Parata

The Latin word ‘parare’, which means to prepare or to furnish, crosses language borders to become ‘parata’ in Italian, ‘parada’ in Spanish and ‘parade’ in French. Around the world, there is the Chinese Lantern Parade; Fête dé Noué; The Cortege; Junkaroo—a cultural street dance from Africa; there is also Kattenstoet—‘Festival of the Cats’—in Belgium; the Bloemencoro – the ‘Flower Parade’ of Holland. Then there is Mardi Gras, Pride, Thanksgiving, Mummers, the Parade of Horribles, the Royal Entry…fact is there’s a parade for just about everyone.

Parades invite us to march, dance, walk, ride, wave, sing or play in civic gatherings that travel down our main streets. There are solemn marches; there are rituals, celebrations, walks for protest and processions for religion; there are re-enactments tied to the calendar and…before I go too far I have to say that I am partial to the Samba School of parades.

I digress, I know. But think about it. On the same main drag that we likely frequent in our day-to-day: work, groceries, kids to skating, muffler repair— picking up laundry and the odd parking ticket in between— if you are in a samba parade, you get to boogie on that very same turf. Yep, right down that ol’ white line inscribed on the asphalt that on any ordinary day spells rules-ofthe- road. But in a parade? When was the last time you got to dance in the middle of the road accompanied by stilt-people, dragons, steel drums and the local constabulary with red lights flashing? I mean how good is that? I often feel I owe it to myself now and then just to be in a parade. But then again, watching one can be just as rewarding.

The horizon over the village of Consecon this morning is loaded with signs familiar and a steel-blue scarf-tightening-snow-bearing sky piling down from the highlands of the Canadian Shield.

I stand boneidle among a huddle of viewers by the Main Street bridge: then comes two drum rolls from the 413 Air Force Pipes and Drums band; each roll lasts three paces in the march; the bagpipe drone kicks in on the second roll as the sound of pipes skirl over the crossing of Consecon creek. In a heartbeat the narrow Consecon waterway becomes the Firth of Forth at Edinburgh, Scotland: Everything is at ease in the rhythm of this moment —time is at eventide. The damp November lifts from my blood; young faces light up with the largesse of a Santa parade; eyes of the elderly tear-up then smile; a parade can bear witness to parades past.

I think about a former Christmas parade in Brockville, Ontario. The place was home to Con Darling, who looked forward to a parade. Dressed in a ragged suit and hat, Darling held a broken umbrella in one hand while he pushed a toy baby carriage with the other. A live chicken was his sole passenger in the carriage. The ‘Ambassador of Smiles’, as he came to be known, took part in every parade in the region simply to delight young people and give opportunity for the old to laugh. In so doing, he brought happiness to himself. His fame spread and eventually Darling found himself taking part in Toronto’s century-old Santa parade. Finally, one day almost twenty-five years to this day, Con Darling described himself as honoured to lead the televised Grey Cup Parade, where he spread a smile across the nation. Con Darling died in 1993, but his humanitarian act of giving lives on.

Go down to Blockhouse Island, the park at water’s edge in Brockville, when you are next by that way. There you can see the full-scale metal sculpture and accompanying plaque that pays tribute to the ‘Ambassador of Smiles’. The sculpture undertaking was driven by a local art teacher, Dave Sheridan, who impassioned his students at Thousand Islands Secondary School to celebrate their community by creating civic art. The Darling sculpture honours the small events of day-to-day.

By now the Consecon parade has passed. The drums are silent; the swans in the creek carry on. Santa has slipped away and the emptying streets resume the everyday. But ‘tis the season of yuletide parades, nighttime and day. Perhaps the ragged man with a broken umbrella and with a chicken in a carriage summed up the meaning of a parade best. With nothing to sell, no message to promote, nothing to protest or to solemnize, he proved that an honourable way of life can be simply to bring a smile to a stranger up on Main Street. That’s what parades are for.