were made over landline phones—moms coordinating schedules, kids mapping out wristband night strategies and everyone counting down to the town’s biggest celebration.
My mom carefully planned my kiddie parade outfits—Annie Oakley or Elton John, complete with a cardboard piano my dad built by hand. Other years, we teamed up with friends to create group costumes from The Wizard of Oz or The Apple Dumpling Gang.
Wristband night was practically a town-wide holiday. Kids ran from ride to ride, including the Tilt-A-Whirl with its familiar rattle, visited rows of carnival games that felt slightly impossible to win and took in the aroma of corn dogs and cheese curds.
And then came the parade. As a child, I arrived ready to collect candy tossed from floats and polished vintage cars rolling down Main Street. As I got older, I traded my spot on the curb for a place in the parade—first dancing with the Delano Tigerettes and, eventually, as a Delano Princess.
What makes the Fourth of July so meaningful to me is that the magic doesn’t live in old photo albums; it continues. Years later, I brought my children to that same curb. I sat beside them as we waited for candy to be tossed our way. Then, in what feels like the blink of an eye, I watched them step into the very parade I once danced through. Even the carnival feels frozen in time. The Tilt-A-Whirl still hums with the same unsteady rhythm. The cheeseburgers taste exactly the same. The cotton candy is just as sweet.
Delano’s celebration shaped so much of my childhood, and I feel incredibly lucky to watch my children experience that same small-town magic. Some traditions aren’t just celebrated; they’re carried forward. And in a small town, that’s what makes them timeless.
Find Emily Carriveau on Instagram and Facebook at @smalltownme or on TikTok at @emilycarriveau.
