In 1960, when I was four, the word ‘memorial’ had no meaning. Put it with ‘day’ and it meant, parade. Memorial Day Parade. What was it for?

A clue may have been found in the fluttering American flags, clutched by every child sitting curbside, including me. Or perhaps in the contingent of veterans marching in uniform, some of them from World War II; their presence a poignant reminder of the sacrifices made by so many, including my father, a Korean War Veteran who saluted the soldiers as they passed by. 

The parade always began with the high school marching band, their instruments gleaming in the sunlight, their uniforms crisp and movements perfectly synchronized. The sound of their brass section was powerful and uplifting, the resonant drums shook my bones. 

To my delight, came the baton twirlers, a group of talented young women from the local high school. Dressed in white and gold, they performed dazzling routines, throwing their batons high into the air and catching them with ease. Their energy inspired me to grow up fast, and do the same. I never became a baton twirler, but my younger sister did. She was born that summer, and fifteen years later would be the head majorette.

Even better than the twirlers were the horses. Where did they come from? Where did they sleep at night? Could I have one? These were the questions I’d badger Mom with the minute the horses trotted down the street, their coats shining under the sun. Among them was Johnny’s Palomino, ‘pal of mine’ in Italian. 

Johnny, a young boy from the neighborhood, rode proudly atop his golden horse, waving to his friends and neighbors. The majestic sight of Johnny’s Palomino, with its corn silk mane and tail, was a charming spectacle that drew smiles and applause from the crowd. Decades later, long after his famous and well-loved horse passed, he opened a bar, Johnny’s Palomino, on the parade avenue. 

The parade also featured floats from various local organizations. The Garden Club had a beautiful float adorned with fresh flowers, creating a moving garden that filled the air with a sweet fragrance. The Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts followed, their uniforms neat with sashes straight and filled with hard-won badges. Young Girl Scouts were called ‘Brownies’ back then, a name is based on Julia H. Ewing’s book, The Brownies. In English folklore Brownies were gentle, clever, helping fairies who came into people’s homes and discretely did good turns. I would soon march as a Brownie in our Memorial Day Parade. 

Fire trucks rolled down the avenue, their sirens blaring intermittently. The firefighters, some perched atop the trucks, tossing candies to us. Tootsie rolls, Mary Janes, Pixie Sticks, Starbursts and Razzles. A group of clowns handed out balloons and performed tricks. I got a red balloon that year. The kind that floated in the air all by itself. I had to hold tight otherwise it might escape, as many did only to get stuck in the trees or fly up and away through the clouds leaving a crying child behind.

As the parade came to a close, the crowd slowly dispersed, heading towards the town park for post-parade festivities. There, families enjoyed picnics, and children played games, while the adults mingled and reminisced about past parades. The sense of togetherness was strong, reinforcing the bonds that hold communities together. 

Reflecting upon the Memorial Day Parade of 1960 was more than just a series of performances and displays. It was a heartfelt tribute to our veterans and a celebration of the unity and spirit of a small town. The parade highlighted the pride we take in our community and our collective respect for those who have served our country, making it a memorable and cherished event for all who attended, including me.  

RAMONA JAN is the Founder and Director of Yarnslingers, a storytelling group that tells tales both fantastic and true. She is also the roving historian for Callicoon, NY and is often seen giving tours around town. You can email her at callicoonwalkingtours@gmail.com.