Attending my first parade in years on the Fourth of July provided a refresher on why I avoid parades.

But later, after more thought, came the realization that the dislike is beside the point, because as repetitively loony as they may be, these Independence Day processions are bedrock Americana.

They’re Norman Rockwell paintings set in motion, with the sums greater than the parts. Small-town parades remain adamantly unchanged, which is both their virtue and their vice.

So you sit there, under a sapping sun, and suck it up for two hours. You take one for the team, as it were, and come out surprisingly uplifted in the end.

It’s a life lesson my son became privy to when he was 11.

The family was on vacation, getting ready to go to the local town’s Fourth of July parade, when the kid started talking trash about the American summer rite:

“Why do we have to go? It’s just a bunch of people who think they’re important waving at everyone from convertibles.”

I was about to go into a spiel about tradition, patriotism, and all his cousins being there, but I stopped myself. He had a point.

At this particular parade we hunkered down on a curb, like famished refugees waiting for the rice trucks, and saw this:

n Queens of every hue and persuasion, smiling and performing that robotic queen wave, where only the hand moves while the wrist and arm remain still.

Personal favorite: “Miss St. Louis County Drainage and Tiling.”

n Politicians. They are to parades what mosquito larvae are to standing water, the big difference being you can spray for mosquitoes.

n Classic cars. Each small town has the same ordinance: In the event of a parade, each ‘57 Chevy owner within 100 miles must drive said vehicle in parade, or be fined $500.

n Fire trucks. Here comes one. Here comes another one. And another. And...another...

n A cement truck. OK, it was a nice truck. Very clean truck. But a cement truck?