Parading Family and Friends to Pasadena

At first, nobody’s too keen to go. I sort of have to beg them, which doesn’t seem right, begging somebody to go to a great parade.

“Wanna go to the parade?” I ask the boy.

“Ga-yeah,” the boy says.

That’s his exact response. Ga-yeah. I guess it means “yes.” Or “maybe-yes.” Or “maybe-yes-maybe.” As in:

Mom: “Did you do your homework?”

Boy: “Ga-yeah, Mom, I did my homework.”

But finally we head off toward Pasadena with the kids and a few of our friends, the minivan swelling with children, the doors almost bulging out in the middle and the rear, sort of like a dad after the holidays.

Twenty minutes later, we are two blocks from the parade route. Apparently, we are not the first to arrive. There are a couple of hundred thousand people already here, though no one we immediately recognize.

Of course, a better dad would have planned this a little more. Maybe reserved some bleacher seats. Or gotten up two hours earlier to claim a spot along the curb.

But late New Year’s Eve, I just got this last-minute idea to go to the Rose Parade, leaving little time for preparation. Like a lot of great last-minute ideas, it was rejected by people who don’t share the same sense of optimism and adventure.

“You’re going where?” my wife had asked.

“To the parade,” I said.

And she walked away shaking her head and muttering to herself, like the day in 1982 when I first proposed. By now, you’d think she would’ve adjusted.

“What’s she saying?” I asked the little red-haired girl as her mother muttered off toward the kitchen.

“She says you’re going to drive her crazy,” the little girl said.

“Really?” I asked the little girl.

“Ga-yeah,” the little girl said.

So here we are nine hours later, lining up along Colorado Boulevard, deciding between the sunny side or the shady side, trying to find a window through the pulsing crowd.

“Where are we going to sit?” the little red-haired girl asks.

And up like a totem pole she goes, onto my shoulders, peering out for signs of the first float, like the rest of the totem pole kids lining the route.

As the parade approaches, we study the crowd and admire the tourists, who all seem so happy to be here, basking in the first sunshine they’ve seen since maybe October.

It is always one of the highlights of the Rose Parade, studying the tourists from the Midwest, in their deck shoes and red sweatshirts, their cheeks all rosy in honor of the day.

And when the parade arrives, the Wisconsin fans squint into the sunshine and dance little jigs and clap at every entry that passes--the floats, the bands, even the horses, who eye them suspiciously, wondering how anybody can be this cheerful so early in the day.

“Why are they so happy?” the little girl asks as the Wisconsin fans cheer everything that passes.

“Schnapps,” I say.

“What?” asks the little girl.

“Because they’re from Wisconsin,” my older daughter says.

“Oh,” says the little girl.

“They don’t see many parades,” my older daughter explains.

“Oh,” says the little girl.

Which seems strange to the little girl, that they wouldn’t have parades like this everywhere on New Year’s Day, down the main boulevard of every town and city in America, with horses and gigantic college bands and big floats crafted of carnations, marigolds and mums.

“Why?” the little girl asks.

“Just watch the parade,” her brother says.

So she watches the parade, squinting in the sunshine and clapping at all the right moments, appreciative of every single flower and every single horse, like a tourist herself.

And it’s a terrific parade, large and loud, saluting astronauts and “Sesame Street” characters and old sitcom stars. Apparently, it is a Rose Parade rule not to honor people until 30 or 40 years after they do something. In Pasadena, they make you wait a while.

“Nice mules,” the little girl says as a dozen mules trudge by, probably 30 years past their prime.

The parade follows the usual pattern--float, band, horses--over and over again, with gigantic high school bands from places like Bozeman, Mont., and Johnson City, Tenn., places where having a great marching band gets the priority it deserves.

“They’re so pretty,” my older daughter says.

“The flag girls?” I ask.

“No, the tubas,” my daughter says, admiring the waves of shimmering brass.

And like all great shows, it seems over too soon. In a couple of hours, the crowds filter off, then head for the Rose Bowl or home to the TV, where they’ll watch parade replays all day long.

Once home, the kids flop on the couch like sled dogs, half on top of each other, finding a little warmth in people they’d never expect to find any warmth in. Each other.

“Look at the mules!” the little girl says as the replay begins.

“Nice mules,” her sister says.

And in a moment, they are all asleep.

“Happy New Year,” their mother whispers.

“Ga-yeah,” I say.

Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.