The air was brisk�freezing according to my California sensibilities. Overhead the streetlights blinked off and the sun was officially up. I watched as a gang of children across the street huddled, scampered, huddled again. The adults around them ranged from dreamy-eyed early risers to unslept, wildly gesticulating New Year�s Eve revelers. We all craned our necks occasionally, peering down Orange Grove Boulevard at the impossibly long line of massive floats that waited, loitering just across the intersection from us, giant fairy tales come to life in floral splendor.
My grandma sat next to me on a camp chair, pouring coffee into little foam cups. The aromatic fog billowing from the thermos mingled with the incongruous smell of popcorn popping at 7:00 in the morning. Above everything else was sweet, earthy Eau de Flower Shop. I ventured a few steps from the sidewalk to claim a bruised rose petal.
We were not normally parade-going folk, but then Grandpa was in his element. He loved the spectacular; he had a fondness for Sousa.
Grandpa settled himself in his customized lawn chair, complete with drink-holder and a place in the back to stick an umbrella if he wanted one. The joints creaked and complained each time he moved, because Grandpa was slowly eating and drinking himself to death. He was a hero of a man; confiding, enigmatic, uneducated, intellectual. He liked a good riddle.
The crowd was swelling by the minute, pouring itself into the streets of Pasadena�a difficult prospect even in 1971. We would have been happy watching this whole thing on television, had it not been that Peter, my eldest brother, was marching today. Pete, who could play any brass instrument. My brother, who could do whatever he set his mind to. He had all the best traits of my grandpa without any of the bad ones.
I stayed close to my father as he finished his first beer of the day. He talked cars with some fellow he�d never met before. It was the kind of talk that resulted in negotiations, and my father was a great negotiator. He called it finessing. Our garage was like a warehouse with continuously revolving stock. One week we had miniature bowling lanes, the next a freezer full of baked goods. There was even a time when we had a player piano for a few hours, adding to the general feeling of an outdoor circus that never failed to attract the children in our neighborhood. Usually we had a wide variety of cars and motorcycles, limited only by my mother�s demand that we be able to shut the garage door at night.
I heard my mother mention the word �Disneyland� and emerged from my little world of thought. Disneyland! Were we going to Disneyland? Could we go to Disneyland? She was talking to Grandma, reminiscing about Orange County before the population boom. �It used to be one huge orange grove. Groves for miles around. Dad used to drive us there on Sundays, remember? Now look at it.� I looked around. We weren�t anywhere near Disneyland.
Grandma nodded. �Too many people.�
No use listening any more. Those two women loved adventure, but they couldn�t fathom the expense of amusement parks. Obviously the number of people didn�t matter, because here we were surrounded by half of L.A. My mother and grandmother were efficient, frugal, money-conscious women. We lived well, we saw much because of them. But with few exceptions, the closest I got to the most magical place on earth was when we sat on our roof and watched the fireworks.
A battle of the bands commenced in the distance, as one after another the marchers tuned up, played a measure or two, and splattered notes about. The voice of the crowd was working its way into a mild roar, undulating every time a police officer clattered by on his horse, pushing people back onto the sidewalk.
I stayed close to my dad, and when his new friend turned away he reclaimed his lawn chair and gathered me into his lap. This was my domain, and the rise and fall of my father�s chest belonged to me alone. Grandpa laughed as my brother Christian, the next oldest to me, stomped and raged around him. Christian was the smartest, the most tortured member of the family. Grandpa loved to think up riddles for him. They were still arguing over one from last Christmas.
I, on the other hand, was a disappointment. When Grandpa told me that the mileage was so good in his car that he had to take gas out sometimes, I thought that was pretty neat. We could be rich with a car like that! As I couldn�t redeem myself with good singing or storytelling, and remained uninterested in carburetors and other machine parts, he left me to myself.
My sister suffered the same fate, but she cared less than I did. She was around somewhere in this great crowd, and having my father�s gift of instant friendship, she was probably not alone.
I watched the world from my haven of safety. The sidewalks bulged with a mass of faces, coats, body parts, and balloons. Hawkers paraded up and down with their temptations, which I had already learned not to want. We waited for the central portion of the spectacle, this brief intermission from our usual life, to begin.
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