Coming Home to a Parade

 

(Editor's Note:  Today the Ramble features another submission from my good friend, Ranger Bob.  The guest writer, who grew up in a small town in northern Missouri, discusses small town parades, a social staple of rural America.  I hope you enjoy this stroll down memory lane as much as I did.  Thanks, Ranger Bob, for sharing these beautiful memories!)

Coming Home to a Parade

by Bob Randall

Small towns across the country proclaim their pride once a year by holding some sort of festival. Some are creative. One community back east wakes up their pet ground hog on February 2 and with straight faces, they pretend that their rodent can predict the change of seasons. Another in Ohio celebrates the springtime return of turkey vultures to their countryside. I am more comfortable with end of summer festivals and Labor Day seems like a good day for inviting everyone to be a citizen for a day whether born there or not.

A few years back I attended a small town’s fall festival parade and found myself sitting on Main Street’s curb applauding each float as it went by. There was a tractor pulling a hay wagon loaded with the class of 1991. I didn’t know any of those classmates. It wasn’t my hometown. The fire truck said, “Marionville Volunteer Fire Department” on the door but I read it as something more familiar. I can’t recall if there were kids riding bikes with colored crepe paper threaded through the spokes. Maybe I just saw them in my mind. The marching band was from some other, larger town. Past and present blended. My reality faded into 1955 as I watched.

Good citizens form a festival committee, and they plan all year long. They organize the parade, planning the route, staging, arranging to close off part of Main Street, judging the entries, and having an announcer who describes by loudspeaker all the entries as they pass the judging stand. That part hasn’t changed much.  Nowadays they probably invite food venders who already know how to coordinate with the health inspector. In the old days in my hometown, they would have a committee plan out the food tent, cook, and serve hamburgers and hotdogs. There weren’t any inspectors, just home style cookin’. Today, they decide which vendors might be appropriate. I don’t remember outside vendors in the old days. Everything was of local origin and all the profit went to pay for the festival. Today, they make sure the ambulance service can schedule some first responders to standby at a first aid tent. We didn’t do that back in the day because Doc Bryan, the town doctor, was in the parade. Today, they still have to plan the entertainment. Someone might suggest a musician who will perform for free just to get some publicity and maybe collect some tips. Back in the day, my hometown festival used local talent. Sometimes the word talent fell short but never mind that, it was our talent. Can the festivals of today have a competition or two, like maybe a sack race or a ring toss contest? Does anybody know someone who does face painting? What if they really go retro with a greased pig contest? Would kids stop with selfies long enough to chase a pig? What would a kid do with a pig if they caught it? Would the city attorney nix it because of liability?  Do they have a city attorney? Would someone complain of animal cruelty? Maybe greasing a pig isn’t such a good idea. Of course, the committee still has to get the publicity out, but in 1955 no one had ever heard of “social media”. There’s a lot to think about and all the planning is a lot of work. It’s well worth it and I say kudos to those who pull it off.

I can personally report my observations of the food service committee from back in the day. They got together each year to plan out their Homecoming responsibilities. They claimed that they needed to decide how many “barrels of pepper” to purchase so they called that planning event the “Pepper Party”. Those two words were never spoken amongst that group without a hearty laugh at their inside joke. A roll call was never taken. It was always the same group of people, which included my parents. The business responsibilities were completed in less than five minutes. They knew all the details before the meeting started. It was settled that they would buy two shakers of pepper, two of salt, a couple packages of napkins, a jar or two of dill pickles, and so on. More than once, the Pepper Party was held at our house and always took place at the kitchen table. A lot of beer flowed for the men and the ladies sipped Mogan David wine. A more sophisticated drink never crossed their minds. Us kids would play in another room and if we were relatively good, which mostly meant we didn't break anything, no one got hurt, and we stayed out of the kitchen, we might get a sip of wine. It was dreadful stuff! During the weekend before the big day of the Homecoming festival, the men constructed a wood frame and covered it with a large tarpaulin on the edge of the city park. The food was prepared, cooked, sold, and served from that tent. Pop was served in bottles that required an opener and there was only one flavor of potato chips. Does that bring back any memories? Obviously, it does for me. Regardless of the threat to my cholesterol level, I have never attended my Homecoming festival without getting a burger or dog from whatever has replaced that old tarp tent.

I must say that my memories of a certain small-town parade are some of my best. I hope to see another parade next September if they have it. I’ll try to get there early so I can park my lawn chair in the shade of the old, abandoned lumberyard building right across from the city park. I hope there’s a clown in the parade, some old antique tractors, maybe a classic car or two, and some little kid pulling a wagon with a puppy. I’m looking forward to that. Yes, the best part is the parade.