Parade

“Is this a frick street too, Daddy?” my son asked as I turned the wrong way on the one-way street.

He was very proud of his new word. The morning had started with me asking my wife, at 10:20, “Are you taking him to the parade?”

He'd just started cub scouts and the troop was marching in the holiday parade. He was supposed to be at the staging area at 10:30. Naturally, I assumed she was taking him since I'd carried both of our little sumo wrestlers on my shoulders the prior night. We'd gone to Pittsburgh's light up celebration. Both kids lost steam and we only had the one stroller. So they took turns on my shoulders. (Unfortunately, my wife nixed the logical idea of me sitting in the stroller with them on my shoulders and her pushing.) By the time we got the car, I was a good two inches shorter than when I'd started the morning.

Her answer that she thought I was taking him was a little unexpected. So we rushed and made it out the door and headed to the holiday parade. We were meeting the rest of the pack at the YMCA. My wife gave me detailed directions on how to get there.

For someone that told our son, as we were walking back to the car after the parade, “I used to march in three parades every Memorial Day.” (I'm sure it was through three feet of snow, uphill both ways and in no shoes from her world-weary tone), you'd think her directions would not include using the parade route to get to the staging area.

I even called her on the cell phone and asked how the den leader suggested getting there. “Trust me, turn right on Main Street. The Y is at the top of the hill. You can't miss it.”

My trust level dropped dramatically as the police officer kept waving me to go straight at Main Street. Obviously, he hadn't marched in three parades every Memorial Day and didn't understand I was getting directions from an expert.

“What time is the next parade, Daddy?” My son asked from the back seat.

“There's only one parade today, Buddy. It starts at noon.”

“But, Daddy, will there be one next November?”

“Yes, there's one every year. Why?”

“I guess I'll march in that one.” (My son's confidence in my navigation skills filled me with warmth.)

All I had to do was figure out how to make it a half mile to the right and we were set. Fifteen minutes later, I knew we were getting closer. (We'd driven close to four miles, we had to be closer.)

That's when “frick” was introduced into my son's vocabulary. We did a quick u turn to get going in the correct direction and backtracked.

“I bet you think this is a frick road too, don't you, Daddy?”

“Yes, Buddy,” I lied. It was actually one consonant shorter and different vowel road because we heading away from the route. But it did get us to the other end of the parade route. This police officer had obviously marched in three parades every Memorial Day. He pointed down the street, behind the barricade. There was my destination. I couldn't drive down there, but could drop my son off here while I parked...

After hiking through a few counties to the get to the staging area, we met the rest of the pack. As soon as we got there, my son conserved his energy by racing off with the rest of the scouts in a game of cops and robbers. After forty-five minutes of restful scampering and playing, they were ready to march.

I moved down along the parade route. This being his first parade, I was looking forward to seeing him march by with the rest of his troop. The homecoming queens from the different counties drove by, followed by the marching bands, the politicians and volunteer fire departments. I was impressed at how well they they kept the formation.

Then a parent in our group announced they were coming. Sure enough, the Webelos came by with the flags, marching in step. All the scouts had bags of candy they “tossed” to the bystanders. Our place along the route was maybe 20 feet down from the official starts. I know because the candy throwing from the politicians started right before us. Our cub scouts were marching in perfect rhythm. The only problem was each had their own rhythm...

By the time he got to our group, my son's bag was empty. (I later found his complex calculations of distributing candy was one handful thrown out, one went in his pocket...)

At the end of the parade, where all the scouts were collected by proud parents, I realized that geometrically, parades are linear. And linearly, my car was not only at the wrong end, but so far past the wrong end, it probably started another parade. And we had to walk back. Frick.