At the Homecoming Parade

I went to see the Homecoming parade.

High school homecoming in a town in the Ohio river valley is our version of  Mardi Gras. Our local, notorious public high school is downtown by the river where there’s no room for a stadium, so the stadium is up by the middle school just a little ways from my house.  The players, the cheerleaders, the marching band and the Homecoming court parade down Brady Avenue from the park to the school before kickoff, and it’s quite the occasion.

Adrienne was already at a good spot on the parade route with The Gang, so I went out by myself. I walked through the alleys where the shadiest trees were, past the house we rented for a few months when she was a toddler, through the bottleneck, past the block with the apartment building where the horrendous botched attempt at a homebirth happened. Adrienne told me she has hardly any memory of those houses, but I remember every square inch. It hurts to think about them, and all the walking I did with that squeaky stroller with the bad wheel when she was little. We were even poorer then than we are now. I was constantly terrified we’d be homeless.

As if I’d conjured it with my memories, there was a stroller with a squeaky wheel coming towards me. “Hi, Miss Mary!”

It was the Lady of LaBelle, the grandmother of the Baker Street Irregulars, pushing one of her little nephews in a folding stroller. There was a plump canvas bag stuffed with plastic bags hanging from the handles of the stroller. The autistic Baker Street Irregular was skipping along next to her grandmother in a pair of bright pink Crocs, but she ran to skip next to me instead when she saw me.

This particular Baker Street Irregular is short for her age and rail-thin due to a genetic disorder, in addition to her autism and a smattering of other diagnoses– she is in the second grade, but her preschooler sister towers over her. She has patches of dark hair missing from where she’s had trouble learning not to pull, and a beautiful pale face with great big blue eyes. She looks like a tiny elf from a fairy story, and I look like a fat overgrown hobbit, and we are both autistic. We get along.

She stuck her tiny hand in my plump one, and we walked together.

Before long, we were all at the parade route: the Lady of LaBelle, the baby nephew, a collection of Baker Street Irregulars from toddler age all the way up to middle school. Adrienne and The Gang were somewhere in the crowd, not too close to me so they didn’t look uncool. A police officer was parked on the curb, waiting to stop traffic at the corner. Grandma was passing out the plastic bags she’d brought. The children were clamoring to get closer to the road. The Autistic One complained that she couldn’t see, and nearly had a shrieking meltdown. That reminded Grandma that it was time for her evening medicine, which she produced. The Autistic One counted the pills and said that there were three instead of two so she wouldn’t take them.

“That’s the new pill your doctor wants you to try!” pleaded Grandma.

“Oh!” I coaxed. “That means you’ll be healthier than ever! Down the hatch so you can watch the parade!”

The Autistic One consented to take her pills as long as I gave them to her, so Grandma  put them in my palm. One, two, three, down the hatch without any water, but the parade did not come.

The children became frantic, craning their necks to look down the hill, leaning out so I feared that a passing motorist would knock their heads off. I kept pleading that we’d know the parade was on its way when the policeman stopped the traffic. Finally, he got out!

“The parade! It must be ready to start!” I cried, but it did not come. Instead, the officer stopped the traffic coming through at the green light, and beckoned for the red light traffic to come, confusing everyone.

One of the cars had a TRUMP bumper sticker.

“Trump,” Grandma scoffed, as if it was a dirty word. “I’m voting for the woman! The woman!”

Now I was surprised, though I shouldn’t have been. “You are?”

“Yes! Trump hates the poor! That man hates the poor! He’s gonna wreck the whole country! I’m going to vote for that woman.”

“Camelia Harris?” asked the Baker Street Irregular who plays the violin. “Chameleon Harris?”

I corrected the name as the policeman directed the next batch of confused drivers to run the red light.

The Autistic One was beside herself and nearly ran in front of the cars.

And then I saw the parade.

A second police car inched towards us at barely two miles per hour, lights flashing, a small child who represented the elementary school leaning out the window and waving. Behind it was a fire truck which gave a merry “HONK HONK” as it passed the Baker Street Irregulars. Next came the cheerleaders and the band.

I wish everyone could feel what  I feel when passed by a great big marching band. There’s something about a snare and bass drum that make my whole body shake inside as if I, myself, am a drum, and it feels wonderful. It feels as if I didn’t have a heartbeat a moment ago and now I am a living thing. I stimmed back and forth to the music while the children bounced in place. I wished the band had been ten miles long.

After the marching band came children representing the elementary and middle schools, all with banners, some riding flatbed trucks and some marching. All were escorted by teacher and parent volunteers. And all the volunteers had candy.

That was what those bags were for. Every time  a teacher threw a handful of treats, they’d dive into to the road. Jolly Ranchers, Dubble Bubble, three-inch Tootsie rolls, Blow Pops and Tootsie pops, all fell into the street like snow and were snatched up in a second, over and over again. The children didn’t so much pick up the treats as rake them off the street into their bags.

“Panem et circenses,” I joked to the Autistic One, who already had a Jolly Rancher stuffed in each cheek.

Next came the Homecoming Court, young woman after beautiful young woman riding in a convertible, each dressed up in a different pastel ball gown and bedecked with a tiara. Apparently each of these girls was a contestant to be the queen, and they’d draw the name of the one true monarch at halftime during the game. The Autistic One called them “The crowns.”

“I see the crowns!” she cheered around her Jolly Ranchers. “I see the crowns!”

The crowns had attendants who also threw generous gobs of candy; in addition, they passed out other baubles like sunglasses and pink pens. The children’s bags were getting heavy.

Somewhere in there was the actual football team, in uniform, looking happy but awkward at the accolades. And yes, they were throwing candy as well. Gallons of it.

It was all over too soon.

I went home in the cool of an Appalachian near-twilight, feeling that odd combination of exhaustion and excitement that is right next door to Heaven.

Again, as I have so often lately, I realized that I am happy.

I am not used to being happy.

I would like to be happy forever.