Growing up in a small town can have its magic moments of freedom, like never having to worry about locking your door, visiting the town store so many times that the owners know you by name, or being able to stay up until the bats come out while you play cops and robbers with the neighbors. But the excitement of crowds and city life always enticed me as a child, and it was something I rarely experienced firsthand, except just once a year, the most magical day of the year for my small town of Gorham, New York.

The Pageant of Bands.

This event encompassed my desires for thrills, happiness, and excitement so much that I would prepare for its arrival months in advance and still be talking about it for the rest of the summer. While I didn’t play any instruments myself, having all the high schools from the wider rural area come to our town for a parade/competition meant nothing less than a day of thrills. For once, our town had vendors come in selling everything I always wanted and my parents never bought for me: hot dogs, corn dogs, cotton candy, snow cones, ice cream, fried dough, nachos, curly fries smothered in cheese, and souvenir items like balloons, banners, and flags. To my town, my little Podunk town where the other most exciting event that occurred was the annual volunteer firehouse pancake raffle.

Each year, upon the approach of June, my neighbor, Jen and I would save every penny we could—we’d collect cans we found in alleys and ditches, turning them in for five cents apiece, save change left over from purchasing our lunch, and sacrifice our measly allowances, normally set aside for buying whatever allotments of candy and push-up ice creams they sold in the store, so that we would have money to spend at the annual Pageant of Bands.

The morning of the event, I’d be up at dawn, scouring the streets for any sign of life. As the school buses and event vans poured into town, parking in the school lot at the top of the hill on Main Street, I had my money and my autograph book ready. Jen and I would meander through the uniformed band members, admiring their bright gold medallions, their tassels of every school color ranging from hunter green to maroon, their hats that looked like white mockeries of top hats, their glistening leather boots and pants that appeared to be born perfectly folded, and collect signatures.

For some reason I had grown to love the band from Waterloo, and I always started with them. At age eight, I didn’t seem to grasp the fact that these bands represented high schools, or the age was far too distant for me to fathom, so I admired them as much as if they were Hollywood movie stars. Every year I was greeted with surprise bouts of glee as they signed my autograph book, and thinking back on it now, I don’t know who was happier about the whole thing, them or me.

After we’d made our rounds with the bands, we’d meander through the tables and stuff ourselves with the wares that were magical. My personal favorites were snow cones and cotton candy. I would suck all the juice from the snow cone and crunch on the ice as the bands began marching by, pounding on their drums, belting out glorious tunes on their trumpets, tubas, and trombones, and keeping the perfect alignment of steps as they smoothly made their way up the hill. By the end of the event, my snow cone had melted, and I would begin working on my cotton candy, pulling small tufts into my sticky fingers, creating little cubes and popping them into my mouth, luxuriating on the sweet, grainy satisfaction as the cotton slowly dissolved on my tongue.

The Pageant of Bands ended the school year and began my summer. It made me and everyone else I knew in the town feel that, for once, the spotlight was on us. Years later, after moving away and living the exciting city life that I’d always dreamed of as a young child, I can still hear the beat, feel the momentum building, and relish in the smooth movements of the bands as they marched up the hill, marking the new season and my heart with their music.