Razzle Dazzle and Hope

Our gleeful squeals echoed all the way to Highland. We quickly assembled in front of the Cadillac convertible.

“I wouldn’t walk across the street to see a parade,” Daddy declared at breakfast the day before Thanksgiving. “I don’t hold with razzle-dazzle.”

I shot Mama a despairing glance. That very night was the Santa Claus Lane Parade!

All autumn I’d been practicing my walkovers and twirls as an acrobatic majorette in the Carpenterettes. While the others in our troupe would roll down the route on skates, the three of us in the center row not only twirled, but at breaks cavorted for the crowds like a pack of seals, outdoing one another, tossing batons as high as the telephone wires, turning a flip or walkover before catching them, landing in splits on the pavement.

Mama had spent weeks sewing sequins onto the lapels of my satin costume. We’d debut new outfits for this parade down Hollywood Boulevard, second only to the Rose Parade in local fame. These two bracketed the Southern California holidays like bookends.

“Don’t upset us, Paul.” Mama said quietly. “Terri’s leaving for school now. I don’t want her worrying all day.” She handed me a slice of raisin toast with a reassuring smile.

“All right. We leave at 5,” Daddy finally grumbled, “but I won’t drive to Hollywood ever again, Hope or no Bob Hope.”

I’d be too nervous that day to eat lunch and if we left at five, we’d have to postpone supper until we got back home. I gobbled up the toast.

Hollywood, though only nine miles from our Southwest Los Angeles home, seemed a million miles away, as far as Andromeda, a beckoning, shimmering glamour symbol.

We’d all been star struck, my classmates and even Mama. We gossiped about how an agent discovered Lana Turner sipping a soda at the very Schwab’s Drug Store on Sunset where they were shooting the new movie, “Sunset Boulevard.” We poured over photos of stars in the Herald Express and Photoplay Magazine.

But the Santa Claus Lane Parade! Every year we tried to guess the Grand Marshall. A few years earlier Gene Autry had memorialized his experience by penning “Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer.”

Now, in 1949, it would feature Bob Hope. At Bebe Carpenter Studio we tapped and twirled to “Buttons and Bows,” an Academy Award-winning tune Hope had introduced in 1948 in The Pale Face.
That afternoon as Mama pinned my cap securely to my topknot so it wouldn’t fall off when I cartwheeled, I wondered which troupe would lead Grand Marshall Hope. I suspected the Carpenterettes would front an American Legion Post color guard or a drum and bugle corps.

Mama applied mascara to my lashes and rouged my cheeks. She handed me her tube of Tangee Pink Queen so I could put on my own lipstick. Wearing makeup was one of the most thrilling parts of preparing for a performance.

As it neared 5pm, Mama handed me a new baton and boots, an early Christmas present. I wondered how she’d saved to buy them from her grocery allowance.

As our old Chevy headed north, I wondered if the famous Meglin Kiddies would appear. The Meglin Dance Studio had produced Judy Garland, Mickey Rooney, and Shirley Temple. Though we saw them as our arch-rivals, in truth we Carpenterettes were second cousins twice removed. We aspired, while they’d attained.

When we reached the participant drop-off point, Mama promised they’d pick me up later by Grauman’s Chinese Theater. I connected with my troop. Our director, Bebe Carpenter herself, nodded approval at our sparkling new outfits. Our sequins reflected the rays of the thousands of fairy lights decorating Santa Claus Lane.

“Good news, girls,” she said, “you’ll be escorting the Grand Marshall.” Our gleeful squeals echoed all the way to Highland. We quickly assembled in front of the Cadillac convertible carrying Hope. He perched on the backseat, waving to the throngs lining the streets. He hadn’t noticed us yet.

This was the second year a local station televised the parade, so we knew that when we passed the camera booth with radio personality Bill Welsh, we’d turn and perform a baton salute. Welsh would announce The Carpenterettes, a matter of importance to Bebe.

Alhough November nights even in balmy LA can be chilly, the exertion of performing soon warmed me up, so along the route I welcomed the occasional pauses to swipe at my forehead. At last we neared Welsh’s booth. Welsh, excited, leapt from the booth, carrying his hand mic out to Hope.

We couldn’t overhear them, but Welsh hurried back to us. “Hope wants to give one of you his autograph,” he said, grabbing my shoulder, as the cameramen positioned themselves. He propelled me toward the Caddy.

Hope leaned over, extending a hand with a pen at the ready.

“Good evening, dear,” he said. “Where’s your paper?”

I blinked, bewildered. Having none, I tugged off my left boot and handed it to him. He smiled, scrawling his name in letters tall enough for the camera to catch.

On Thanksgiving our Herald Express came early. I’d made the front page, grinning up at Hope signing my boot. Mama clipped out the photo and framed it.

Daddy, true to his word, never again attended another parade.

In 2007 the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce, which had staged this Tinseltown treat each year, announced that the 75th in ’06 had been the last. Hearing this, I hummed a few bittersweet bars of “Buttons and Bows,” recalling that “Hopeful” holiday season when I was 12.

Los Angeles finally revived the parade, renaming it the Hollywood Santa Parade. Though Daddy didn’t hold with razzle-dazzle, I certainly do. I’m planning to see it next year.