During Christmas break in 1987, our small-town Ohio high school band had the incredible opportunity to travel to Orlando, Florida, to compete in the Citrus Bowl Parade and Marching Band Competition. It felt huge for us at the time—one of those once-in-high-school experiences that made everything else fade into the background. Of course, getting there took a lot of fundraising and a lot of hustle, but none of that mattered much when we thought about where we were headed: Florida, music, and the chance to perform on a national stage.
We sold everything from light bulbs and oranges to discount booklets for the local Ponderosa Steakhouse, just to fund our journey and bring our tubas, clarinets, and piccolos all the way to Florida. It was a lot of work, but it also felt like we were all in it together in a way that made it strangely fun.
We didn’t sell them from a catalog, either—we went door-to-door, in the middle of a monsoon, which just happened to line up with my senior homecoming dance. So while most of my classmates were getting ready for the big night, there we were, trudging through the mud, selling General Electric light bulbs to support our trip. It was far from glamorous, but somehow it became one of those memories that sticks with you forever.
TELEVISED!
SUNSHINE!
NO PARENTS!
For all 94 of us, this trip felt like a huge milestone. It was the first major band trip many of us had ever taken, and for seniors, it felt like the closing chapter of something we had poured years into.
Every summer, our band would take an hour-long drive out to a secluded church camp for a week of sleep-away band camp. On the bus, we’d joke that the reason it was so far out was so no one could hear our screams. Band camp was intense—five days, ten hours each, under the summer sun—but it was also where friendships formed quickly and where the show finally started to feel like ours.
For six months, we practiced five days a week, rain or shine. On Fridays, we performed at halftime for both home and away games, and every Saturday from September to November, we traveled to competitions all over Ohio. By the time we earned our place at the Citrus Bowl, we had outperformed hundreds of other bands across the country, which felt like a shared accomplishment we could barely believe.
When we finally arrived in Orlando, it was not exactly the dream getaway we’d been picturing. Our hotel room definitely had character in a way none of us were prepared for. It wasn’t what we expected, but we were teenagers on a trip with friends in Florida, which meant everything felt a little surreal anyway.
As we split off to find our rooms, one of my friends took a sniff and made a remark I’ll never forget: “It smells like sex in there.” Naturally, this sent me into a fit of giggles. After they left, I took a sniff myself, curiosity getting the better of me. For those who’ve never wondered, here’s a little spoiler: it does not smell good.
But no.
Instead, we got to go to—drumroll—band practice.
Only we Ohioans would kick off a trip to sunny Orlando with rehearsal.
One memory that stands out is The Olive Garden.
Back in 1987, Ohio hadn’t yet been blessed with The Olive Garden, but Orlando had one. And this one served breakfast.
Yes, breakfast.
We genuinely believed The Olive Garden was a breakfast restaurant.
Every morning in Orlando, we started our day with a breakfast buffet at The Olive Garden, and honestly, it was delicious.
Our band was featured on the local newscast during the Citrus Bowl Competition. I’m still not sure how our band director pulled that off, but it was such a cool moment for all of us.
In the end, what mattered most wasn’t the camera or the broadcast. It was the fact that we were there together, and somehow my French braid made it onto the five o’clock news.
The Citrus Bowl Parade took place the next evening.
To be honest, it was exhausting, but also unforgettable in its own strange way. We marched in darkness for the majority of it because it was held at night.
WHO HOLDS A NIGHT PARADE?
Florida, apparently.
The televised segment was the only part of the parade that was properly lit, which made everything outside that stretch feel like another world entirely.
Our band director had instructed us ahead of time to continue playing Wade in the Water. We marched mostly by drum cadence through the dark, relying on sound and instinct more than sight.
For long stretches, it felt like we were moving through the night as a group, with only fragments of the crowd and music breaking through.
They had staff guiding the bands into the televised area, making sure everything flowed smoothly and preventing congestion in front of the cameras.
One unexpected surprise was learning that Spuds Mackenzie was in the parade with us. Of course, we never actually saw him because of the darkness, which feels oddly on brand for the whole experience.
And then we finally reached the part of the parade that was actually in the spotlight.
And it was incredible.
The lights, the noise, and the energy from the crowd were overwhelming in the best way. Our band director had told us ahead of time to continue playing Wade in the Water, and suddenly everything felt sharp and alive after so much darkness.
I remember marching through intersections, hearing bursts of cheering from the crowd, and in quieter moments, chatting and laughing softly with my bandmates as we moved forward together.
A few days later, we visited Disney World, soaking in all the chaos and magic before heading back home. It felt like a final exhale after days of rehearsals, performances, and late-night memories we didn’t fully realize we were collecting at the time.
The ride back to Ohio was long and non-stop. Everyone was exhausted in that quiet, heavy way that only happens after something big is over. At the same time, there was a kind of unspoken understanding on that bus that we had just shared something important together.
A few weeks later, we gathered one winter evening for the much-anticipated Citrus Bowl viewing party. We left the TV set to record earlier in the day, just in case anything started early or got missed.
So that night, we huddled around the small television in the family room, waiting for our moment to finally appear.
We danced along with the Clemson University Marching Band as we waited for our segment, reliving the experience in real time with our families. It felt surreal to see it all again after being there in person just weeks earlier.
As the broadcast continued, we noticed each marching band was introduced with their name and director, along with small commentary from the announcers. Each time, we got a little more excited.
That will be us soon.
Finally, I spotted a familiar marching band banner rising on the screen.
Here we come, I remember thinking, probably a little too loudly.
I could see our hats marching in unison, the cadence loud and clear, and I felt an overwhelming sense of pride seeing it all again from this perspective.
The first small disappointment came when the announcer mistakenly identified our town as a different one in Ohio, just slightly off from where we were from.
Then, just as we were about to appear fully on screen, the broadcast cut to commercial.
I remember holding my breath, waiting for it to come back to us, but it didn’t.
At the time, it felt like a huge letdown after months of preparation and excitement. We had worked so hard for even a small moment of recognition.
I was so disappointed that night. Not just in the moment, but in a way that lingered longer than I expected. All the other bands at the Citrus Bowl that year were shown, and ours wasn’t. We were the only ones cut away. I don’t think it was intentional, but it felt devastating anyway.
This was before social media, before clips and replays and ways to go back and find it again. Once it was gone, it was gone. And to this day, I still haven’t been able to find footage of our band. There’s something strange about that kind of absence, like a piece of us never quite made it home.
And yet, I still remember it. Not the absence, but the experience itself—the sound of it, the people, the feeling of being there together.
So the next time you’re at a football game, maybe clap a little louder for the marching band. They’re often doing some of the hardest work out there, and most of it never really gets seen the way it should.
Discover more from A Grace Full Life
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
A Grace Full Life 
Reblogged this on A Grace Full Life.
LikeLike
I wasn’t in our high school band but I heard many stories about their trips to Florida; which from CT meant a very long train ride sitting up the whole way… I was usually quite glad I didn’t have the chance to go with them! LOL.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I think I am still recovering from that trip. 😂
LikeLike