In an earlier post I talked a little about my hometown of
Pitman, New Jersey. It was and,
miraculously, still is, a wonderfully charming slice of middle-America on the
east coast. It’s parks, lakes and
compact main street (Broadway) was conducive to nourishing friendships. There was a summer program at the
park on the end of my street and kids from all over town came to make gimp
lassoes, popsicle stick boxes and new friends. The Highland Chemical Fire Company’s Carnival over Labor Day
weekend was the much-anticipated end of summer ritual at which we’d meet up
with our friends (after dark, no less!) and talk about all the things we were
going to do when school started the following week, cementing bonds and
ensuring piece of mind when we walked into the new classroom.
But the biggie; the best day to be a “Pitmanite,” is the
Fourth of July. (I can see
everyone reading this who is from Pitman nodding their heads.)
July 4th is, of course, celebrated in all towns
and cities in the United States.
And I have no doubt that other small towns do it up in a big and
memorable way. But my memories are
of those in my town. And they are
special enough to bring me the 500 miles back many, many times over the last 40
years.
The evening before, the Miss Pitman pageant is held at the
movie theatre on Broadway.
At the same time, people start setting up folding chairs along the
parade route, confident that they will still be there in the morning. The next day at 10:00 a.m., following a
5K race, the parade makes its way down the same street. The players change and we now look for
the grandchildren of pals among the marchers, but the sponsors remain pretty
much the same: The volunteers of
the three fire companies walk behind their trucks; Miss Pitman candidates (Miss
Kiwanis, Miss Lions Club, Miss American Legion, etc.) wave from convertibles interspersed
between the Pitman High School marching band, the baton twirlers and the
Cundard Clowns. Kids on bikes with
red, white and blue streamers weave in and out among the Boy Scouts, church
floats and tired, over-heated pre-school girls turning somersaults in itchy spangles to advertise the local tap and
gymnastics school. The Bonsal
Blues, a thunderous drum and bugle corp from a neighboring town’s American
Legion are always a highlight, though they’ve dwindled in number greatly the
last few years.
But the piece de resistance; the sight that everyone waits
for, leans over the curb to catch a glimpse of, spreads the word when they catch
sight of, is The Original Hobo Band.
The Hobo Band has been a part of Pitman since WWII. Passing membership from father to son to grandson,
the band is an institution and the pride of Pitman. http://www.originalhoboband.org/index.htm
Early in the evening, after picnics and ball games, people
start walking down Lake Avenue toward Alcyon Park. The steady stream of Pitmanites with blankets, lawn chairs
and coolers will make their way to a spot on the grassy banks of the Alcyon
Lake to watch the fireworks. I
grew up on Lake Avenue and loved sitting on the screened-in porch watching
people walk by the house in the dusk, before joining the tail end of the crowd.
How much do we love our hometown Fourth of July? In two days, five friends who never moved from the area will get up and go to the parade before heading to the airport to
meet the hub and I and catch our plane for Venice, Italy. They will make sure their bags are
packed the day before. They will
have their boarding passes printed and carry-on bags ready to go on July 3rd. Why? Because the fourth is reserved for the
Pitman Parade and nothing, not even a dream trip to Europe, can take its place.
That’s my hometown.
