Guest Opinion | Kathleen Clary Miller: Rose-Colored Glasses

My parents lived in the same Pasadena home for forty-five years, just across the Colorado Bridge from the quintessential corner, the one where all the television cameras monitored the sweeping turn of giant floats and marching bands of the world-famous Rose Parade.

I was a Tournament of Roses brat. Every January 1, there I was, perched on the pivotal cusp where I held my breath as each man-made extravaganza cascading with fresh flowers approached the intersection to make the risky turn.  Every float’s path was negotiated by a human driver located deep within the bowels of the engine-propelled vehicle disguised as an entire village, a fire-breathing dragon, or a lovely unanimated nature scene.

Would the castle tower of floral seeds and foliage maneuver the corner without leveling bleachers or demolishing signal lights? Had the third drummer from the left in the second to the last row fallen out of step? I challenged each city orchestra’s prowess by pointing a finger to make a straight line, then carefully measuring to see if they were still on track while rounding the bend.

You see, I was the casual critic for whom it had all come too easily.

In those forty-five years I was never once deprived of Rose Parade access or forced by circumstances beyond my control to struggle in the slightest to attend, and so my attitude on the first day of the rest of my life each year was pampered; I had been born privileged: I lived in Pasadena on this grandest day of the grandest of all parades.

I was not the only one of course. In high school there were scads of girls who had attended since birth and had pictured themselves since age three as Rose Queen, this being the only aspect of the glory that held no fascination for me. Although it remained an unspoken topic between us, I knew that my mother would have reveled in my becoming the crowned jewel of her town and I was sorry to disappoint her, but I irrevocably passed up my one chance for two hours and fifteen minutes of internationally-televised float fame.

When I attended Mayfield high school, just the right age to be considered, our family dentist indicated that he was on the board of directors who chose the queen for a day.

“Of course, you’ll have to cut your hair,” he muttered as a barely audible aside.

Cut my hair? At last unhinged from its grammar-school ponytail, I now had the hair the Beach Boys sang songs about: long, straight, and naturally golden-blonde. But among the many strict-propriety Tournament of Roses regulations back then was the hairdo code: each member of the chosen court was required to top off her fetching figure  and face that could publicly speak like a pro with a short, chin-length bob. Sorry for the tiny thorn, Dr. Boyd, but in that case, I was clearly not cut for Rose Royalty.

No matter, there were plenty who were. Girls clamored their way to the top as their mothers dashed to Saks Fifth Avenue in Beverly Hills, seeking the right outfits and accessories for the elimination process that began early in October and ended in November. The street outside the winner’s house would be painted with flowers and chalked with hearts and congratulatory messages—sort of an upscale TP job.

On New Year’s Eve we walked the route all afternoon. There was television coverage, there were marshmallow-throwing contests, high school and college kids lolling in their sleeping bags. My older brother Billy got to sleep out overnight on the patch of grass by our folding-chair seats that he and my father arranged. Jealousy raged within me, as Mama would never permit “such silly nonsense” for her little girl. By the time I was old enough to sleep out, the allure of crashing on the ground in the cold had faded. No worries! Being a Tournament of Roses trust-fund baby, my future year-openers were secured and in the bank. I’d never have to bundle up in the cold or fend for a spot on the curbing.

Relatives and friends unfurled their sleeping bags and covered every bed and sofa in our house on South San Rafael Avenue. Everyone retired uncharacteristically early, some imbibers even right after dinner, under the dining room table.

Bright and early New Year’s morning, cars fought for parking places on our street. Instead I nonchalantly strolled down my driveway in front of them all, and sashayed across the Colorado Bridge as if I’d built it, right to the main event.

 Hence, I was thoroughly unprepared when it didn’t last—everyone grew up, sadly.  Oh, my mother ordered me tickets, but we were talking bleachers now. Among the masses, I didn’t feel nearly so special.

It wasn’t easy-breezy to attend anymore, either.  My walking-distance Pasadena status had slipped since moving south.   I couldn’t muster the energy for a hideous freeway battle to get there; such effort felt insurmountable to one who had had it all on foot. Drive and park? You had to be kidding.

Now I rise in time for the parade and drip my coffee here in the hills. My neighbors know of the Pasadena tradition, but none have enjoyed the Pasadena parade view I was privy to. When I tell people where I grew up, they roll their eyes and nod their heads in what seems like understanding. How can you keep me down on the Fallbrook farm in front of a television set after I’ve sat on that corner for forty-five years, they imagine? But even though they pretend to sympathize, they can’t really know, don’t actually carry the connection to the old streets, the intoxicating perfume of over half-a-million blossoms in the pre-dawn air, the celebratory sound of the bands practicing I once heard from my second-story childhood window, the lullaby as I drifted off to sleep on the last day of every year.

Still, come January first, I faithfully turn on the live broadcast to observe the procession I consider my birthright. And although I am not there in body, I inhale a deep breath and my spirit soars when the band starts up and the first float rounds the bend.

You see, I have, quite literally, smelled the roses.