Parades … did they mess me up?

Hey people, it’s been a while. Excuses are only that, so I’ll go no further as to why my delays in writing.  Onward.

Here we are, in the down-side of the wilting, summer days and I have a confession for you all: I can’t stand parades.

Parades are a summer staple in our state and, I’m assuming, in most others but the fact remains, I have no love for these processions of organized people walking down the middle of our main streets. Many of the participants are regaling in fine, outlandish costumes only to be followed by marching bands, floats or even sometimes enormous balloons. What’s the deal? Why the party?

In Britain, the term parade is usually reserved for either military parades or other occasions where participants march in formations; for celebratory occasions the word ‘procession’ is more the norm.

You have bands, you have multi-generational participants all dressed in almost anything and then you have … floats. What are these?

For your knowledge, the term ‘float’ came from their predecessors which were actual barges that were towed along canals with ropes held by parade marchers on the shore. Floats were occasionally propelled from within by concealed oarsmen, but that was soon abandoned because of high incidence of drowning when the lightweight and very unstable frames capsized. Amazingly, among the first uses of grounded floats, (towed by horses), was a ceremony in memory of recently drowned parade oarsmen. Of course today, most are either pulled by another motor vehicle or powered themselves. There you go.

Now we have marching bands, local celebrities walking the streets neatly dressed along with lavishly dressed crazies energizing the crowd, floats and the occasional hot-rod and farm implement. The later were the highly polished autos and tractors all revved up to impress the gawking onlookers. The oooos and ahhhhs could be heard for blocks. A strategically placed back-fireing always was hilarious as the crowd screamed and/or held their collective breaths.

All of this sounds as if a parade is entertaining and enjoyable. So why do I dislike the pageantry so? What the hell is my problem?

My nightmare that is ‘the parade’ is that I participated in so damn many. Rarely was I able to sit back and enjoy the colors, the sounds, the smells and all that made a parade what they are because I was trying to march and play my horn in time with the music. Was it the fact that the actual playing was difficult or simply that I couldn’t screw around with my friends? Probably the latter since the whole marching and playing wasn’t all that demanding. I was a kid. I was supposed to love parades. Even to participate in them was to be a treat that many wished they were in my shoes. I always wished to say to those kids … “here’s my damn shoes.”

I must have been around seven years old when I had my initial opportunity to actually ‘march’ in a parade and that particular procession was a Halloween event. A yearly parade that I had witnessed a few years already which included anyone and everyone who were in costume to travel, parade style, down Main Street in Watertown WI as one unit. This was the coolest parade of  the year for me. I could see all the newest, best, most imaginative costumes the townsfolk had to offer all in one place. There were probably two bands, a shiny car or two but the main draw was the hundreds of kids all dressed up in their colorful garb, walking not in synch but having a blast. Everyone waving at their parents on the curbs and trying not to fall face first into the pavement as their masks lowered on their skulls. Most costumes were store bought but many were homemade and very well done as there were prizes to compete for. The prizes were minimal gift certificates at local stores in the surrounding community. Naturally. A prize was a prize for us kids and it really didn’t matter what or where it was to be used. As I recall, everyone who was in costume and made it to the finishing parking lot and was able to stand for another half an hour received … a box of “Cracker Jacks.” That was it. If I could manipulate my parents for a cool twelve months then I could take it to the streets of downtown. I was pumped. When I saw, what I thought at the time was the coolest costume I had ever seen … Mr. Peanut from the Planters Peanuts collection … I wanted to march.

Mind you, when a kid sees a great costume marching in the coolest parade of the times … he should immediately begin to prepare for the coming event. The main word in that previous sentence were the two words, ‘a kid.’ Since I was that said kid, my preparations began a few hours prior to the main event. Nonetheless, all I wanted to be was a ghost. Yep, a ghost. A sheet with three holes. That was it. I had been in store bought costumes for the last three or four years walking around the neighborhoods and now … I needed to create an original Jimmy design. My mom wasn’t thrilled as she didn’t have an old sheet laying around but she came up with one regardless. I had to ‘design the three holes’ myself and cut them accordingly. Mission accomplished. I was ready. I was going to be in a parade.

My older brother marched beside me but I can’t recall what his costume was. My folks gave him strict instructions to keep me close. He seemed less than excited but complied to their demands as he wanted the Cracker Jacks as much as I. Off we went to the beginning of the route.

