Mid‑winter skullduggery at the Park City Cemetery’s Wreaths Across America ceremony has become a new venue for austere spectacle, where the sky is as gray as the mourning march. Karri Taix and her son Parker Taix—steadfast local organizers—have slated the 10 a.m. event to make the funeral homages a polite pageantry in red‑coded step‑and‑repeat, with a glow of gilt on the flag pole. The crowd is a litany of veteran families, Boy Scouts of America color guard, and a few press invites who believe in the solemnity of stars and stripes. Few cocktail lingo, but a veneer of polished armor; the organizers insist on black gloves for the kisses. It feels less like a gathering of comrades than a charity chest‑beat contest. The plane of entrance is reliable, but the atmosphere is padded with thought exercises—not so much solidarity, but a farce of ceremony. Nevertheless, the ticket policy—no resale allowed—keeps the protest thresholds low, echoing the exclusivity of a Kimball Art Center auction. The logistical shuffle ensures that the procession is as orderly as a municipal parking lot. Verdict: Send a check but stay home.