There comes a point in life when a parade quietly changes.
As adults, we think about practical things. We look for a good parking spot. We wonder if the parade is running behind schedule. We check the weather, talk with neighbors, and watch the floats pass by.
Children don’t see any of that.
To them, a parade isn’t an event.
It’s an adventure.
Every siren announces something exciting. Every float carries the promise of another surprise. Every handful of candy tossed into the street becomes a treasure hunt.
While photographing the Independence Day parade in Island Pond, I found myself watching one little girl instead of the procession. She waited with anticipation, raced after candy with determined little strides, searched the pavement for one last forgotten piece, applauded the passing floats, and then settled back into place, ready to do it all again.
Watching her, I couldn’t help but remember what parades once felt like.
There was a time when every fire truck seemed enormous. The music was louder. The flags seemed brighter. The candy somehow tasted better because you had earned it by being just a little quicker than everyone else.
Somewhere along the way, many of us traded that sense of wonder for familiarity. The parade became something we attended instead of something we experienced.
But perhaps the magic never really disappears.
Perhaps it simply borrows the eyes of the next generation.
That’s one of the quiet gifts children give us. They remind us how extraordinary ordinary things can be. Through their excitement, we rediscover moments we had almost forgotten—standing on a sunny curb, waving at strangers who wave back, and believing that every passing float might bring one more piece of candy.
Maybe that’s why communities keep holding parades year after year. They’re not only celebrating history. They’re creating memories for children who will someday look back and remember a warm July morning when the world seemed just a little bigger, a little brighter, and a little more magical than it does today.
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