Welcome to Weston Road and Eglinton, in the greater city of Toronto. Depressed coffee shops and boutiques that sell those oh-so-classy rims that spin in different directions line the grey dirty streets. I was born here 4 decades ago when it was predominantly working class Irish/Italian. Now its a real mix. We park the truck in front of an apartment building that Michael Moore should have used as his Bowling for Columbine example of Canadian slums.

Westin Xmas Parade is stark contrast to the Aurora parade we did the night before where Sharkboy swears he could smell Havana cigars and fresh fur coat.

I’m not in love with this winter routine: its sophomoric and unchallenging. It was created so that it would only take us 5 weeks to practice with two new people who had never marched before in their lives. At the time we felt we had no option but to do something that was going to be easy to learn and adaptable from the summer routine. Okay listen to me whine like I was doing this all my life. But I do have to say that after watching The Drum Corps International Competition for the first time, I felt kind of jealous I wasnt born American in a semi-rich school. I would be all over that colour guard marching band stuff. Their routines were tight, creative and engaging. They were in step. The costumes were tacky but they had real costumes. It basically made me want more discipline for our dwindling group.

The truck is ready. The band in front of us is doing a wicked warm up of Xmas music in a Latin American-style. Big drums almost South American in scope. I feel so incredibly white-bread with our twinky swing flags and piddly routine that I expect I was sweating mayo. In fact I heard one of the kids off to the side complaining that we “weren’t doing anything” with our routine. At that part we have Xmas bells cascading over a Macarana beat, but all we do is a simple drill of twirling around each other.

We start. The wind is terrific. The routine, especially near tall building and intersections, is reduced to 9 people waving oversized Q-tips because the flags are all wrapped around the poles. Wee!

In the lull, I glance to my right and see in a lowrise apartment block doorway, a frail old woman sitting on a kitchen chair she had obviously dragged from her apartment to the inside foyer, out of the cold. Her hands are folded calmly on her lap and she is kind of glassy eyed as the parade is going by. I risk messing up my concentration to smile wide and wave quickly at her.

She brightens up like she’s 20 years younger. She waves.

Right at that moment I connected with her, making this stupid routine worth every second.