I (Still) Love a Parade

My boss is a guy who would prefer to do his work behind the scenes but he knows he's the face of the college. This year he decided he wanted the face to have a few more freckles so everyone who reports directly to him got to walk in the homecoming parade over the weekend.

That would include...me!

My love of small-town parades is deep-seated and well-documented. How can you not love a propane-powered 1942 wheat truck that's now being used by the Green Team to transport recyclables? Especially when it's driven by our genius landscaping guy who's grinning from ear to ear?

My job was not only to walk and wave (elbow, elbow, wrist-wrist-wrist) but to throw candy to the screaming moppets who lined the parade route. I may not have been the best choice for this task, since saying I throw like a girl would be an insult to girls. I throw like a crazed robot whose switch has stuck somewhere between "Put some muscle into that throw" and "Throw harder, for Pete's sake," and occasionally veers to the "Just don't injure yourself" setting.

That last setting should have included "...or anyone else" in the instructions. At one point I decided I might be more apt to get the Smarties and Bit o' Honeys somewhat close to the kids if I threw overhand rather than scooting the sweets along the pavement. This turned into a WKRP in Cincinnati turkey drop moment:



After I saw a couple of kids cowering and covering their heads with their arms as I heaved handfuls of individually wrapped Starbursts their way I knew I had to come up with a different strategy.

For all of you kids who weren't close enough to the action to have me put candy directly into your grocery sacks, come by my office. I have plenty left.