Marching band - A way of life

I took a different route to work this morning, and on my way passed by a sight that took me back in time: the local high school marching band was practicing. They were in a local park next to a very busy road, giving them an ever changing, yet ever present audience to show off their evolving formations and semi-rehearsed songs.

All through middle and high school I was a bit of a band geek. I played (and still play, sort of) both the cornet and the trumpet. First the cornet, as that is what my brother played. Then the trumpet, as it turns out only my brother played the cornet.

Where I went to high school, marching band was a big deal. If you wanted to play in the regular band, you had to play in the marching band. As a result, we had just under 200 kids in the group, which in a school of 800 is significant. Our band leader was a traditionalist, favoring old standards (“Old Man River” comes to mind), rather than the more contemporary stuff (“Eye of the Tiger” comes to mind, as, after all, it was the late 80’s/early 90’s). And we always stayed in long straight lines, unless we broke off into lines of eight people to make circles. This was cause for lots of teenage angst, as we wanted to be the cool marching band (think “Drumline”), but we did what we were told.

What we lacked in panache we made up for in numbers.

I think I could still do some of the routines if pressed. I could certainly play several of the songs, along with our fight song and alma mater.

A highlight each year was going to the annual Marching Band Festival, held at Hofstra University. It was a total showcase of good, clean dorkiness, and we took it very seriously. Extra rehearsals (two a days!), extra practicing at home, lots of chatter in the cafeteria…

It was a televised event.

As the biggest band, we often went last, and we stormed the field each year with our time-honored entrance of running on to the field in precise steps, with eight steps equaling 10 yards. Each step was counted off in a mumbly way, except for when you hit each 10 yard line and the final stop, at which point you shouted.

If you can imagine, it sounded something like this:
“ONE two three four five six seven eight
TWO two three four five six seven eight
THREE two three four five six seven eight
FOUR two three four five six seven eight
DOWN!” (<-- = stand at attention)

The hometown crowd loved it. Man, those were heady days.

Oh – the uniform. As with any marching band, that was a critical component. Ours were a bit brutal – dark green wool pants, matching blazer, a thick vinyl overlay for the jacket with a big “H” across the chest. Plus, a stiff green and white top hat where the requisite tall plume was attached. And white gloves. It was head to toe boiling hot, particularly on Memorial Day, where we marched in the hot sun for hours.

I will say that the polar-ready uniform did come in handy in the winter months. For example, we played at a Jets game every few years (see where marching band can take you?) and I remember it being particularly frigid there. I am sure I had some sort of hot-coals-in-my-pocket contraption to keep my fingers from chipping off my hands.

I went to look up the uniforms to show you what I mean, but apparently they’ve changed it up a bit. Here is what they look like now. Lucky them.

Falmouth, by way of New York

This weekend is the annual Falmouth Road Race, a beautiful 7 mile course. It is my first year running it (had to get in by lottert), and I'm very much looking forward to it. I've heard only good things, and I know a few folks who are running it this year, so all in all I will be in very good company.

Initially P and I thought we'd spend some time on the Cape as long as we had to head to Falmouth (which, if you look at a map of MA, is the flabby part of the upper arm that forms the Cape). We have yet to make the pilgrimage to Provincetown this year, and thought this might be the time. Park ourselves on a beach, eat some good food, people watch, ride bikes along the dunes, etc.

Then P had a flash of brilliance: instead of the 4 hour drive to the tip of the Cape, how about heading to NYC instead? "This is the weekend we should head to Coney Island," she said. Brilliant, that girl.

Shockingly, this pair of NY Jews (her from Manhattan and me from Long Island) has never been to Astroland. We, who shaped our honeymoon around rollercoaster parks east of the Mississippi, have never ridden the Cyclone. And sadly, this is the final season the amusement park that graces the place. The property has been sold, and will be developed in to something that seems to be more Disney than Brooklyn. It's sad.

At least the Cyclone will be preserved, given it's national landmark status and ownership by the City of NY.

We have also been wanting to head to the MOMA to see the Richard Serra exhibit. The images I have seen are quite striking, and in person the enormity will be brought home. I have a small fear that I will feel like I am walking through a giant steel maize maze, but I'm keeping an open mind.

Looks like there's also a documentary about the font Helvetica showing. What is it about typeface that intrigues me so? We see it all the time, in various formats, yet there always seems to be a cool history attached if you take the time to look for it. Did you know Helvetica is considered "the official typeface of the twentieth century?" Methinks I'm about to get to know this little sans serif friend better.

Given the weather predicted for the weekend, and the possibility of flash flooding, I'm thinking we'll head to the museum today, and then Coney Island tomorrow. This is a switch in plans, as we were hoping to go to Coney Island on a non-weekend day. Saturday afternoon we'll leave the city, head up the coast, and find some place to stay on the way to Falmouth.

This may also be the trip that we allow ourselves to walk through the doors of the three story Container Store that is around the corner from where we are staying. All of those pretty stuff-holding objects and promises of organization have a dangerous cash sucking ability.

As for the road race, which originated this whole trip in the first place, my game plan is to run today (hello, Central Park!) and take Saturday off. Even if it rains I should be out there on the road. I went for one of the wettest runs in a while earlier this week, where my socks just became puddles and my shorts simply clung to my legs. Felt good to be out there, though. Sort of like swimming on pavement. Somehow it reminded me of my early days of running when I only went out at night and ran through the snow and ice. At that point I wore any old cotton t-shirt and sweatshirt, insulated rugby pants, and whatever socks I had that seems cushy. Compared to those days, this is nothing.

Saturday I must remember to drink lots of water and eat food that provides some good fuel, even though it will mean being on the lookout for bathrooms while we are inevitably wandering about the city streets.

On a completely random note, I know the HRC presidential debate on gay issues was held last night. One of the three people on the questioning panel was Melissa Etheridge. Really? I like her and all, but is she going to become our Bono?

Mid Day History Lesson

I am a trivia collector. Random bits of info enter my head and don't leave. Want to know the names of Rocky's turtles? Just ask. How many ridges are on the edge of a dime? No problem. Sometimes I find myself randomly poking around for information. So I wasn't surprised when I suddenly had the urge to review some of my Manchester trivia. Knowing about the town in which I live is one of my hobbies (habits?) and I generally become a pseudo tour guide for people that come to visit. Whether or not they want this type of tour is not as certain...

That said, I found a few sites of interest. They listed facts I knew (first capital city of New Hampshire was in Exeter, our main street, Elm, is believed to be the only main street in the country ending in two dead-ends), and some I didn't (in 1828, about 400 mill girls walked out of the Dover Cotton Factory enacting the first women's strike in the United States, Levi Hutchins of Concord invented the first alarm clock in 1787).

I do love living New England, where there is a true feeling of where it (it being the America experiment) all began exists.

And Manchester, from a NH standpoint, is important for many things, if nothing else for being the town where General John Stark lived (his house is on Elm Street, sitting there sort of lonely looking). If you don't know him by name, you will know him by a toast he offered (via post) for an anniversary reunion of a Revolutionary War battle:

"Live free or die. Death is not the worst of evils"