The Parade

By TAD BARTIMUS

When my town puts on its two-block fall harvest parade it's a genuine dog-and-pony show. The Grand Marshalette rides in a cart pulled by a pony, the firemen let their dog ride in the truck. It's the best parade ever, all twenty minutes of it.

Growing up in the Midwest, we had parades on the Fourth of July, Homecoming and Veteran's Day. Here, parades are standard operating procedure. Every wedding turns into a procession as locals pause beside the roadway to honk and wave, female bystanders shouting "Good Luck" and men yelling "hey, Hey, HEY!!!"

On the Big Day a burglar (who would naturally be from out of town) would have had a field day; everybody was either in the parade or applauding from the curb.

When I was a kid, by the time autumn rolled around there wasn't anything left alive, let alone pretty enough, to decorate a float. My pals and I made do with Kleenex, crepe paper and cardboard. Our budget, donated by parents and teachers, was about $9.95.

Then came the era of marketing. Famous parades on television now showcase floats worth thousands of dollars, all of them adorned with corporate logos. When the TV announcer tells me the float is sponsored by a multi national conglomerate I can figure out its builders didn't use crepe paper and twisty ties.

Here, the only commercial sponsor is the general store. Decorations? The land and the landfill. Fleet-footed teenagers scamper all over the mountainside scavenging leaves and wildflowers to weave into chicken wire borrowed from real coops. Scrap lumber comes from a demolished house, staple guns are loaned by carpenters, poster paper is recycled. All week long I drove around town spotting backhoes and riding lawnmowers doing double duty as floatmobiles.

The night before the parade, work sites were lit by generator-powered portable lights borrowed -- probably illegally -- from the highway maintenance crew. Fathers, hammering and sawing, were into that competition thing: "My kid's float is gonna be better than your kid's float." In the post office parking lot, at the school yard, down by the stable, volunteers kept going on donated cold pizza as they worked their magic.

On the Big Day a burglar (who would naturally be from out of town) would have had a field day; everybody was either in the parade or applauding from the curb. I couldn't help it: when the color guard from the Army recruiter's office kicked it off with Old Glory, I choked up. Next came the Boy Scouts. Then the pre-schoolers, their teachers herding them like baby ducks. A smartly-dressed high school band, borrowed from the neighboring "big town," played as horses and riders pranced by.

The floats all looked alike; lots of flowers, hand-painted letters and cute kids riding them. Next came the lady politician with her grocery cart, passing out red suckers. Technically, politicians are banned from our parades but she ran unopposed and her sister lives here, so she's family.

Like all spectacles, the best was last. All week a dozen cronies who fish and swap lies together had busied themselves around a flatbed truck. Miraculously, on Saturday morning that same truck rolled down Main Street transformed into a handmade boat with a grass shack and a genuine fire pit. The smell of barbecued fish wafted over the cheering crowd. A masterpiece of design and engineering, the piece de resistance had one flaw: it lacked a driver's window.

"YO! Over here! A little to the left, a little more, no, no, too far TOO FAR!!!..."

Never mind. Bystanders righted the runaway and aimed it at the center line again. The ambulance, the firetruck and a teenager with a shovel and bucket for the horse apples brought up the rear. Our parade was over; we did it without Pepsi, Coke, Nike or Reebok. Eat your heart out, Pasadena.

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