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December 31, 2003 |
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Happy New Year. Tomorrow is January 1st, a day serving not only as the bell cow for all three hundred and sixty six days 2004 but also hosts one of my all time favorite events, the Rose Bowl parade. For as long as I can remember New Year’s Eve has been a night to turn in early. Not that I’m anti-social when it comes to the revelry associated with welcoming the New Year, (although that well could be a part of my avoidance of all things Auld Lang Sine) I just want to be well rested when those magnificently massive flower bedecked floats, the quick stepping marching bands, the USC song girls and Monte Montana make the turn from Orange Grove onto Colorado Boulevard and head directly into my living room. (Not until the miracle of Google was I to learn Monte Montana was a former movie star and trick roper, not just the gussied up old guy appearing yearly in the Rose Bowl parade where he was always attempting, while on horseback, to twirl two ropes simultaneously. It always seemed the TV cameras caught Mr. Montana picking up far more ropes off the pavement than we ever witnessed spinning in the air. Even more unfortunate, especially from Monte’s perspective, after my spending a lifetime of New Year’s mornings wondering “Who is that guy?” by the time I actually knew of his contributions to the world of trick roping, the native of Wolf Point had become the late Monte Montana.) Spending the New Year’s mornings of my youth, self-swaddled in a blanket filched from the bed, and paying close attention to the twelve-inch screen on our family’s black and white Coronado TV, I was transfixed by a world, California, that only existed on television. Right there on that miniscule TV were warm sunny skies showering golden rays on spectators in shirtsleeves, people clapping and cheering as a floral bonanza floated by. This wasn’t the raw, cold, windblown Mid-Western winter one found just outside the window of our Illinois home. This was a parade so big it was held on a street immortalized by the Beach Boys, “Go granny, go granny, go granny go, She’s the terror of Colorado Boulevard”. Surely the “Dead Man’s Curve” of Jan and Dean fame could only be a block or so away. To a teen that had never journeyed west of Des Moines this, right there before my eyes, had to be the Promised Land. Years later, with a family of my own, I finally witnessed the Rose Bowl Parade “up close and personal”. With three daughters and a brand new business the Maynards did not vacation on an unlimited budget. New Years Eve found the two of us plus our daughters, their aunt and uncle and two cousins all trying to sleep in a single room at the Holiday Inn in El Monte while a New Year’s Eve party raged down the hall. We gave up the attempt at shut-eye around 3:30 in the morning and nine very sleepy people climbed in the family van headed for Pasadena. But once the sun was up in the SoCal sky all were wide-awake and open-mouthed standing on the curb or sitting on the shoulders of the adults staring at the rainbow of colors and famous folks passing by. Waving to us from what appeared to be moving flower gardens were astronauts, Olympic athletes, movie stars, Roy and Dale and yes, even Monte Montana. Poor Monte, it wasn’t enough that his ropes refused to co-operate as he attempted to keep them spinning over his ten gallon hat but his horse was closely followed and continually spooked by the drum line of the University of Iowa marching Hawkeye band. Let the rest of the world make New Year resolutions they can’t keep. My only public promise for 2004 is to spend the first morning of the year on the couch in front of the TV, feasting on really gooey fresh baked cinnamon rolls backed with a hot coffee chaser as the Tournament of Roses Parade passes by. And Monte, now that I know your gone, I’m gonna miss ya.
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