My First Float
If home is where the heart is then the beautiful thing is that they too can mean growth. Homes, like people, have an individual life and breath. With their unique blend of sights, sounds and smells, they swell with the pulse of true existence. Found familiar and warm after travel, the soul longs always to return home. Though it might not always appear as it did when left, the home beckons the heart to return. As many times subtle changes take place the home grows with its' inhabitants until one day the difference between the two is almost indistinguishable. Don't we all take a little bit of home with us wherever we go? Where we grow up and how much that environment has an effect on who we become can be one of the greatest accomplishments of man. There is a famous poem that speaks of what a child sees in the home and how those visions steer his thinking. Truly, if a child grows with ridicule, he learns to condemn. Likewise, if a child grows with praise, he learns to have respect. The home is the first place a child sees, hears and learns to believe in the world. If he is loved and comforted there, part of that world remains within him, grows with him to be spread wherever he goes. The decor, snap-shots of his life become fluid and move about with him. His personal footprint on the world he has walked becomes his signature. He should be proud of his unique heritage and who he is because of it. What's in a name? The surname one carries? The street name one grows up on? The name on the mailbox outside the front door? The name of the person, place or tribe the street is a tribute to? The name of those that become a tribute to the communities in which they dwell? Each piece becomes a bit of the tapestry, woven into personal testimonies of life. Home can be anywhere one hangs one's hat, goes back to when they need comfort, support and a time out from the world at bay. It can be as small as a shoe-box or as large as a continent. Home is where a child's soul is at rest and peaceful, kissed and tucked in safely at night. Home is where a man's heart can arise at dawn, eager to grow again.

Commemorating heroes from floats in the new season's sun. Waving flags and salutations as the school bands play. Tossing beads and smiling from the back of a painted pick-up. Down the road, wheels a'rollin' with posters, banners and hand crafted props atop. Nothing says community like a parade.

I remember watching from my daddy's shoulders when I was just about my daughter's age. I had moved around my whole life and there had been a parade in every place I had lived. From rural middle Pennsylvania to Mardi Gras through the French Quarter, Louisiana, they attract a crowd wherever they may roll. I had always had a mild crush but it was from one in particular that I developed a true love.

The darkness made it mysterious while my dad's shoulder's made it safe. The crowd had gathered, huddled, hushed, waiting for the music to start. It began to pulse out of the night, deep and familiar, heard from afar. Then the lights emerged, stunning and magical, twirling and spinning through the throngs, taking my breath away. I giggled as princesses were brought to life before my very eyes and from that moment hence, parades have paved the way to dreamland.

I have been proud to have been invited before to be part of a parade, but for one reason or another my feet have turned cold just before the big day. I waited, instead, with the masses, sometimes in sunlight, sometimes in shade, watching as the bands, ball players and beauty queens waved while going by.

Floating down Base Street, I was honored to be a part of the Four Freedoms Festival. It was my first as part of the parade. The banner that proceeded, announcing our Voice supported mesa purple theme that spoke of unity was the first for all aboard.

Though the first float that made me fall in love was orchestrated and productionalized, whirlingly fabulous and made for a land that is famous for entertaining millions, my true love has always remained on a smaller scale. It has been watching from the side of a street lit by sunshine and flag waving toddlers that really took my breath away. The anticipation of watching those one knows and are proud of roll by that speaks in the truest voice to the heart. It was for Madison Florida Voice that I sat anxious, nervously waving to the crowd as we passed.

The voice of a community comes together in such beautiful ways. Some are huge displays of fancy, made to wow an enormous crowd brought together for a short time only to live out a dream. Some are more special, real people and lives brought together forever with intertwined scenes, waving as they float down the streets they drive every day. Either way, they hold spellbound the child at heart with their tossed trinkets and smiles, princesses and horsepower, music and magic. Forget about the Cabaret, my friends, life is a parade!