In 1979, I was three years old. Carter was President, the winters were snowier and New York City was a magical land just over the GW Bridge. But it wasn’t Disneyland.
By Thanksgiving eve of 1980, I was off to my second annual viewing of Macy’s finest helium heroines as they rose to their glory over the course of the evening. Somewhat accidentally, my dad says, is how we ended up watching the floats inflate along the sidelines of the Museum of Natural History. Although seeing the infamous whale inside maintained a certain cache, nothing, including Chinese New Year or Annie (the first time around), could compare to our annual Thanksgiving eve trek to the Upper West Side.
My mother basted her turkey while friends and family helped prepare for the following day’s feast; but my daddy and I were off to watch those grand, looming and colorful characters puff and inflate. I remember those first years quite well. The parade itself was an afterthought; I would wake up to the television, seeking out all the floats I could remember from the night before.
We were two characters ourselves, a Jewish Frick and Frack, Kavalier and Clay, Ross and daughter, shouting for Kermit like the Yanks were barely down in the 9th. The roads weren’t cordoned off then; a few police lingered. We ate pretzels. And meat on a stick. We were travelers who encountered all eventualities: some years hail, others blustering winds. We bought glow in the dark bracelets and I sat on my dad’s shoulders. Kermit’s limbs would sag and then extend, helium, and the small chanting crowd, encouraging him to eek out one more year. Go Kermey. Go Kermey. He was an old float.
Eventually though, Kermit retired. But not us. This past Wednesday, my dad and I celebrated our 27th visit to the floats, missing only one year to the flu (mine, not Kermit’s). Sure, we’ve changed as well. In college, I would invariably cut my Wednesday classes if they weren’t already cancelled, racing down from New Hampshire, cheering on my aging Volvo as I would Kermit. Come on, one more year. You can make it.
The balance shifted. Fewer floats and pretzels, more fancy dinners. First, Union Square. Then Shun Lee. Since then, Le Bernadin, Gramercy Tavern, Montrachet. Yet the main attraction remained the same. It was our tradition.
In 2002, I moved to New York for graduate school. Now I was the savvy city girl, and my dad came to retrieve me in the West Village for our annual date. And in 2005, perhaps our most special dinner yet, I watched as my dad carefully questioned the waiter regarding how they cooked the Dover Sole. It had been only five weeks since a minor heart attack forced him to make major changes. Sure, the cream sauce was good. But being here is better.
2007. I live in Brooklyn now and am planning a wedding. No matter. Flower arrangements and bridal parties can wait. This is our special night. Oops, it just got sappy. So before this turns into Miracle on 34th Street meets Father of the Bride, I’ll switch gears. It turns out it’s not actually our night anymore.
It’s the whole town’s night!
Nice Matin must have been the gastronomic segue to watching the floats. The restaurant is jammed with pre-turkey cheer; wine is flowing and reservations are barely honored. We finish dinner and walk west, along with the madding crowd. Despite seeing the streets busier over the years, somehow 2008 feels like the tipping point. Masses of strollers pound across Columbus Avenue, thousands of policeman monitor the docile, if not affected, crowd. Cheer is in the air but, in the spirit of New York, so is the hum of being in the cool place.
Religion isn’t the opiate of the people. Hulking, cartoon gods are. Shrek. Mutant turtles. Sure, I could be called a Thanksgiving Grinch. Certainly every child should be able to look back on urban youth with larger than life memories of their favorite characters blown up in 3-D. But must everything become a circus? I remember when the crowds were simply a sideshow. Crews of workmen and women on the job through the night. The rest of us just had our nose against the fence.
As New York Magazine wrote, “What was once simply a preparatory stage to the big show has evolved into an event itself with the crowds to prove it.”
Don’t get me wrong, I followed the madding crowd this year. And I’m just as competitive as the next girl on the F train. So please note for the record, that I was there first. Not in 1927 when it began, but close enough. Standing on the shoulders of a giant, when New York wasn’t Disneyland.
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What a great story! You are really an amazing writer 🙂 How’s the planning going???? We have to chat soon! I want to update you with all the good news from my end… we booked the place, the band, the florist, and I got my dress this weekend! Lots to do… lots to do!