It is a ritual of the summer in every small town in Western New York. The scene is a typical Main Street, lined on both sides with a breathless throng, piled five or six deep, children riding on their fathers’ shoulders, their eyes all trained on the corner, waiting, murmuring excitedly, anticipating.
It starts with a rhythmic, pulsing roll, a sound like distant thunder, getting closer and closer. Then, the rumble is joined by a reedy skirling that makes the blood sing and the hairs stand up on the necks of the throng.
Then, with a flash of Royal Stuart Red and Black Watch green, the head of the parade rounds the turn, and a wild roar goes up from the crowd...Read More