The long road to Benson

There's just something about that annual trip to Benson.

For our family, the first time we saw one of our kids in a parade, it was in Benson. It was the year of the Matador, when the horn line all wore red capes (that turned out to be kind of a nightmare in the street when they had to undo the clip and be all matador-y with them, then re-do the clip, all while wearing gloves and holding instruments.)

But I was in awe. I knew nothing about marching
bands, nothing about what is good or bad about a given performance (truth be told, I'm only marginally better at spotting good vs. bad in a a performance today, six year into this stuff.) But I did know that I was hooked.

There's something very, very powerful about watching a group of kids you care about march down the street, looking sharp, sounding sharper, and putting their best collective foot forward in competition. And Benson was the first time that sort of goosebumpy, tear-jerking, proud parent moment — the kind most of you have probably felt many times — hit me. Our daughter was a rookie clarinetist, still reeling from Spat Camp, still sore. But she was so, so ready to getting to the competitions. And it all started in Benson.

So while it may be the furthest we travel for a parade before Alexandria, and it's tough to stay awake sometimes on that ride home, there will always be a soft spot in my heart for this city and this parade.

The other thing about Benson: it almost always rains. I think that, of all the Benson parades we've attended, maybe one of them was sunny.

That first parade was a wet doozy. The photo above is from that parade. You can see the wet street and umbrellas in the crowd. Props and applause to the Lancers for marching a great show that day IN THE RAIN! That was part of the "wow" factor for me. Nothing stops them. (Literally nothing. The following year, in Calgary, as the Lancers marched behind a group of horses, I watched in horror/amazement as several Lancers, refusing to break "step" or whatever it's called, stepped right in steaming piles of horse dung — true story, folks, ya can't make this stuff up.)

I totally get that many families take the Benson trip as a chance to not follow the band. It's quite a haul, and one that, after HOURS of research by the clarinet player in the picture up there, doesn't have a Chipotle anywhere in sight.

Still, we wouldn't miss Benson. For us, it's where all the magic began.