Nov 27 2008
A Thanksgiving Tradition that will not be missed. No way, no how.
No, it’s not the football games, which this year are truly pathetic. The team with the best record versus a team without a single win. And the hated Cowboys versus the flying on a spare wing Seahawks. Yeah, there’s two real nailbiters for you. It’s not the food, turkey is fine with enough salt. It’s that darn parade.
Every Thanksgiving morning, our family went over to Grandma’s house for Thanksgiving. And what did she love to do? Watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. All of it, all the way through. And everybody else had to watch too. Today, the parade lasts three hours on TV. Maybe it did then also, but it seemed to go on for five or six. One damn marching band after another. The only kick we could get out of it, being locals, was the sight of all these hicks from the sticks playing in the big city, and that wasn’t much of a kick. But down the avenue they marched, the fresh-faced kids from East Podunk, Ark., followed by the twirlers from Baldpatch, Ma., and the all-American singers from Possum Scratch, Ga. On and on and on into eternity. No floats or balloons could keep that grim march interesting. And then, finally, it was all over. The last uniformed marchers murdering the favorite rock tune of the day reached the end, followed by Santa Claus. Oh what joy to see old St. Nick hove into view. That meant it was over, all those long hours of musical torture. Over, until next year.
Today, I got up late, so half the parade was over. Went to the TV, turned it on for a second, and there they were, marching down the avenue. Click. They ain’t marching anymore. It’s always nice to have something to be truly thankful for on Thanksgiving. I know I have.
