Pomp and Circumstance

Yesterday was Cedar Springs’ 87th annual Red Flannel Festival, and the town was given one of those October days that makes nostalgia almost too easy.

It was about 64 degrees, sunny, with blue skies. Just enough cool in the air to make the flannels feel needed, without forcing anyone to pretend they were comfortable while secretly feeling like they were dying of heat exhaustion. Great weather for a town of great people.

Now, I know the title of this column may sound a little grand for an occasion involving folding chairs, parade candy, food trucks, and the annual tradition of trying to remember where you parked. But that's kind of the point.

To an adult, Red Flannel Day is a festival. But I've learned over the years that to a child, it really is pomp and circumstance. At least it was to me.

I didn't have those words for it as a child, of course. A child doesn't stand on Main Street saying, “Ah yes, what a meaningful expression of local identity and seasonal tradition.” And if he does, please keep him away from me. That child is either destined for public office or already writing grant applications.

But I digress. What I knew was simpler.

When the cold started creeping in and the leaves turned bright, the red signs began to appear downtown. Long, red underwear in the windows. Red on doors, walls, storefronts, and signs. Adults who seemed unsurprised by the whole thing would grin and wave, as if the town had shared a secret with them years before and I was just beginning to catch on. Something was coming. And when it arrived, Cedar Springs felt changed.

Main Street grew larger than life. The buildings felt taller and the sidewalks seemed busier. There was music down the street, sugar in the air, kids watching for candy, parents trying to look dignified while also hoping someone would throw a Tootsie Roll their way. Or maybe that was just me as a parent yesterday as the parade went by, but that's not important, so again I digress...

There were carnival lights, food smells, and red moving through the crowd like a crown fire through the tops of a pine forest.

As a boy, I didn't understand heritage. I didn't understand tradition. I didn't understand what adults meant when they talked about... well anything, honestly, that was community-related. I only understood that people smiled more easily. They called out names of those they knew, were more willing to stop to talk on the sidewalk, and lingered a little longer as though not to miss a single second of that, let's say, "festival feeling." For a short season, those strangers, or at least "strangers" to me, that would stop to talk to my family on the sidewalk, didn't seem quite so strange.

Maybe that was the real gift of the festival. It gives children a picture of belonging before they are old enough to define it. Stay with me a moment. I might be on to something here.

A child likely won't remember the order of the parade. They may forget which float came first, or what year the weather was hot or cold. But he or she remembers how the town felt. He remembers whether the adults seemed glad to be there. She remembers whether people made room for her along the curb to get a parade-thrown candy. He remembers whether the place he lived felt safe, known, and shared. Those are the things that settle deep, and stay forever.

Yesterday, I watched Red Flannel return again under a blue October sky, and I thought about that boy who once believed the whole town turned into a magical, festive world.

I know better now, of course. Festivals take work. A lot of work. In fact, I'll even take this moment to encourage you all to check in with the Red Flannel Festival office to see if (and they do) need more volunteers next year. Stop by their office Wednesday, Oct. 14 at 6:30pm if you're interested in helping next year.

Traditions need volunteers, and are only as strong as those who show up. It doesn't happen all of a sudden. Somebody sets up the tents, plans the parade, and gives up a quiet Saturday so the rest of the town can have a memorable one.

Perhaps that makes the gift more meaningful, not less.

Because the magic was never really in the signs, the candy, the carnival lights, or even the red flannel fabric itself.

The magic was, and always will be, in the way a town chose to show up for itself. For each other.

And if a child sees that clearly enough, even once, he or she may carry it longer than anyone knows.