By Peggy Taylor
How lucky I am to have friends in high places so, every Thanksgiving, instead of dragging a ladder over to Central Park West to view the parade, I join friends for coffee and muffins 14 floors high, perch perilously on a window ledge, and delight in this one-of-a-kind spectacle, which never grows old. Even we New Yorkers who think ourselves jaded and impervious to the parade’s charm find ourselves clapping, cheering, and singing along with the oompah bands playing Broadway tunes and Christmas carols.
Even in my 80s, with many a parade behind me, I still delight in the high-flying balloons, the zany clowns, the giant floats, the high-stepping bands, and the pom-pom-waving dancers who make the parade a perennial favorite. As I lean over the ledge, but not too far, I’m still awed by the ingenuity of it all, the execution of it all, the pageantry of it all. Bravo to Macy’s for a flawless 96th celebration. I’ll be back on the ledge next year for the 97th.