When Candy Rains Down

Memories of the annual Christmas parades of my childhood are still fresh in my mind.

Parents check the time while their children burn off nervous energy playing in the street. I have shucked off my coat, but mother refuses to hold it while I join my friends. I’ve been raised that coats cost money and we should never, ever, leave them laying around for someone to take. Most of my friends have tied their coat sleeves around their waist, but I wear the hood capped on my head with the pull strings tied under my chin. The sleeves flap against my brother as I—accidentally, on purpose—smack him when I turn my head from side to side.

“Mom,” my brother whines. “Make her stop.”

I strike an innocent pose. I don’t care about momma catching me. Santa is always watching.

Mom has positioned us outside the jewelry store where she works part-time during the holiday season. This vantage point also places us directly across from Big Joe’s Pizza, managed by her sister, Della. My cousins have made a pinky-promise-pact to share the candy we collect. I doubt they will.

It is 1974, I am seven years old and parades are my favorite thing in the whole wide world.

Sirens blare. The crowd turns toward the noise as a Bryson City Police cruiser comes into view. The parade begins.

Opening the celebration, two members of the Swain County High School Band hold a crushed-velvet banner. Walking backward with a whistle pursed between her lips, the drum majorette lifts her hands, smacks them together, and begins the count which is a signal for everyone to ready their instruments. Her boot tassels beat out a staccato rhythm as she marches in place, “One, two, three, four!” She speaks with authority. Collectively, instruments come into position, lips moisten, backs straighten, chins raise. Mothers tell their children to hush. The sound of “Jingle Bells” fills the air, then fades as they march past.

Mom and I always watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on television. We ooh and ah as the Snoopy and Bullwinkle hot air balloons come into view, and the marching bands play for the camera. I lift my chin with pride. Bryson City’s band could go up against the best New York City has to offer.

Two majorettes fling silver batons into the air. They twirl in place and catch the baton on the descent without missing a step. The band director follows wearing checked polyester pants and a thick striped tie that today seems gaudy, but in the 70s displayed the latest style.

A red Corvette inches forward with the homecoming queen sitting on the hood. She wears a sleeveless dress, long white gloves and waves like a princess. Members of her court follow. They do not throw candy so I am not impressed. I look past them and lean forward when I hear, “Maroon Machine! Maroon Machine!” coming from the cheerleaders. Both the high school and junior varsity cheerleaders shake oversized pom poms and wear lipstick-smiles. I can tell mother doesn’t approve of their skirts, so short I can see their frilly maroon underwear every time the girls raise their hands high to wave at the crowd.

Behind them, a faded blue Massey-Ferguson tractor pulls a lowboy trailer with hay bales for seats. High school athletes pack the trailer, adorned with their jerseys. One of the players bends to retrieve his helmet and another follows his lead. Suddenly, they fill the air with candy. Cinnamon and butterscotch disks land with a thunk. Root beer barrels strike the pavement and roll. We rush toward the tractor, unconcerned about injury because no one is in a hurry and the poor kids of Appalachia don’t get much candy.

I hurry, best I can, but the boys are faster than me. They grab greedily. My hands come up empty. I want to cry.

My brother unwraps his broken butterscotch. The treat is powdery after hitting the pavement, but he doesn’t care. He shoves the sweet in his mouth without offering to share. I want to whine that he should share, but I would have done the same. The sound of crinkling wrappers reminds me I’m too slow. I search the pavement, but it’s picked clean of candy. Only trampled and pulverized pieces remain. All around me, kids place wrappers in their mother’s hands. We’ve been raised to believe that only trashy people toss trash onto the pavement; and Bryson City folk aren’t trash.

Members of the wagon train come into view next. My heart leaps to see the horses with garland tied to their tack; some have matching gold-painted hooves. Troy Whiteside, Swain County’s resident cowboy and wagon master, leads a foal alongside his mount. He’s training the young horse to be around loud people and unafraid to encounter something new. I want a horse more than anything. Doesn’t every seven-year-old girl?

A siren sounds. It’s the fire truck. Finally, Santa is here. Not the fake Santa you see on television. This is the real Santa. The one who eats the oatmeal raisin cookies I leave each year, who reads my letters, and who let me down last year when I asked for a horse, again. Getting Barbie’s palomino pony just isn’t the same, but I don’t let on like I’m disappointed.

Then Santa comes into view. He waves, and I stand on tiptoes so he won’t miss me in the crowd. He and Mrs. Claus reach deep into a red velvet bag—the same one used to bring toys to all the good little girls and boys—and candy rains down. The air smells of peppermint and Christmas wishes. Children rush the firetruck with arms stretched high, palms open. And I swear to heaven Santa looked me straight in the eye and willed a piece directly in my hand.

As the taste of peppermint melts on my tongue I am confident he will bring me a horse this year.