Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Chocolate Milk and Underdog

I have few memories from my childhood of spending the morning with Dad. He held two jobs and very had few days off, but every year on the 4th Thursday of November he would wake up while my brother, sister, and I were still asleep and sojourn off into the early morning fog and frost to pick up breakfast. I don’t know how he planned it, but when he returned we were always wide awake, sitting huddled before the TV with or flannel superhero pajama’s and woolen blankets wrapped around our shoulders.

He would walk in the front door, wisps of cold air racing around his heels to get inside where the warmth was, carrying two pristine white wax paper bags. He would march them into the dinning room set them on the table and forbid us from opening them ourselves. He would then make a grand show of removing his gloves and placing them in the pockets of his denim jacket. He would then shrug out of the jacket and hang it with extra care in the closet with the scarf my mother had knitted wrapped around the hanger. Then he would sit and with torturous slowness he would undo each of his shoes and place them neatly on the little mat next to the door. And while he did this he ignored our cries of, “Daaaaaadddddd.”

When he was finally ready he would give each of us a job. One of us would go and knock gently on the bedroom door to wake Mom. Another would run to the pantry to get out the paper plates, counting to make sure we had exactly enough. Finally I would be tasked with pouring the milk; this was my job since I was the oldest. Dad would then walk into the dinning room and lift one of the precious wax bags and tear down its seam releasing the sweet sugar coated goodness found inside.

We each would grab our three doughnuts and our tall, cold glasses of milk, usually chocolate, and run back to the living room to sit in front of the TV. Mom would join us later after having showered and dressed, she would get her plate of doughnuts and a cup of tea Dad would make, because we weren’t old enough. She would walk to the TV and at 9:00 A.M. she would turn on NBC and we would watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

It started the same every year, a marching band, in brightly colored uniforms, with glistening brass instruments would march down the street. Powerful music reached out of the TV and burst into our living rooms. They were led buy proud men and women marching in time to the music, carrying flags and banners proudly announcing what school or city they represented. Occasionally some member of the band was a gymnast or acrobat and would flip and twirl their way down the street. They marched proudly, with out fail, regardless of snow, sleet, rain, winds and fog. As they led the way balloons would drop and crowds would cheer, streamers and confetti would spiral down from the rooftops and float amongst them.

Of course following every band there was a float, a great papier-mâché festival of color. Chicken wire, roses, and Crete paper would meld together to bring fantasy worlds and storybooks to life. Actors in costume became the very things of our imagination. Jack and Jill would sit next to a great well from which the frog prince pushed a ball, while Miss Muffet shrieked at a nearby spider. Behind them would be lovely Alice in her blue dress, drinking tea with the Mad Hatter and March Hare.

Then with a shriek of joy we would greet the clowns, tumbling and fumbling down the street. They were bouncing balls, juggling pins, and throwing candy to the children; they would lead the float from the circus. A great cavalcade of wonderment, covered in beautiful women and powerful men. On either side of the float stood two great poles pushing upward into the sky with a willowy net stretched between them as well as a trapeze or high wire, on which pranced and flipped a daring soul.

Of course there were musicians, singers, and dancers parading along each from their own show on the Broadway stage. They would sing and dance and perform powerful songs from their own programs. Celebrity guest from TV and movies would appear to greet the audience and wish us a happy and safe holiday. Then in the middle of it all was the big show stopping moment my parents had been anticipating.
The grand entrance would always be announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, from Radio City Music Hall. The Rockettes.” Out they would come a dozen ladies in beautiful costumes kicking and singing their way across the screen. My parents loved the music and pageantry, clapping and singing along. My siblings and I were less impressed

We would bemoan the loss of our bright colors and happy sounds; awaiting the moment of their return. And of course they would and usually in the grandest way possible. They would come floating over the city streets like a happy cloud. We would cheer our favorites and marvel at who would be chosen to wish for who was missing. Sometimes they would be led in by music and we would become excited by the mere sound of those familiar tones. “When criminals in this world appear and break the laws that they should fear, and frighten all who see and hear, a cry goes out to far and near to..” Every time it happened, my siblings and I would cry out, “Underdog,” just as his proud black nose would round the corner wearing his great red long johns with the white U pinned to his chest, and a great blue cape valiantly flapping in the breeze behind him.

Of course no balloon, not even Superman, could stand up to the pure awe inspiring might of the last float of the day. It would be announced with an all too familiar cry. Children and adults would cheer and scream. My siblings and I would leap to our feet empty plates spilling to the floor. Then it would come into view, covered in mounds of pristine white powder a great red sleigh pulled by eight reindeer. Sitting in the sleigh and running alongside it were happy elves, merrily waving and tossing candy canes to the crowd. Next to them would be the great man himself, sometimes joined by his smiling wife. They would sit there adorned in brilliant crimson coats and hats, flowing white hair whipping around in the wind.

The sleigh would stop in front of the Macy’s store and he would stand with a great cry of Ho. Ho. Ho. He would leave his sleigh and climb the podium to the microphone, shaking the hands of whoever hosted the parade that year. He would then stand at the microphone and cry out, “Happy Thanksgiving.” He waved to all around, joy filling his every movement. And then the announcement every child in the viewing audience waited to hear. “It is my honor,” he would say, “to announce the official start of the Christmas season.” Children would cheer, parents would applaud, balloons and confetti would blanket the earth.

With a cry of, “happy holidays“, he would wave again and return to his sleigh. Gripping the reigns in each hand he would give them a snap and call out, “On Dasher. On Dancer. On Prancer and Vixen. On Comet. On Cupid. On Donner and Blitzen.” Then they would be off with one final Ho. Ho. Ho.

My parents would gather the plates and glasses while my brother and sister and I would go and get dressed and ready to spend the rest of the day with relatives eating turkey and stuffing. But all day long all we could think of was that Christmas was coming soon.

The next day Dad would go into the attic and get out the long boxes of Christmas lights and decorations and we would spend the weekend hanging shinny things and candy canes all over the house. Christmas Cards were purchased and mailed. A wreath would be purchased from the Boy Scouts and hung on our front door. Christmas, an event we waited all year for with baited breath we watched the calendar hoping for Thanksgiving to come so we could see that special moment again.

We would go shopping that weekend and everything was new and different. Every store had magically become Christmas wonderlands. Shinny multi-colored trees popped up like spring daisies. Festive packages appeared under them with the promises of playful mystery. Bright eclectic strings of lights would move across roof tops like ivy. The radio stations would begin playing beautiful songs, extolling the virtues of white Christmas’s and jingling bells.

I’m older now and my childhood is gone, I still watch the parade almost every year. Sometimes I have family with me; sometimes my only company is the extra doughnut waiting in the bag. I smile at the memories from time to time; I keep them safe deep in my heart.

But I stand here today at the beginning of October, and I look out at an aisle filled with candy and witches, pumpkins and candles, and flashlights and costumes. Next to them, at the end of the aisle, set slightly off to one side are Santa’s and wreaths. I look at them and I wonder, just where exactly did we go wrong?

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