Procrastinet

Follow That Parade!

filed under: Dadditudes

One of the unexpected benefits of living where we do: the Park Slope St. Patrick's day parade marches right past our house.

It's the best kind of parade there is: big enough that it's not just paltry and embarassing, but grass-roots enough that it's totally rag-tag and charming. There are battalions of little girls in Aran sweaters with gigantic curly-headed half-wigs frothing up from their heads. There are handfuls of old men from various local AOH branches, red-nosed and rheumy-eyed, proudly toting flags. There are some of the worst high school marching bands I've ever seen, sullen youngsters who can barely be bothered with tempo or key, or walking in much of a straight line. There was a young local congressman, walking with no one around him for thirty feet in each direction except his sign-carrier, waving heartily and shouting "Happy Saint Patrick's Day!" and giving us point-and-thumbs-ups.

There are pipes-and-drums corps of various sizes and levels of proficiency, from one really excellent one featuring tall men in blackwatch plaid kilts and gigantic black hats, to a small "Catholic Association" troupe that ranges in age from 55 down to maybe 12 - and the 12 year old was a girl. There's even one poignant little troupe of Revolutionary War reenactors, maybe four of them, median age about 75, battering away at fife and drum, tagging along just because it's a parade.

This year we even had "Miss Dance America," a sullen, pudgy Latina girl riding in a Camaro convertible, trailed by the Dance America Team as her grouchy train.

Max was in raptures. We stood out on our little pseudo-patio, and I bounced him on my knee as everyone trooped past, and he took it all in like it was the wonders of the universe.

It was drizzling this year, so turn out was poor. The whole parade went by in about 20 minutes. When it was all over, we took Max back inside.

"Band!" he cried, leaning towards the door. "Mo' band!"

"No, buddy, no mo' band right now," I said. "The band is all done."

He looked at me, stricken. And burst instantly into aching, heartbroken sobs.

It is said that Eskimos have hundreds of words for "snow." When your child is fast approaching toddlerhood, you learn there are many distinct kinds of crying, as varied as wine. You develop your own inner guidelines for how to react to these various forms of weeping, mostly based on a gut determination over the exact level to which the kid is playin' you.

My gut barometer said we weren't being played.

"Or," I said quickly, "we could put you in your stroller and chase after the parade?"

"Mo... band?" he said, snuffling.

So this is how Lisa and I came to find ourselves pelting down Seventh Ave., in the rain, chasing the St. Patrick's Day Parade. We passed Miss Dance America, passed the Boy Scouts, Cub Scouts and Webelos, passed the marching band I had christened "the Marching Band from Our Lady of Don't Give a F*ck," and finally passed the mixed-age pipe and drum corp. And we hunkered down at the corner and watched Max watch the parade go by again.

Just god-damned awesome.

Posted by rjt at March 21, 2005 10:49 AM