Unforgettable...

                                                                            Parade

a tribute to Walter Chandler

This isn’t a good reason to miss the Christmas parade.

After all, floats are anchored to their numbered spots

in blocks of east and west feeder streets.

In the past, our sea of folks was split by marchers, trucks,

and bands before the ruckus, its raised eyebrows as Walter,

the gray-haired Afro strutter swished past all of us.

He’d been his own drum major, had led his Batonettes, aged

five to twenty-five, in fuchsia colored elastic shorts. Eyes stuck

to his swagger, often prompted mimics to strut alongside,

exaggerating his exaggeration. One reporter described Walter

as an X-rated Mummer without the feathers. Walter had a theory

about parades: parades were for showing it all.

For years, he’d done just that. No one else had provoked editorials,

had rattled do-gooders long after Santa’s waves. Masses swore, vowed

not to attend again, blocked their children’s cable access.

Still, that dread Sunday parade came and went. Crowds were thinner,

less awed. There were more skimpy-dressed majorettes on TV

at a Redskins’ game than in all of the parade.

Because this year Walter was a Hall of Famer, not a flame but a rider,

a celebrity in white, but for his red sash, a match to his hat and the shoes

no one saw. His seat, a kitchen chair in the back of the pick up truck

just didn’t sit him high enough.

               B. Koplen original 12/11/97

                                    Revised 12/18/2012