Flyaway balloons,other emergencies
marked the holiday
By Dorothy Stanaitis
Thanksgiving never officially began until a colorful balloon was tied by its string to the button of a child’s coat or wrapped around a small wrist at Philadelphia’s annual Thanksgiving Day Parade.
Balloon selection was a serious matter. Would you prefer the pink kitten, the green dog or the latest cartoon character in multiple colors? When the choice was made, the balloon was pulled from the huge bunch carried by a patient vendor, then attached to an eager owner.
Children who insisted on holding the string in their hands risked disaster. Untied balloons slipped easily from cold little fingers. Some got caught in bare, leafless branches, flying tantalizingly just out of reach, but most just rose high out of sight.
The left-behind, tethered balloons tugged like small pets on leashes, pulling away from the children lining the streets, as though struggling to join their flyaway brothers in the sky.
3 alone in the crowd
Usually, my husband drove us to the parade, oversaw the children’s balloon tying, then, after Santa Claus had been officially welcomed to the city, drove us to the family dinner at Grandma’s. But one year, because of an emergency at work, Daddy would have to join us for dinner later in the day. I was on my own with two little children, in the Thanksgiving Parade crowd.
When the parade was over and the crowd began to disperse, I was heading toward the bus stop, pushing 3-year-old Maryanne in her stroller, when 5-year-old Jimmy, trudging alongside in his heavy corrective shoes, announced he needed a rest room — quickly. Most places were closed for the holiday, so we walked several blocks to the temporary comfort stations set up at City Hall.
The lines there were long, but finally, we could head for the bus stop again. Halfway there, we saw a little boy, all alone and crying bitterly. To comfort him, Jimmy let him hold his balloon. I couldn’t locate the boy’s caregiver or a policeman, so we turned around again and took the boy to City Hall and the Lost Child Station. There, he refused to give up the balloon. After bribing Jimmy with extravagant promises, so he’d let the little boy keep the balloon, we were on our way again.
By this time, Jimmy was complaining that his shoes hurt, he was cold and hungry and he missed his balloon. Finally, we reached our bus stop — across from St. John’s Hospice for Men, where the sight of the long, dreary line of those waiting for Thanksgiving dinner was depressing.
Buses leave them behind
So was the sight of our bus, filled past legal capacity, rolling right by.
The afternoon sun had disappeared and the wind had picked up before the next bus arrived, but I was ready. I was holding Maryanne’s folded stroller in one hand, exact fare in the other. But as the bus pulled up, Maryanne ran down the street howling. Her balloon was floating free.
I dropped the stroller, ran, leaped high and seized the string. To the applause of the crowd at St. John’s Hospice? No, to the sound of the bus leaving without us.
I don’t know how long we had to wait, alone and cold, for the next bus, but we watched all the street people file in to the Hospice before it arrived.
The sky was gray, the wind was blowing, Jimmy was cranky and tired, as we were heading up the street to our own Thanksgiving dinner. Only Maryanne remained cheerful in the stroller, her beautiful balloon flying high.
