A lovely thing about Christmas is that it's compulsory, like a thunderstorm, and we all go through it together."
~ Garrison Keillor (1942-), American author. 'Exiles,' Leaving Home (1987)
~ Garrison Keillor (1942-), American author. 'Exiles,' Leaving Home (1987)
Greetings, friends!
Today is the Gloucester Christmas Parade--well, it might be Holiday Parade(holiday v. Christmas designations are a whole nother blog): the festivus which entails lots of people, gathering together to see and be seen. Usually, I anticipate these festivities with guarded glee. Today's festivities are no exception.
When I think of Christmas Parades from years gone by, I should drop to my knees in immediate and enthusiastic gratitude that I have survived thus far. Some doozies which come to mind are:
*One special parade day in the early 90's.
I was much younger, as the iffy date tells you. I tell you this because I was too young to honor the misery of a toothache ignored, and had a nice, abscessed tooth festering. Cleverly, I thought to eliminate the situation with the liberal use of my then very-good-friend, Alcohol. I bonded with said friend Friday night~I was so soused that I was hurling before midnight.
My plans for attending the big Christmas parade were replaced by wretching dry heaves, and musings about whether or not I might require treatment for alcohol poisoning. Even now, I would say that ranks as one of my top 5 most hideous hangovers ever, and I can claim expert status in that department. So much for that parade.
*Another parade, this one in the late 90's.
By now, my friend Alcohol and I had broken up. Thanks be to God. Anyway...this was the Williamsburg Christmas Parade, a morning exhibition. I had just finished having coffee with some friends on this morning, and had completely forgotten that I would be blocked in by parade-related street closures. So far, no big deal.
The big deal was that I was pregnant, newly so. And during my post-coffee, restroom visit, I discovered signs that the pregnancy was not going well. I was aching to get out of there, to call my husband, my sister, anyone who might be able to help me figure out what to do about this. Instead, I spent the hour, folded into the crowd, fighting the sick, clammy feeling of panic that my miracle was slipping away, amidst the indignity of marching bands and Shriners scooting about recklessly. All the happy loudness just made me want to scream. Not that anyone would have noticed...but that's the magic of the parade--you, as you, don't count. You are part of a bigger You, for better or for worse.
*The last parade memory I will make you read about in this God-forsaken Blog.
This memory comes courtesy of the 2001 Gloucester Christmas parade. The late 90's, early 2K's were rough on our little family--in the space of about three years, we lost my mother, my grandmother and both of Ed's grandparents. Of course, the whole country was still reeling from the 9-11 bombings, and in other news, Ed had been diagnosed with Hodgkins' Lymphoma and was smack-dab in the middle of a grueling chemotherapy regimen ("the chemo we give you is tough, because we're going for a complete cure," said Fran, one of our favorite nurses). On top of this, we had a crotchety toddler (the happy result of the previous parade scare) with abysmal sleep patterns and had just moved into the big, old farmhouse where we now reside.
In a well-intentioned attempt to feign normalcy, Ed, Christopher and I set out for the Christmas parade. Gloucester was experiencing a mini-heat wave that day, and I remember thinking that, on top of everything, it was a sin against God and nature that I should be sweating so damn much at a Christmas parade (actually I probably thought "fucking Christmas parade"). Our toddler faced the traditional sirens and marching band music with terror rather than delight. While he climbed my body in an attempt to escape the festivities, Ed pushed the empty stroller. I recall fantasizing about lying down on the sidewalk to rest, just for a minute. But, by God, there we were, celebrating the season--even if it damn near killed us.
Present day Parade plans.
Another decade has passed, and here we are again, preparing for the Gloucester Christmas Parade! No-one interesting has died lately, and Ed is downstairs, making eggs for the short people, cancer-free. Our toddler has grown into a 10 year old, and our little Montessori School has decided to march in this year's parade. Our numbers are slim this year, so every marcher counts. Barring an automechanic or medical emergency, I see no way out of it--I'll be there with my elf hat, marching with the Montessorians. While I know that lots of people delight in parade marching, I would rather have a root canal. I will probably spend some time wondering why I quit drinking... :-D
The point of this bloggery is a reminder to myself: no matter what, it could be worse. And, as always, watch out for those Shriners.
I was much younger, as the iffy date tells you. I tell you this because I was too young to honor the misery of a toothache ignored, and had a nice, abscessed tooth festering. Cleverly, I thought to eliminate the situation with the liberal use of my then very-good-friend, Alcohol. I bonded with said friend Friday night~I was so soused that I was hurling before midnight.
My plans for attending the big Christmas parade were replaced by wretching dry heaves, and musings about whether or not I might require treatment for alcohol poisoning. Even now, I would say that ranks as one of my top 5 most hideous hangovers ever, and I can claim expert status in that department. So much for that parade.
*Another parade, this one in the late 90's.
By now, my friend Alcohol and I had broken up. Thanks be to God. Anyway...this was the Williamsburg Christmas Parade, a morning exhibition. I had just finished having coffee with some friends on this morning, and had completely forgotten that I would be blocked in by parade-related street closures. So far, no big deal.
The big deal was that I was pregnant, newly so. And during my post-coffee, restroom visit, I discovered signs that the pregnancy was not going well. I was aching to get out of there, to call my husband, my sister, anyone who might be able to help me figure out what to do about this. Instead, I spent the hour, folded into the crowd, fighting the sick, clammy feeling of panic that my miracle was slipping away, amidst the indignity of marching bands and Shriners scooting about recklessly. All the happy loudness just made me want to scream. Not that anyone would have noticed...but that's the magic of the parade--you, as you, don't count. You are part of a bigger You, for better or for worse.
*The last parade memory I will make you read about in this God-forsaken Blog.
This memory comes courtesy of the 2001 Gloucester Christmas parade. The late 90's, early 2K's were rough on our little family--in the space of about three years, we lost my mother, my grandmother and both of Ed's grandparents. Of course, the whole country was still reeling from the 9-11 bombings, and in other news, Ed had been diagnosed with Hodgkins' Lymphoma and was smack-dab in the middle of a grueling chemotherapy regimen ("the chemo we give you is tough, because we're going for a complete cure," said Fran, one of our favorite nurses). On top of this, we had a crotchety toddler (the happy result of the previous parade scare) with abysmal sleep patterns and had just moved into the big, old farmhouse where we now reside.
In a well-intentioned attempt to feign normalcy, Ed, Christopher and I set out for the Christmas parade. Gloucester was experiencing a mini-heat wave that day, and I remember thinking that, on top of everything, it was a sin against God and nature that I should be sweating so damn much at a Christmas parade (actually I probably thought "fucking Christmas parade"). Our toddler faced the traditional sirens and marching band music with terror rather than delight. While he climbed my body in an attempt to escape the festivities, Ed pushed the empty stroller. I recall fantasizing about lying down on the sidewalk to rest, just for a minute. But, by God, there we were, celebrating the season--even if it damn near killed us.
Present day Parade plans.
Another decade has passed, and here we are again, preparing for the Gloucester Christmas Parade! No-one interesting has died lately, and Ed is downstairs, making eggs for the short people, cancer-free. Our toddler has grown into a 10 year old, and our little Montessori School has decided to march in this year's parade. Our numbers are slim this year, so every marcher counts. Barring an automechanic or medical emergency, I see no way out of it--I'll be there with my elf hat, marching with the Montessorians. While I know that lots of people delight in parade marching, I would rather have a root canal. I will probably spend some time wondering why I quit drinking... :-D
The point of this bloggery is a reminder to myself: no matter what, it could be worse. And, as always, watch out for those Shriners.
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