My alma mater, Moore High School, organized a homecoming parade every fall. Much like any other high school parade you might encounter it included: the homecoming court in convertibles, the band, school clubs, athletic teams, and livestock. Yes, livestock.
I was in the parade as part of the gymnastics team. We wore our leotards, oh yes, I believe we did, and tumbled down Broadway and then onto Main Street, just a mile from the mid-high to the high school. The weather was great. Somewhere ahead of us, the Future Farmers of America members were riding their horses, and soon we were walking, and tumbling, through horse poop. A lot of it. We avoided the mounds of excrement with little trouble but we were, in my opinion, rightly annoyed with the genius who determined the parade order. Eventually, I married him.
He, of course, had not thought about the horses, and honestly, neither did we until we did. We’ve shared many laughs about that over our years together. It’s the first thing I thought about with this challenge: GO TO A PARADE — better yet, be in one or start your own.
I remember parades from our two years in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. The military had only recently begun to allow families back onto the base after a violent coup in Haiti brought Haitians fleeing for safety to the base. I’ve heard that pre-Haitian Refugee Crisis, the base was quite a happening place for families. We arrived in, what I would kindly characterize as, a rebuilding phase. I remember walking with the girls, and our friends and neighbors, to the end of our street, to watch what was possibly the shortest parade possible: horses, a fire truck, maybe the Minefield Maintenance guys, the military bike police, and not a lot more. People waved, candy was thrown, and five minutes later we walked back home. Elisabeth internet-sleuthed a photo of a parade dated December 1996 which helped me a bit to confirm my hazy memory.
Early this year, my friend Terry invited me to her captivating little town, Smithfield, Virginia, for a chance to get away, relax, and catch up with each other. When she mentioned in passing that she would be the Grand Marshal of Smithfield’s St. Patrick’s Day parade, I knew I had to be there to cheer her on.
Smithfield is a quaint little town, the kind you see on TV or read about in books and wish you could live. Just like in fictional small towns, the real reason everyone wants to live in Stars Hollow or Serenity or Busy Town isn’t the picturesque main street, boutique hotel, town square, or quirky diner, it’s the people. Terry is the branch manager of the Smithfield branch of the Blackwater Regional Library and, fittingly, she knows everyone and everyone knows her. What else do I need to tell you about the beauty of Smithfield, Virginia, than they chose a librarian to be their Grand Marshal! It doesn’t get any better than that.
Terry loves dogs. Forgoing the glamour and ease of a ride in a convertible, Terry invited the PAWS to Read dog teams to walk with her. Of all the dog breeds Terry loves most, it’s the Irish Wolfhound that truly holds her heart, and she invited the Irish Wolfhound Association and not one, not two, but three of these gentle, horse-sized beauties, along with their strong, large-dog loving humans, to join her, too.
After mingling at the staging area with Terry and the other parade participants, I walked to the parade route, found a spot, parked my borrowed camp chair, and waited for the festivities to begin. I’m kind of a solitary gal. I don’t mind eating at a restaurant alone (with book, of course), watching a movie by myself, or doing any number of things solo. I will say that solo parade viewing feels weird, like who goes to a parade by themself? Luckily, as a fifty+ female, I’m quite used to being invisible and so I embraced that mentality and tried to enjoy myself.
Enjoy myself, I did! Small town parades are awesome. The parade kicked off with officers on motorcycles to clear the roadway, followed by a color guard. Terry, as the Grand Marshal, and her gang of book-loving dogs were followed by a parade (sorry, had to do it) of community residents, like a Richard Scarry page brought to life: Firefighters in fire trucks, police officers on bikes, young soccer players, a string of Corvettes driven by proud drivers, local politicians, a river power boat squadron, pipers & drummers, floats for the horse club minus the horses, and the local pub, The Fiddlin Pig, adoptable dogs from the animal shelter, and more.
They waved, some handed out goodies, and yes, I got some, so I wasn’t totally invisible.
As I spent the day with Terry, meeting some of her staff and friends, I realized that I was feeling envious. I have moved so often that I’m not of a community. Well, I am. I am of a greater community of military spouses, library workers, writers, readers, but I am not, currently, very connected to my community. Where I live. Right now. I don’t miss getting up early every day but I do miss being a part of a library staff where you are embedded in your community.
I’m slowly trying to build my village. I’m on a first-name basis with Lionel, who does a great job at Harris Teeter, shopping my online order. I meet with a small writing group, I volunteer at a couple of local organizations, and I know the names of the dogs I see on our neighborhood walks (not the owners, just the dogs -but that’s normal, right?) Military families are used to rapid friendship development. You meet your neighbor in July and when they have a baby in December her kids are sleeping on your floor. (Hi, Laurie!) You go from “where’d you move from?” to “can I use you as my emergency contact?” quicker than it takes a barista in a high-end cafe to deliver your coffee. It’s awesome, but it’s not how the real world works. I don’t miss moving, but I do miss those people, those quick, long-lasting connections.
Now, I have the luxury of time. That shoulder-tapping, ear-whispering, ticking clock now says, “Take a seat and a deep breath. I’ll wait for you.” I’m building my community and my local friend base but I’m eternally grateful for those who’ve made up my village along the way. I’m not a great friend. I don’t stay in touch well. My thoughts and feelings don’t get conveyed the way they should to the people who inhabit them, so I hope, if you are reading this you’ll know that I count you among my community. I think about you, I appreciate you. If you march in a parade, let me know, I’ll come watch you.
Thanks for reading.
Before you go…I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention another parade that you definitely should go see. Marine Barracks 8th & I, located in Washington, DC, is the oldest post in the Marine Corps and Friday evenings in the summer they host a parade featuring “The President’s Own” United States Marine Band, “The Commandant’s Own” United States Marine Drum & Bugle Corps, and the Silent Drill Platoon. It’s free and, very hot, and unforgettable. You need reservations, so don’t just show up, but please, if you are in DC during the summer, go.
Before You Grow Up 