The Apple Blossom Queen, Or Not.

The first time I heard of the Apple Blossom Parade was through the story of my husband’s grandmother, who was once the Apple Blossom Queen. I may have laughed out loud when the story was told, assuming another joke at Gram’s expense.

You’ll forgive my outburst if you too had met Gram when I did. Her six-foot tall frame was not the slinky build of a fashion model but rather the solid girth of a farm hand. Her thinning hair was dyed a most unnatural shade of orange and her lips were often painted to match. Beauty Queen was the not the first image that came to mind.

Some time after she passed away, I came across a picture of Gram in a canoe somewhere in Asia. She looked huge sitting between two young Asian boatmen. She wore the biggest sun hat I had ever seen and great round, white -rimmed, Jackie Onassis sunglasses. And she was glorious. She sat in that boat like she was Queen of the Nile, like the world catered to her every whim.

Looking at that photograph, I could finally see her winning the title of Apple Blossom Queen, or Miss America, for that matter. She had presence. While still not beautiful in the traditional sense, you could see that she was beautiful in the way it mattered. She felt beautiful; she was confident and powerful.

In that photo, Gram was someone you wanted to be around, someone you wanted to spend time with. The folks at the Apple Blossom Parade could clearly see through her physical girth and straight to her soul. I was impressed with their insight.

Two years ago, my youngest daughter joined the Roudy Twirlers and marched in the Apple Blossom Parade, and this year my oldest marched with the middle/high school band. In a casual conversation with Great-Aunt Marjory, we were making the connection between the girls and their great-grandmother.

“Barbara was never Apple Blossom Queen,” she said before launching into memories of past parades and festivals. Illusion shattered; my “in” to Westford history nothing but a tall tale.

So, I guess my daughters are not carrying on a family tradition. Or are they? After a night of jitters and fortified by her grandmother’s “courage necklace” Anya twirled that baton like she’d been doing it for years.

And despite only two weeks of practicing the fine art of blowing music out of a flute while walking, Thea marched in sync with her head high. They showed beginning glimmers of that power, that presence of the grandmother they never met.

So, last weekend when I watched those beauty queens ride by sitting on the back seat of their convertibles, I thought of Gram. The story is part of my Westford memories. She will always be the Apple Blossom Queen.