On Sunday, March 14, the city of Boston celebrated its Irish heritage with the annual St. Patrick’s Day Parade, which has marched through the Irish neighborhood of South Boston since 1901. When I woke up early Sunday morning, intending to celebrate with the rest of Boston, I was unpleasantly surprised to hear the sound of driving rain and wind rattling my window. I called my mother, who has attended the parade since her childhood days, to ask her whether the parade could be cancelled, and she answered, without the least hesitation, that, “The parade is never cancelled.” Well, if the city of Boston was undeterred, then I would not to be deterred either! Dressing myself in all the clashing green clothing I could scrounge from my closet, I left the comfort my room to bear the frightening rain and wind. After all, what was a little rough weather to a hardened New Englander such as myself?
It turned out that a little rough weather was more than enough to completely drench through all my clothing as I patiently awaited the arrival of the commuter rail, which had been delayed nearly a half an hour due to the heavy rains. My enthusiasm for the parade, though, was not dampened, as I followed the green of the leprechaun felt hats, the three leaf clover antennas, and the Mardi Gras beads of those ahead.
As I shuffled with the green-clad crowds up the stairs of Andrews Station, where the parade had stepped off some minutes earlier, I was worried to see so many descending the stairs. I distinctly heard the words, “a mistake,” amid the grumblings of these parade goers who were thoroughly more drenched then even I had been. Such a sight was disheartening to those surrounding me, and myself of coursel—was this a mistake, to have braved the weather for the parade? My eagerness soon returned, however, as the resounding sound of bagpipes were heard from above, and a cheer erupted from the crowd below.
When I finally emerged from the depths of the station, the rain was still pouring heavily down upon South Boston. The crowds were considerably smaller than the years before, and I was pleased to be able to find the perfect spot right against a barrier. With my unobstructed view, I could see people huddled underneath umbrellas lining both sides of the street as far down as I was able to see. In the Irish bar Slainte across the street, dozens of faces peered out from behind the glass, while in the apartment buildings above, heads stuck out of windows, straining to see the parade.
The parade participants were not nearly as fortunate to have any such shelter under which to hide, but were nonetheless still marching. Only two of the hundred scheduled performers had cancelled, and the parade presented a wide variety of traditional—and not so traditional—acts that were willing to march in rain or shine. The parade had already begun by the time I had arrived, and as I reached my place, a group of naval officers marched by, followed by a small naval band. With their uniforms neatly ordered and their shoes polished, the officers were perfectly respectable—and yet their sense of humor was most apparent by the many Mardi Gras beads worn by flag bearers.
Further musical—not to mention comical—entertainment was provided by the Thomas J. Kenney Elementary School Marching Band. All of the young members had managed to cram inside of an Old Town Boston Trolley, playing their loudest—which, admittedly, was not terribly loud—in spite of the howling wind and rain. Following after were the Lexington Minute Men, who were dressed in historical Revolutionary War garb with the more modern addition of clear plastic ponchos.
Even as the fife players struggled to hold their instruments, made slippery by the rain, the players nevertheless laughed off their difficulties and continued to play. These fife players were soon followed by those of another sort: The Cycling Murrays, who were able not only to play the fife, but play the fife while balanced precariously on unicycles and old fashioned bicycles. The Murrays were one of the stranger acts that the parade had attracted—others included a full seven piece Celtic punk band called the Gobshites, who were towed in a trailer painted with the band’s name and the Irish flag, and the Boston Beanstalks Tall Club, whose members were seated in an SUV but nevertheless looked unusually tall.
The stranger acts such as these were unique to the Boston St. Patrick’s Day Parade, and as the parade ended, I understood why the parade was “never cancelled”: seeing such acts express their pride as Irish Americans and Bostonians in such an amusing, and not to mention creative way was more than worth the trouble of a broken umbrella.
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