On December 7, 1975, the McClellan High band marched in the Little Rock Christmas parade. Our band director, Mr. Washburn, had informed us that the parade would be televised. He insisted we look smart, watch our lines, and not break rank if confronted with horse manure in our paths.
Our misgivings about this decree were put to the test soon after the parade started. My friend John, marching in front of me, stepped square in a large, steaming pile. He slipped around like a vaudevillian on a banana peel, first sliding one way, then another. His baritone flashed in the sun as John gyrated about, but he miraculously stayed vertical and escaped a tumble in the muck.
My row of saxophonists, witnesses to this impromptu bit of slapstick, started laughing. In the way that you cannot stop snickering the more important it is that you do, we could not help ourselves. Sousa became squawks as we struggled to produce a few notes while cackling through our horns. To avoid increasingly copious dung from the well-fed horses, we began weaving about like inebriated sailors on a seven day pass.
On the bus ride home, we resolved that henceforth, band members must march before the horses or, at the very least, not wear white shoes.
Angelina, my dear wife, adores a parade and misses no opportunity to watch. I have mixed feelings about parades. They tend to transport me back to that day when the shit hit the band.
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