"The Day the Marching Band Came"

Originally written February 2005, Children's Literature Workshop, UC San Diego. Used with permission. From myself.

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      It was a bright, clear summer's day when the marching band came. The crowd roared and cheered, as crowds often do. Sammy cheered too, as the sounds of music floated up the street. He heard the crisp rat-ta-ta-tum-tum of the drums, the high brash toot of the trumpets, the jangling crash of the cymbals, the deep rumbling boom of the tubas. Sammy could hear it all. But the people in the crowd were tall as towers, blocking Sammy’s view.

      The black and silver tops of the marching band's hats were bobbing past the tall peoples' heads. Sammy was going to miss seeing the band! Squeezing his way past the tree-like legs of the adults before him, he pushed through just in time to see the last of the marchers go by, their brass instruments gleaming, their tall black hats bouncing with each step. The splendid red and white uniforms they wore reminded Sammy of toy soldiers.

      "That's it," thought Sammy as the band passed and disappeared down the block, "I'm going to be in a marching band!"

      Sammy ran back home and started planning right away. "This blue bucket will do for my hat!" he said to himself. "And I can use this tin can as a drum!" Sammy borrowed the red tablecloth from the kitchen and wrapped it around his neck.

      "Let's go!" exclaimed Sammy. Rascal bounded in, tail wagging in expectation. "You have to be able to play something if you want to be in the marching band, Rascal!" Rascal barked in reply. "Well, I guess if you want to sing, that's okay, too. Time for our parade!"

      And so Sammy and Rascal set out on their march. Sammy took the biggest steps his little legs could reach, and banged on the bottom of the tin can with his hand. Ping, pang, pong it went, and Rascal yelped every now and then. It was turning out to be a very good marching band indeed, Sammy thought.

      They marched down the neighborhood street, past the bright houses and apartments. Old ladies tending their lawns shook their heads. Old men on their porches didn’t even look up. Sammy gave them a smile and waved anyway, and Rascal barked a greeting.

      A gray tabby cat was crossing the street ahead of Sammy and Rascal. Rascal barked, and the little cat jumped back a little. “Rascal! Don’t be so mean!” commanded Sammy. Rascal stopped barking at the cat. Sammy knelt down beside the gray kitten. “Are you lost? That’s okay. Do you want to be in our marching band, Kitty?” The cat had a little brass bell on its collar, which tinkled as the kitten yawned. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes!’” And so the three of them marched further down the street.

      Past the playground they went, past the school, past the parks and fields. Rascal barked as Sammy slapped the drum can, and Kitty jumped every time Rascal barked, sending the bell jingling. Older boys sneered, and older girls pointed and giggled, but Sammy kept his head high and marched on forward. Rascal and Kitty looked glad to be marching, too.

      A seagull floated by overhead, and squawked its sharp, seagull's squawk. "You can be in our marching band too!" called Sammy from the ground. The seagull didn't seem to want to walk, but that was okay. They could be a marching-flying band.

      They went past the warehouses, big brick buildings with empty-looking windows. Old warehouse workers grumbled. Cars zoomed by, leaving behind clouds of stinky exhaust. But Sammy marched on with a smile, smacking the can to the beat of his steps. Rascal trotted along, tail wagging. Kitty kept pace right behind. And the seagull – Sammy decided to name him Gulliver – soared on overhead. The band was going far today.

      Sammy noticed a lonely, lost ant wandering on the sidewalk. "Well," said Sammy, "you don't have an instrument, Mr. Ant, but you can follow us along until you find one." The ant inched closer to the piece of gum stuck on Sammy's shoe.

      And so they continued their afternoon parade. Past the docks, the ocean breeze wafted in, rustling the tall grass and dry weeds along the cracking sidewalk. The sound of the rustling whispered like the soft sound of applause, each blade of grass or tuft of weed cheering the band along. And the tin can clanged, the bark sounded, the brass bell rang out, the squawk hung in the air. The ant hadn’t found an instrument yet, but that was okay. They still put on a very good parade.

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Now all I need is an illustrator. And publisher. And readers.