- February 11, 2025
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This year was unlike any other year Team Observer had participated in the annual Home for the Holidays Parade. This year, we were prepared.
Thanks to the craftsmanship of Josh McPherson and the creative brain of Jennifer Hogg, our Observer Christmas tree was trimmed with newspapers and strung with lights. Our company's banner was proudly hung on a wood plank-thing that I'm sure Josh has an official name for, but I'm too embarassed to ask. Our empty boxes of presents were wrapped in newspaper thanks to our Advertising Manager Jaclyn Centofanti, and our newspaper skirts were duct taped together thanks to the amazing Lauren McPherson.
I, was obviously, the coordinator. A job no one should have given me.
We pulled out of the office's parking lot Saturday evening, with our boss, John Walsh, towing us in the trailer. Molly McDonald snapped a few selfies and the rest of us practiced our waving as we made our way to the parade lineup.
"Em, what division are we in this year?" Josh called back from the car.
"Huh," I half-heartedly answered, too distracted by the perfection of the current moment to really pay attention. "I'm not sure, but someone will know."
Apparently, that someone was supposed to be me.
After parking in the first spot we could find, we began getting all our decorations together when John called out to me in a tone that made me immediately believe something was off.
"We're not on the list," he said. peering over his sunglasses. I felt the panic of failure slowly rise up in my stomach as I furiously typed the words "parade info" into my email search bar. No matches.
"I swore I sent in the application," I said, my voice trailing off. "Ah ha! Here's the application I sent in."
Victorious, I flashed my screen for all to see.
"Yes," said the parade coordinator (unofficial title), "but you also should have recieved a follow-up email with your division."
That was nowhere to be found. The parade staff walked off to find a solution and ensured us they would "get us a spot soon." John ordered a pizza. Molly took another selfie.
After an hour or so of nervously waiting for someone to offically tell me I had messed up beyond the point of return, one of parade organizers returned to give us our spot: #99. Our wait time had doubled.
Eventually (well past dark) we began our route down Divison Street. Even though our legs were tired from standing, and our cheeks were sore from saying "Merry Christmas" every five seconds, the feeling of having the entire community gathered together for one night to celebrate the holidays, carried us through.
Besides, what are the holidays without a little Christmas panic?