All the sounds, the aromas, the costumes … everything I had envisioned were taking place at my feet and the feelings were awesome. I was in a parade! The band was playing up ahead. The curbside crowd was hooting and hollering. I gazed out towards the sidelines surveying the onlookers, longing to see my parents and their loving eyes. When our eyes met, my proudest feelings were fulfilled.

Then it happened. My feet became entangled with the extra length of the ghostly sheet and it pulled me to towards the concrete. I kept my balance but the holes I had for my sight lines were now not lined up with my eyes or mouth so I couldn’t see where I was heading. The closeness of the parading kids made me bump into more than one and my fright filled sense of compass and equilibrium made me feel like shrieking like a little girl. My brother, realizing my dilemma, seemed to relish the trouble I was having but eventually grabbed and righted me. Once I regained my balance I still could not see out of the tiny eye holes as they were now closer to my knees. My brother gave the sheet a half-hearted tug to close the gap between the holes and my eyes but all this did was tear the sheet even more. My vision of my surroundings returned but my costume was now unlike any ghost there ever was. My two eyes holes was now one and the mouth was gigantic. The parade never slowed and seemingly picked up due to my being stalled. My friends and those around me laughed uncontrollably due to my misfortune but I marched on with the sheet now around my neck. Perfect. My first parade and I was now some kid with a sheet hanging on me like I was an unmade bed. No scary ghost here. Not even a friendly one. Holy crap what a disaster. Slowly I peered over the the street sides and spotted my caring folks. With hands on their hips, each, their concern was real and I knew they could feel my anguish and embarrassment. At least they stayed where they were and didn’t come out to my rescue. That would’ve been the end to all things parade right there. Since they didn’t, I trudged along the parade route hoping the end was near.

Once we made it to the finishing area and my brother and I stood in line for the snack, my grief subsided a bit until I reached the adult volunteers handing out the boxes of Cracker Jacks. Being the funny adults they were, one took a look at me and said something like, ‘Oooo, scary costume young man. And what exactly are you supposed to be? Do you believe a sheet hanging off of your neck constitutes a worthy costume for a prize?” He laughed right at me. I almost bust out crying right there but had to man-up. The dick handed me a box and I sauntered away while I tore the final pieces of cloth from the rest of my body. My parents came into view and they could tell I was upset and mom wrapped her arms around me as I explained what had happened. My brother walked up to me and gave me a shove. “Did you stop crying yet?” Away he went while snickering with his chums. My humiliation just kept getting better. My dad grabbed the sheet, wrapped it around his arms and put the other around me. I felt better and the ride home felt warm and friendly. My brother was told to stay quiet or just talk of the other costumes.

Upon arriving home I realized the whole scary ghost costume was bound for failure. Would there be a next time? I wasn’t so sure but ease of sight and walking ability was a must. Comfort for any parade was essential.

For years I was in parades. Marching with my trumpet in all types of weather. Wisconsin weather was not conducive for comfortable marching. As a band member I marched in a thick wool uniform with a snug hat. In summer the heat and humidity was unbearable as sweat poured down my face and neck while I continued to blow my horn. During cold football games and parades my feet stayed freezing and my mouthpiece felt like a metal ice cube on my lips. Horrible conditions both but we marched on. Every holiday, every game. Marched in local parades and in parades in other communities. Year after year. All through high school as kids went up north to their families cabins or on vacations to destinations unknown, there I was … in another parade.

Did I feel like I was missing something? Were my friends all having the times of their respective lives while I was stuck marching? I’m not sure as quite a few of my friends were right along beside of me marching but there were always those that weren’t and their tales of what went on ‘that weekend’ of ‘that ‘holiday’ day off always seemed that much more fun. One always believes that everyone else is having a better time than you. In hindsight they probably weren’t but to me they seemed free.

Parades will always be a time when I was handcuffed to the back of a float, marching in time with my fellow drummers as they kept the beat and I was trying to keep my balance with a white, scary sheet over my head. Always memories of being dehydrated and watching as other band mates took nosedives into the post-parade turf with the twenty pound uniform clung to their bodies deep in sweat. Times when snow covered my sheet music and the wind blew the pages to the next one and the next. My conductor staring at the drummers to keep a steady beat as their hands were stiffer than the sticks they were carrying. All memories of torture.

I don’t even like Cracker Jacks.