I mentioned in my last blog that I led a goat up the main street of my town in a rodeo procession. To date I have probably been in fifteen or so processions in my life. Processions are the norm in the country. You have a rodeo, you have a procession. You have an agricultural show, you have a procession.
Everybody loves a parade.
There is something quite wonderful growing up knowing that at some point in the year, maybe twice, you are going to be sitting on the flatbed of a semi-trailer, probably dressed up as cowboy or an ear of corn, waving at the passing crowd. If you are lucky you might even get the job of pegging lollies at them as well.
So, at this point, if you are saying to yourself “what the fuck is she talking about?” you may not have grown up in a country town. In fact, in my 20’s working in Sydney I once drifted off into lunchroom reverie about processions. People stared blankly.
These people had never been in a procession.
They had never threaded crepe paper through the spokes of their bikes, chucked on their Brownies uniform and ridden, at wobbly-slow speed, up the main street dodging the horse shit from the Pony Club entry in front.
They had never donned their tutu’s and Jiffies and twirled up the main drag waving to the people spilling out of the pub windows.
These people hadn’t sat in a vintage car, or on a fire engine, or a ute covered in Rotary or Lion's Club banners, pegging lollies at people.
These people hadn’t lived!
One thing I regret about my son growing up in the city is that he won’t be a part of this phenomenon. Unlike his mother, he won’t cross-dress as a priest on his school’s 75th Anniversary float (all girls school) with a school pipe band ringing in his ears.
He won’t swelter as a witch in 40-degree heat on his kindy float wondering, if he faints, will the procession stop or will he be trampled by Chainsaw, the prize rodeo bull.
The poor little bugger won’t just dress up like a clown, get on his bike and ride down the main street for no reason than the fact that he can…
And peg lollies at people.
From one procession participant to another .. I hear you :) I also feel sad that my children may never know the joy of the crepe paper spokes lasting long after the procession, and being a badge of honour of involvement. Them and the playing cards held on by pegs. Long live the days of the megaphone blasting from the head-of-parade ute, and the Rotary sausage sizzle at the end. Perhaps we need to try and ring-into these events just so our next generation doesn't miss out. Either that or start campaigning local government.
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