Heavy is the head that wears the crown -- even if it's plastic. Although the real royal pain involves the likes of giant hockey pucks and baseball bats.
Now you would not expect to find a prince's father lying under a hay wagon, sweating and swearing at a screwdriver. Alas, such is the royal treatment for parents of soon-to-be crowned National Cherry Festival princes and princesses. A noble parental cause with one particular pitfall -- the school float.
Cherry Festival tradition dictates that first-grade is the coronation year. I guess if you can tie shoes, you're ready for the dexterous royal wave.
While other monarchies require bloody rebellion or Henry VIII wife swapping, this royal title requires a slip of paper -- and a hat. Names drawn out of a hat could have shaved a century off the Hundred Years War, although first-graders would never take up crossbows or catapults -- unless the cafeteria ran out of chocolate milk.
As for the House of Leiva, we bear no Cherry Fest royal lineage. Our daughter's name remained in the hat. Unlike an Iranian election, no one took to the streets or Twittered in protest.
Instead, we graciously accepted the fickle hand of fate. I, for one, expressed poised acceptance by skipping down the hallway. After all, unlike real royal figureheads, the Cherry Festival title comes with responsibility -- as in 2x4 and crepe paper construction.
The Cherry Festival pint size royals' primary duties are to wave and smile during the parades -- perhaps at the same time. The crown wearing is a given job requirement. However, the buildup to this moment requires a degree in mechanical engineering or a PhD in float building. Or in our case, a pseudo king with a real builder's license.
However, our elementary school prince's fiefdom is literally down the street. His 46-inch-tall highness rides the bus with my daughter. Being a loyal subject -- and next door neighbor -- I'm morally obligated to bring down my skill saw and family.
Now most made-for-TV floats, such as the Pasadena Rose Parade, are designed and constructed by professional builders. Inside their polyvinyl plastic skin, these floats feature welded steel rods, hydraulic cylinders and computer-controlled animation valves. These elaborate floats can run upwards of $200,000 and take a year to complete.
We have green indoor/outdoor mini-golf carpet. Oh, and a giant wooden hockey puck. And we blew our budget on spray paint and pizza.
So no blueprints, no CAD or wind tunnel drag coefficient tests. Just measure twice and cut thrice float building. Although we might strike out on the papier-mâché baseball bat. After all, building a nine-foot Louisville Slugger could prove a less than regal pain.
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